New York State of Mind

Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.

Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too. 

Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing. 

Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.

You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—

A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.” 

You looked up.

A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before. 

But he was cute. And something about him…

He seemed familiar. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”

“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?

The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”

He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now. 

You can’t look away. 

“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.” 

He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”

“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.

“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy.  “So what can’t you figure out?”

And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.” 

He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”

“For real? You code?”

He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close.  He stops to type. “Did you try this?” 

You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.” 

“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush.  “Seriously.” 

“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”

“Um, May..nard.” 

“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore. 

“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?” 

You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching. 

And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real. 

You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room. 

Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV. 

You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you. 

That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right? 

You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was. 

It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city. 

But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness. 

“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?

He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again. 

You want to let him. 

But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go. 

And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard. 

Only, he’s not there when you return. 

Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with. 

You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving. 

Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?

But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays. 

Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine. 

I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him. 

Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.

You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.

You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. 

Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.

“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases. 

“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.

Peter comes home sometime in the early hours of the morning. You hear him clattering in the living room, hear the slam of the window and a grunt and the thuds of uneven footsteps. Even in your half-asleep state, it registers that something is wrong. Usually, he’s quiet coming in, kind enough to not disturb your sleep. It’s only when something has happened that he’s careless and noisy.

You slither reluctantly from the sheets you’ve brewed perfectly warm throughout the night and pull a jumper over your head as you pad out into the hallway. “Peter?” you call softly. “You OK?”

There’s a groan from the living room. You flick the light on as you enter and find your roommate on the floor, knelt on all fours and whimpering. You swear and scramble to his side. “Fucking hell, Peter, what happened?” In the dim light, you can’t see any blood. He’s breathing heavily, though, and mumbling as he claws at his mask. You help him pull it off and he gasps for air.

“You have to go,” he manages to wheeze out. “Please. Please, go.”

“No fucking way,” you tell him fiercely, panic putting an edge in your voice. “What the hell happened?” You’re running your hands over him, checking for injuries as he sobs, and he’s burning hot even through the suit but you can’t find anything except—

That.

That’s not normal.

Big, hard and heavy, like every cliche ever in all the books you read. He hisses when you nearly touch it, swears when you lurch backwards before you make contact. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs again, teeth gritted. “It hurts. Sorry, sorry, fuck, you have to go. Please,” he begs, “you have to go.”

He looks absolutely miserable, soaked in sweat as his whole body shudders with aggressive spasms. You should back away like he’s told you, call someone who can help. Maybe it’s contagious, whatever he’s clearly come into contact with. But you can’t. He’s your best friend and you’re not leaving him like this.

“Peter,” you tell him softly but urgently, “look at me. You have to let me help you.”

Even in the distress he’s in, he laughs. Quietly, strained, under his ragged breath. “No. No, I can’t do this to you.”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t answer, just chokes on a whimper, and you poke his shoulder. “Peter, what happened?”

He swears again, drops his forehead to the carpet. “Stupid drug I’ve been hearing about. Tried to catch some dealers. They sprayed me. It’s…”

He swallows, hisses out a pained breath. You watch him closely and wait. Finally, he grits out, “It’s an aphrodisiac, but, like, a hundred times worse.”

Oh. That explains the monumental boner he’s sporting. You take a shaky breath in, nod like he’s just told you he can’t make it to Sunday brunch anymore. “OK. Yeah, OK. Right. Uh, treatment is?”

He turns his head just enough to meet your eye, offering a wry grin. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes. “What do you think?” he quips dryly before his whole body shudders again and he drops to his elbows, gasping raggedly. Sweat glistens on the back of his neck and mats the dark curls of his hair. “You should really go,” he croaks. “It’s not safe for you.”

Typical Peter, always thinking of others even when he’s visibly in pain. But you’ve already decided. “I’m not going to,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

Hesitantly, like you’re worried about what something like a hand on his shoulder might do to him, you reach out and touch him. He tenses at the contact like he’s been shot; a strangled noise dies somewhere in his throat. He bows his head again, back heaving as he pants, refusing to make eye contact. Ashamed, maybe, of the state he’s in.

“Peter,” you say very quietly and very surely, “I’m not leaving.”

Slowly, he looks up at you, absolutely wrecked. His face is flushed and gleaming with perspiration. He watches you for a long moment like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t, even as you feel your whole body start to burn under his gaze.

“You have to say something if you don’t want to anymore,” he whispers finally. “Swear it.” You cross your heart. He manages half a smile. “Swear,” you murmur, and then you’re helping him onto the couch, and he’s making sounds that go straight to your core.

You peel the suit off him quickly. Ideally, you’d be savouring the moment, relishing in every muscled bit of skin you reveal, but you’re not trying to drag out his suffering longer than necessary. He helps you get the suit off fully, groaning and panting as he fumbles with the thick fabric, until he’s just in boxers beneath you and you’re trying not to drool at the sight of his bare skin all laid out for you.

“I have to—“ he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and tipping his head back as his jaw clenches. He balls his hands into fists and rests them on his thighs, his whole body taut as a bowstring. “Fuck, it hurts.”

“Tell me what to do.” You hover over him with a growing feeling of helplessness that you’re desperate to get rid of.

He’s pawing at the bulge in his boxers now, jaw clenched. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head again. A keening whine spills from his lips and he winces like it physically pains him to hear it. “I was going to ask you properly,” he mumbles so quietly you have to strain to hear him. “Wanted to take you out. I’ve liked you for ages.”

It’s news to you. For the past three years you’ve known him, you’ve firmly believed that all Peter will ever be is your best friend who happens to be a boy. Of course you liked him as more than that; look at him. You just never thought the feeling was mutual. Never even dared to hope, because you were sure you’d just end up disappointed.

“Oh,” you whisper now.

“Yeah, oh.” Peter groans. “I’m so sorry, really, this is so wrong—“

“Peter,” you say softly. When he keeps rambling about how sorry he is, you lean down to put your face right in front of his. “Peter, fucking shut up already.” And then you kiss him. He moans into your mouth, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. You let out your own muffled noise when he squeezes the soft curve of them. “Please,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Please.”

“Please what,” you breathe right back.

“Fucking please,” is all he says and then his mouth leaves your’s, starts moving down your neck, while his hands fumble with the hem of your jumper and the pyjama top underneath. “Shirt off,” he pleads.

“Manners,” you murmur but you oblige anyway and quickly too, pulling your jumper over your head and your top with it. When Peter sees you haven’t got a bra on underneath, he practically malfunctions, hands hovering over your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not.” You reach down to plant his hands firmly on your hips, then grip the waistband of his shorts and watch his face as you push them down. His eyes stay fixed on your chest for a long moment until his hips jump upwards and his dick springs free into the cold apartment air. Now it’s your turn to stare in blatant awe; he is huge.

“Fuck me, Peter,” you whisper and he groans.

“I’m trying!”

When you wrap a hand around him, his whole body jerks and he lets out a string of breathy curses. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes shakily. “Fuck, fuck.” You watch him in awe as your hand works, cataloguing every little noise that he makes and the way he looks at you, desperate and adoring. “Won’t last,” he whispers and you nod.

“I know.” But you don’t stop. Peter arches off the couch, chest heaving, and you watch as he comes undone beneath you. He’s still hard, afterward. You don’t care that it was quick, you don’t really care about anything but his hand which has managed to find its way into your shorts. He slips his fingers into your underwear, pushing them aside with unsurprising deftness; the guy is good at almost anything, so you wouldn’t expect any different. When his fingertips dip between your folds, your own hips stutter and you bite back a whimper.

“So wet,” he whispers almost to himself. “Holy fuck.”

“Peter,” you beg, core aching as you roll your hips over his in search of some relief. “Come on, please.”

Before you even know what’s happening, he lurches up to flip both your bodies around. In a second, you’re under him and his whole heavy body is pressing you into the couch. The movement has your head spinning.

Your shorts and undies are off now too, disposed of mindblowingly quickly as Peter works a finger into you. You cry out at the feeling, hands flying to grip his wrist. You can feel the muscles of his forearm flexing beneath your fingers as he crooks his own, another one slipping into you. He lowers his head to your chest as you gasp for breath, and when you feel him sucking marks into the valley between your breasts you nearly come right then and there.

“Fuck, Peter, fuck,” you swear. A hand goes to his hair, dripping wet and tousled from the sweat, the other hand still gripping onto his arm for dear life.

“I know,” he groans into your chest. “Just want you to be OK.”

“I will be, Pete, I will,” you promise frantically. “Please, Peter, please I need you, I need you now, please.”

Funny how he was the one in tears on the floor mere minutes ago, and now here you are begging for more beneath him. He’s nodding furiously, sucking marks on your skin as he moves back up to your lips, and when he reaches down to position himself against you, you hook your arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss you.

“Ready?” he murmurs when you break apart, and you feel the tip of him skimming through your folds. You can tell he’s restraining himself, can see it in the way he clenches his jaw and sucks in short, sharp breaths that he’s trying with all his might not just to take what he needs.

But you don’t want him to hold back. You pull him down for a kiss again and nod. “I trust you.”

His hips judder at that and he swears under his breath. When he starts to press into you, the stretch feels impossible. You hiss out, digging your nails into his shoulders for dear life. If it hurts him, he doesn’t react. He just watches your face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his whole body shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back.

“You OK?” he asks and you nod.

“Keep going. Please.”

So he does. Inch by inch, he presses his hips closer to your’s. When the stretch feels unbearable, he whispers in your ear for you to breathe. Before you know it, he closes the gap and there he is, buried inside you up to the hilt. And you wonder how you’ve gone so long without this, how something so new can feel so insanely right.

“Like you were made for me,” he whispers into your neck and you nod.

“I was,” you mumble. “Please move, Peter, please.” You can smell the sweat on his skin, can feel it all through his hair as you bury your fingers in his curls.

He moves. Hips rolling against your’s, steadily speeding up. You try to keep up with him, you really do, but your legs have given up on working and Peter’s got the whole super strength thing on his side. He makes little noises as he fucks into you, breathy whimpers and almost pained groans, but the look on his face is as far from pain as it gets. You let him do the work while you scatter errant kisses across his chest and shoulders, and the tightness in you swells and swells until you think you can’t take it anymore, but it keeps going and Peter moans out loud when you clench around him.

“Please,” you just about sob, gripping his back for dear life. “Please, Peter, please.”

“I know,” he mumbles against your skin, dropping his head to mouth at your neck. He pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in, one smooth movement, and you cry out. “I’m so close.”

“I know, I know.” He presses his face against the crook of your neck and grunts, hips still pistoning like machinery. “Me too. Feels insane.”

“Please,” you whimper, feeling frankly out of your mind too as you clutch at the muscles of his back and arms. “Please. So close.”

He gets you there. One hand snaked between your two bodies, the press of a calloused thumb against your clit, and you’re tumbling over the edge, eyes squeezed shut. Peter follows soon after, still working you through it, practically sobbing into your chest. The aftershocks last for a while and he’s there through it all, gasping for breath against your skin. When the haze clears, he pulls out gingerly and lifts his head to meet your gaze.

“You OK?” he asks, face scrunched in concern. “I didn’t hurt you?”

You grin at him. “I feel like jelly.”

“Good jelly?”

“Fucking amazing jelly.”

He laughs, the sound ragged. “I’m sorry, anyway.”

“I know you’re not apologising right now,” you retort, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “That was, like, the best sex I’ve ever had. Are you, um, OK, though?”

He smiles bashfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m OK.”

He brings you a wet cloth and a glass of water. The sweat has dried on his skin and he looks far better than he did when you found him on the floor.

Later, he crawls into bed with you. The lamp flicks off and the room plunges back into darkness. You wriggle closer to him until his arms find you and pull you tight to his chest.

“As good as that was,” you whisper, “please don’t scare me like that again. I thought you were dying or something.”

He laughs softly and presses his lips to the top of your head. “OK. I’ll try.”

He hummed as cars bustled and beeped outside of Peter’s open window, and you swore—the heat exhausted from all those billboards and sheer amount of sweaty bodies added an extra ten degrees to the room. Brown usually curled in wavy rivulets around his iris, but now, they were darkened, and watching you every time you sighed. 

“Can you give me one more?” he asked, coyly. 

You could not believe that Bingo Boy was so unaware of the fact that he was hot. 

“Who even are you, Peter Parker?” you asked with a breathless laugh. Peter’s bright yet bleary face smiled as he slowed his ministrations, pulsing his lips around your bud. Before you could conceptualize the sensation of his wet tongue lapping you up so delicately, he traced you with two fingers, teasing. You shivered and he squeezed your thigh. 

“Do you like it when I do that?” he asked. 

You bit your lip and hummed in agreement, wiping his sticky hair from his forehead. He looked up at you through his lashes. Then, he dipped his fingers in and out of you, not entering entirely, and you nearly burst with euphoria. 

“Peter,” you said, feverishly—and before you could think of anything else to say, the music he had played on his record came to a crescendo, his eyes were fully closed, and he was devouring you. Gasping, you threw your head back, and Peter, ever-so-perceptive, took notice of your arousal and reached up to play with your nipple. His fingertips gleamed with the faint mint of your sheer lace bra as you glanced downwards and it was too much: the sight of Bingo Boy, your tits pearling in his hands, chest heaving like it was not yours—again, July in New York City was never extraordinarily hot, but Peter made you feel like you were going to pass out. You moaned loudly, squirming, pinned beneath his biceps. Unable to steady yourself, you held on tightly to his shoulders, nails digging into his freckled skin. 

Peter spat on your pussy and smeared it around with his finger and you blacked out. Pulling his hair so hard Peter grunted, you rattingly gasped, “I’m gonna cum.” 

“That’s it,” he soothed, gently rubbing your core as you writhed. He kissed a trail from your inner thighs to your pubic bone as you closed your eyes, completely fucked-out, all over again. 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.” 

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?” 

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing. 

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?” 

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.” 

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?” 

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.” 

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.” 

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.” 

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you. 

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close. 

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam. 

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín. 

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.” 

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.” 

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam. 

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years. 

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything. 

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?” 

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.” 

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.” 

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.” 

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again. 

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?” 

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open. 

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.” 

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.” 

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus. 

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen. 

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín. 

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster. 

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta. 

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when— 

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.” 

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?” 

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?” 

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?” 

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.” 

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away. 

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.” 

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.” 

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.” 

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.” 

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.” 

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.” 

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?” 

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?” 

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.” 

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.” 

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.” 

Your cheeks flush, breath catching. 

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.” 

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.” 

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.” 

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.” 

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.” 

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says. 

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?” 

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.” 

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting. 

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback. 

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.” 

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.” 

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug. 

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.” 

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear. 

- 

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it. 

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back. 

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower. 

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office. 

Only twelve more hours to go. 

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one. 

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately. 

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today. 

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face. 

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend. 

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were. 

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend. 

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all. 

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him. 

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else. 

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break. 

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when— 

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?” 

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch. 

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal. 

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little. 

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.” 

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.” 

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?” 

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins. 

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis. 

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis. 

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?” 

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it. 

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—” 

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” 

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again. 

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?” 

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.” 

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch. 

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder. 

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again. 

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.” 

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.” 

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?” 

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.” 

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.” 

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment. 

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious. 

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.” 

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.” 

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin. 

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away. 

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. 

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?” 

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.” 

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you. 

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way. 

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling. 

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.” 

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground. 

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his. 

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive. 

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything. 

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?” 

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger. 

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine. 

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback. 

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.” 

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him. 

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual. 

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid. 

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich. 

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter. 

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.” 

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.” 

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.” 

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.” 

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine. 

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room. 

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look. 

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.” 

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.” 

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have. 

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk. 

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full. 

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.” 

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?” 

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.” 

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate. 

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention. 

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest. 

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath. 

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice. 

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.” 

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you. 

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite. 

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs. 

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

You shake your head. “Not yet.” 

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.” 

“Why?” 

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.” 

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.” 

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear. 

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?” 

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.” 

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too. 

“What is it?” 

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies. 

“Have you told Sam yet?” 

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.” 

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.” 

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk. 

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.” 

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.” 

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing. 

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.” 

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.” 

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear. 

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.” 

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction. 

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.” 

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation. 

- 

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.” 

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?” 

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.” 

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?” 

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.” 

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll. 

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—” 

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?” 

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code. 

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command. 

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?” 

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in. 

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.” 

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—” 

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.” 

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?” 

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.  

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.” 

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.” 

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?” 

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.” 

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?” 

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.” 

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.” 

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.” 

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.” 

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?” 

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.” 

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up. 

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.” 

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.” 

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?” 

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?” 

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking. 

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.” 

He swallows hard. “How?” 

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?” 

“That movie with Jim Carrey?” 

Sam nods. 

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.” 

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet. 

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all. 

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.” 

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.” 

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.” 

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.” 

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.” 

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again. 

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.” 

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.” 

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.” 

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.” 

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.” 

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why. 

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—” 

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.” 

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?” 

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.” 

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.” 

Sam chuckles. “This guy.” 

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?” 

“You dance with me.” 

The room falls silent. 

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?” 

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.” 

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—” 

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.” 

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.” 

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.” 

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug. 

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds. 

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—” 

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.” 

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug. 

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.” 

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation. 

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass. 

But that’s not even the worst part. 

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is. 

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging. 

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.” 

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.” 

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.” 

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.” 

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing. 

It’s not going great. 

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.” 

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter. 

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips. 

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder. 

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He bites back a laugh. 

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.” 

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then— 

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips. 

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.” 

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected. 

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle. 

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.” 

“I’m fine,” you snap. 

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.” 

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it. 

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.” 

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally. 

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance. 

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did. 

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him. 

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make. 

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack. 

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when— 

“Enjoying the show?” 

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him. 

You blink. “Nope.” 

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.” 

“What? Why?” 

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.” 

You frown. “Absolutely not.” 

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.” 

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago." 

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.” 

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.” 

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.” 

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.” 

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t. 

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth. 

How he'd taste. 

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle. 

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug. 

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.” 

His smile grows. “Hot.” 

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.” 

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive. 

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.” 

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up. 

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.” 

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move. 

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.” 

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes. 

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.” 

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out. 

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless. 

He smirks. “So are you.” 

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged. 

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum. 

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.” 

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.” 

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.” 

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?” 

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief. 

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep. 

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.” 

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.” 

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin. 

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.” 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.” 

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you. 

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you. 

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.” 

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass. 

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack— 

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two. 

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts. 

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally. 

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?” 

God. Something is too hard. 

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.” 

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.” 

- 

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission. 

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago. 

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.” 

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.” 

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.” 

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous. 

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore. 

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.” 

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills. 

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head. 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth. 

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.” 

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.” 

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.” 

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I know.” 

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache. 

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side. 

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled. 

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans. 

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open. 

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.” 

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.” 

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?” 

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.” 

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table. 

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken. 

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior. 

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable. 

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream. 

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep. 

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do it.” 

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.” 

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off. 

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?” 

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.” 

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you. 

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass. 

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges. 

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra. 

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you. 

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.” 

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes. 

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans. 

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.  

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide. 

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits. 

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.  

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.” 

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“One of mine?” 

“Yep.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.” 

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop. 

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín. 

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin. 

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps. 

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.” 

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.” 

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. 

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps. 

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand. 

“What happened?” 

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.” 

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?” 

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones. 

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot. 

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now? 

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.” 

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.” 

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.” 

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.” 

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking. 

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.” 

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.” 

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode. 

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing. 

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.” 

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?” 

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.” 

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken. 

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.” 

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week. 

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be. 

- 

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating. 

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking. 

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies. 

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight. 

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident. 

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this. 

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals. 

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate. 

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you. 

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure. 

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention. 

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention. 

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights. 

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you. 

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways. 

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you. 

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement. 

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go. 

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching. 

And then you spot him. 

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves. 

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken. 

And he’s looking at you. 

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares. 

Your stomach flips. 

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet. 

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you. 

No words. No warning. 

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes. 

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek. 

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro. 

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked. 

And this doesn’t feel like work. 

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless. 

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear. 

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.” 

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.” 

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much. 

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission. 

Then— 

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest. 

You yelp—then freeze. 

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you. 

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you. 

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold. 

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks. 

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse. 

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals. 

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.” 

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.” 

“Exactly,” he smirks. 

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect. 

Someone in the crowd whistles. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act. 

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned. 

Good. 

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow. 

“Still working?” he murmurs. 

You bite your lip. 

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.” 

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.” 

So he does. 

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline. 

The air between you crackles. 

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

Because you’re not sure it ever was. 

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours. 

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast. 

He catches you tight. 

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim. 

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance. 

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound. 

So you decide to give them something to watch. 

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again. 

His breath catches. You feel it. 

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips. 

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him. 

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.” 

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious. 

But then—he snaps. 

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you. 

And then he drops. 

Not suddenly—deliberately. 

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin. 

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire. 

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing. 

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud. 

Your knees almost buckle. 

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again. 

And when you dare to look down… 

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh. 

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for. 

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever. 

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises. 

You meet him halfway. 

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath. 

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. 

Then—he pauses. 

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger. 

And he pulls back. 

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching. 

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something. 

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.” 

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music. 

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back. 

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more. 

But your body still burns. 

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know. 

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back. 

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs. 

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much. 

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close. 

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it. 

“How about a private encore?” 

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you. 

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed. 

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.” 

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough. 

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.” 

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.” 

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning. 

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t. 

And you can’t stop asking yourself why. 

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk. 

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long. 

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment. 

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak. 

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough. 

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark. 

You clear your throat. “Learn what?” 

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.” 

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.” 

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?” 

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence. 

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.” 

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. 

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?” 

He nods. “Right.” 

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap. 

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.” 

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.” 

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now. 

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off. 

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.” 

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish. 

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road. 

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say. 

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet. 

Not until you’re alone. 

- 

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face. 

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night. 

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone. 

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts. 

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep. 

Partly from exhaustion. 

Partly from heartbreak. 

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now. 

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen. 

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today. 

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that. 

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw. 

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some. 

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend. 

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when— 

The alarm blares. 

You flinch. “Fuck!” 

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. 

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors. 

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee. 

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open. 

Not until— 

“Did you sleep here, cariño?” 

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk. 

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can. 

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics. 

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?” 

You frown. “Answer what?” 

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells. 

“Did you sleep here?” 

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.” 

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.” 

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.” 

“So you lied.” 

You shrug. “Embellished.” 

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.” 

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?” 

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.” 

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.” 

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him. 

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?” 

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?” 

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter. 

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.” 

That gets your attention. 

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?” 

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—” 

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.” 

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.” 

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.” 

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.” 

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line. 

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to. 

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.” 

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards. 

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly. 

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.” 

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.” 

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—” 

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming. 

“Never mind. Try again.” 

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off. 

“Estás muy guapo hoy.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. 

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.” 

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one. 

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences. 

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher. 

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.” 

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words. 

“Tell me what I’m saying first.” 

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.” 

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool. 

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat. 

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?” 

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it. 

“Ponte… de… rodillas?” 

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.” 

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board. 

“Ponte… de rodillas.” 

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.” 

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.” 

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.” 

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—” 

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.” 

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night. 

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.” 

“Listen?” 

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.” 

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey. 

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.” 

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.” 

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares. 

Then—he sinks to his knees. 

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.” 

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you. 

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in. 

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex. 

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus. 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh. 

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.” 

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. 

Your whole body tenses. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.” 

You blink down at him. “What?” 

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.” 

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real. 

But the heat is real. The ache. The want. 

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.” 

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties. 

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.” 

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg. 

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.” 

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips. 

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.” 

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic. 

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.” 

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need. 

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.” 

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming. 

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.” 

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.” 

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.” 

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting. 

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.” 

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved. 

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene. 

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.” 

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls. 

“Joaquín—” 

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are. 

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.” 

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open. 

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.  

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.” 

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs. 

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again. 

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.” 

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal. 

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth. 

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles. 

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered. 

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—” 

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?” 

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound. 

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time. 

His eyes flick up, meeting yours. 

“Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide. 

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred. 

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height. 

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow. 

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten. 

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—” 

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.” 

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once. 

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth. 

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?” 

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?” 

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?” 

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…” 

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk. 

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours. 

And fuck. 

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. 

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long. 

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this. 

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—” 

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. 

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck. 

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat. 

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.” 

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open. 

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—” 

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra. 

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked. 

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance. 

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.” 

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again. 

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?” 

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.” 

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward. 

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat. 

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.” 

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.” 

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.” 

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. 

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?” 

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough. 

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere. 

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close. 

But suddenly, he stops. 

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving. 

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.” 

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred. 

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.” 

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. 

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.” 

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—” 

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.” 

“I love you.” 

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap. 

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?” 

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—” 

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.” 

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding. 

“Oh my God, Joaquín—" 

You break. 

You fall apart. 

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go. 

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone. 

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers. 

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur. 

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest. 

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.” 

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck. 

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.” 

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.” 

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.” 

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.” 

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.” 

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.” 

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.” 

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it. 

But then— 

You stop. And pull back. 

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him. 

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?” 

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?” 

You nod slowly. 

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.” 

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?” 

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding. 

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper. 

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them. 

And then— 

Ping! 

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly. 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.” 

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?” 

“Yep.” 

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.” 

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement. 

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.” 

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded. 

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants. 

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“You in there, kid?” 

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. 

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk. 

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“I can hear you.” 

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk. 

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it. 

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago. 

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile. 

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly. 

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín. 

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room. 

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard. 

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised. 

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison. 

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?” 

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—” 

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog. 

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—” 

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—” 

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag. 

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?” 

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan. 

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office. 

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—” 

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised. 

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?” 

Sam freezes. His expression drops. 

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.” 

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.” 

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.” 

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer. 

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.” 

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.” 

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—” 

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.” 

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days. 

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven. 

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.” 

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.” 

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?” 

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair. 

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again. 

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter. 

Because you’ll make him teach you. 

Slowly. Thoroughly. 

Between your legs. All fucking night. 

He didn't come to Dex with pity, which was wise. He didn't sit across from him in some cold room and talk about redemption or recovery or all the other fluffy words people used when they wanted a dangerous man to feel grateful for being tolerated. Dex had heard those words before, and they always meant the same thing: behave, be useful, don’t make us regret leaving you alive. 

Charles, at least, had the decency not to pretend otherwise. He wore a plaid shirt under a vest (questionable fashion, but who was Dex to judge?), carried a leather folder, and looked at him like he wasn't a tragedy, nor a project, nor a rabid dog somebody had been foolish enough to feed. Instead, he looked at him as an asset with very specific applications.

Dex respected that, because the humiliating truth was that he needed a job.

Not a freelance gun-for-hire thing he got going on to fund his crusade against Fisk’s task force. He needed an actual, stable job. He needed money that came in regularly enough to pay rent. He needed a place with working locks, decent heating, and a refrigerator that contained more than condiments, protein bars, and eggs. He needed prescriptions filled before the bottles were empty. He needed ammunition that didn't come from old caches, stolen evidence rooms, or men who sold illegal ordnance out of storage units and thought calling him “buddy” was a good idea.

He needed structure.

Dex had spent so much of his life being pointed at things that he didn't entirely know what to do when no one was pointing. Freedom sounded good in theory, but freedom also meant waking up in a silent apartment with too many hours in the day and nowhere to put the violent itch crawling under his skin. It meant no orders, no parameters, no approved targets, no neat little box where the worst parts of him could be made useful. It meant his own mind, unattended, circling the same dark rooms until he started looking for a window to break.

Charles offered him work instead.

He said it was black ops, but clean enough. Government-adjacent, but deniable. There were forms, salaries, coded assignments, medical access, housing arrangements, travel papers, and weapons clearances. It was ugly in all the ways Dex understood, but it had a shape. It had a beginning, a middle, and, theoretically, an end.

Dex missed that.

Maybe.

He sat across from Charles in a windowless conference room. The table between them reflected the overhead lights in long white strips. There was coffee untouched near Dex’s elbow and a pen placed exactly parallel to the folder.

“So what?” Dex asked eventually, his voice flat. “I’m one of the good guys now?”

Charles chuckled. “You’re useful,” he shrugged. “Let’s start there.”

Dex stared at him for a second. Then, against his better judgment, he smiled.

It wasn't a friendly smile, but it was the closest thing to approval Charles was likely to get. There was something almost refreshing about not being lied to. At least one was asking him to hold hands with his past or apologize to a circle of strangers under fluorescent lights. Charles wanted him because Dex could do damage with precision, and after all this time, there was comfort in that kind of honesty.

After all, in Dex’s book, Charles might not be a good person, but he wasn’t a horrible one either. Unlike Wilson Fisk. Unlike Vanessa Fisk. 

He knew that because he saw who was funding the mission: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Charles tapped the edge of the file once with two fingers. “She also bankrolls the Avengers.”

Dex’s expression didn't change.

“The new team,” Charles clarified.

“Yeah,” Dex said flatly. “I know who the New Avengers are.”

“Then you understand the nature of this operation.”

Dex looked back down at the file.

Sure, he understood enough. If Val was paying for Avengers, that meant she was funding heroism. If Charles worked for her, then Charles cannot possibly be that bad, can he?

The logic was stupidly simple, so simple a child could have made it. Dex knew that. He knew goodness didn't transfer through payroll. 

He liked it anyway. He liked clean lines. He liked being told where to stand.

He looked down again before Charles could read too much on his face. The next few pages were maps, photographs, shipment records, old Hydra symbols carved into walls and stamped onto yellowing documents. Europe had been marked in red: Germany, Romania, Austria, Italy, Poland, Norway.

When he flipped through, he found photos of safehouses, labs and weapons caches. The next page had details of facilities hidden under abandoned factories and bank accounts buried beneath shell companies and dead men’s signatures. There were names in multiple languages, some with photographs attached, some already crossed out.

Hydra, apparently, was like black mold. You could burn the house down and still find it growing behind the walls.

“They’re just remnants,” Charles said. “Y’know, splinter groups who aren’t really Hydra anymore, they’re just borrowing the name and the branding. Opportunists, mostly. Scientists who kept copies of files they were meant to destroy. Brokers moving old weapons systems through private channels. Buyers interested in serum research, cryogenic technology, asset conditioning protocols, enhanced human restraints, anything that survived the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the years afterward.”

Dex turned a page.

“This would be a seven-month assignment,” Charles continued. “Possibly longer, depending on what you recover. You’ll move through Europe, locate the caches, secure the weapons, and retrieve as much intel as possible before it disappears into the black market. You’ll have safehouses, false identities, medical support, and extraction options when necessary.”

“When necessary,” Dex repeated.

Charles’s mouth twitched. “You understand the kind of work this is.”

Dex did. He understood it so well that a now-ancient part of him had already begun arranging itself around the mission, routes, and sight lines. He wasn't a spy, but he would try his hand at a language he didn't speak but could fake long enough to get through a checkpoint. He would map the distance between cover and exit in every photograph. He would process the likely angle of fire through the windows of a Croatian warehouse shown on page six.

His mind liked having something to do.

“And the priority?” Dex asked.

“Weapons first. Intel second. People third.”

“Dead or alive?” 

“Alive if possible,” Charles said, adjusting his glasses. 

Dex glanced up, raising an eyebrow. Charles sighed, almost imperceptibly. “If practical,” he amended.

That was better.

Dex leaned back, the chair creaking softly beneath him. He turned another page, then froze.

The photograph clipped to the next sheet wasn't of a weapons cache, a scientist, or some grey-faced man in a tactical vest.

It was you.

Dex stared for a moment longer than he meant to.

The picture looked like it had been taken without your permission from a street corner. You were wearing a winter coat, one hand tucked into your pocket, the other holding a paper coffee cup like you were just another pretty socialite in another expensive European city, not something pulled out of Hydra’s worst nightmares.

Pretty was the wrong word, Dex realised. Pretty was too soft.

You were… intense in a way Dex didn't immediately trust. Your posture was careful, your stride was disciplined. Dex knew a little of what that’s like; he had seen it in mirrors.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Charles’s eyes flicked down to the file. “Your partner.”

Dex’s smile disappeared. “No.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.”

“I don’t do partners anymore.”

“You do now.”

Disappointment moved through Dex’s eyes, but Charles didn't retreat from it. That made Dex dislike him again. Or respect him. Sometimes the two were close enough to be irritating.

“I work better alone,” Dex said.

“Uh uh. You survive alone,” Charles replied. “There’s a difference.”

For a second, he considered standing up and walking out, just to prove no one in that room could decide anything for him. He could go back to whatever came before this. Cheap rent, unclear income. Too much time. Too many thoughts. His talents were left without purpose, especially after Task Force agents were being rounded up and locked up one by one. 

Dex tapped one finger against the edge of the photograph. “What is she?”

The question was rude. Charles seemed unsurprised by that, too.

But Dex knew that a man like him would not be put to a mission with some other average agent. She must be equipped to handle him in some way, and he needed to know how. 

“She is a super soldier,” he said. “From the Siberian program. She might be smaller than you, but she is faster than you. Stronger than you. More durable than you.”

Dex’s knuckles flexed. Charles, annoyingly, looked amused by that. “Don’t take it personally. You're here because she’s strictly close quarters only. Her aim is dogshit. She can’t pin the tail to the donkey if it was the size of an elephant.”

Dex looked back down. The photograph changed with the information, though nothing in it moved. The pretty coat became a costume. The coffee became a cover. He knew enough of the infamous Siberian Program to know what it meant: cryo, programming, asset conditioning, and brutal compliance. You were a war crime with a pulse.

“Zemo killed them,” Dex said. Or so he’s heard.

“He missed one,” Charles said dismissively.

Dex’s eyes narrowed, but Charles just continued, “She was recovered at the end of the conflict. Barnes and Rogers found her before anyone else did. As far as our records show, Zemo believed the termination was complete.”

“And it wasn’t.”

“No.”

Dex looked at your face again. There you were, alive by accident. A cute little clerical error in the middle of a massacre.

“Is she deprogrammed?” he asked.

“Enough.”

Dex gave Charles a dry look. “She’s stable, then?” 

Charles tilted his head. “Are you?”

Dex huffed a laugh, short and humorless.Fair.

Dex knew this made sense: you probably knew Hydra architecture, internal coding systems, and old asset routes. For this assignment, there was probably no one more useful, save for the Winter Soldier himself. But then again, he was too busy pretending to be a public facing hero, which meant this probably read too much like grunt work to him.  

“When do I meet her?” he asked.

Charles’s eyes shifted by the smallest amount, just enough for Dex to understand that he had given the answer Charles had been waiting for.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Dex shut the folder, though he kept the photograph on top. Then, he agreed to the mission. 

—

As promised, Dex met you the next day on a rain-slick air base that didn't officially exist.

You were already waiting by the plane when Charles led him across the tarmac, hands in your jacket pockets, hair tugged loose by the wind, looking entirely too calm for someone being sent across Europe to clean up an evil organisation’s leftovers.

Charles stopped between you like a middle school teacher introducing two students he already knew would become a disciplinary issue.

“Benjamin Poindexter,” Charles said. “This is your partner.”

“Dex,” he corrected.

You tilted your head. “Do you correct everyone that fast?”

“Usually faster.”

Your mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. You gave him your name, and he recognized it from the file. You took a sip from your cup, still watching Dex over the rim. “So. You’re the knife throwing miracle worker.”

“That what he called me?”

“No,” you rolled your eyes. “That’s me being generous.”

Dex felt the corner of his mouth lift before he could stop it.

He folded his arms. “And you’re the super soldier.”

Your face stayed mild. “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly?”

“I don’t like confirming things for strange men on runways.”

“Smart.”

“I try.”

Charles glanced between you like he had already decided this was as good as civility was going to get. “You’ve both read the operational brief.”

“Yes,” you said.

Dex said nothing when Charles looked at him.

Dex eventually said, “Enough.” He said it with a smile a little too charming for your peace of mind.

You scoffed and Dex’s gaze dipped over you once, interested. You noticed, because you were trained to notice changes in breathing, pupil dilation, heart rate, weight distribution. Instead of calling him on it, you gave him your sweetest, most harmless smile.

Dex stared at it like he wanted to peel it off you with a knife just to see what was underneath.

Charles cleared his throat and handed you both slim black folders. The paper inside was minimal, most of the real information tucked away behind encrypted devices and dead drops. You flipped yours open anyway, mostly to give your hands something to do.

“The two of you will have limited external support,” Charles continued. “You’ll have a plethora of assumed identities. You’ll share safehouses when necessary.”

Dex said, “When necessary?”

“Frequently,” Charles said.

You looked up. Dex looked at you.“I don’t snore,” you said. 

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “Congratulations.”

“I do steal blankets.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any objections before departure?”

Dex opened his mouth. You interrupted before he could say something predictably unpleasant. “Nope. Bucky talked me into it, so technically if this goes badly, we can blame him.”

Charles looked amused; Dex’s flicked to you.

You kept looking at the file, not because you missed the reaction, but because you didn't entirely want to deal with it yet.

“Barnes?” Dex asked. His voice had not changed much. The word came out casual, almost indifferent, but his eyes widened, if only a little 

You lifted your head. “Yes.”

“As in James Barnes.”

“Do you know another famous Buckys?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

Dex studied you.

You had expected curiosity. Most people got curious about Bucky. Some got reverent, others got afraid. Some got that awful pitying look, that suggested they thought they knew Hydra to imagine they understood anything at all. Dex did none of that.

“What did he talk you into?” he asked.

You shrugged, tucking the folder beneath your arm. “Working. Y’know. Doing something useful.”

Charles didn't interrupt. Coward.

You glanced toward the aircraft, watching two ground crew members load another case into the hold. “He said I couldn’t just sit around waiting for someone to piss me off.”

Dex’s mouth twitched.

“What did Barnes say?” Charles asked, tilting his head.

You sighed, and without meaning to, your voice shifted into an imitation of Bucky’s low, exasperated drawl. “‘You can’t keep breaking people’s bones and making me explain to the cops why they shouldn’t press charges.’”

Dex stared at you.

You smiled faintly, fond despite yourself. “He had a point. Apparently regular civilians get upset when you dislocate someone’s shoulder in a grocery store parking lot.”

“What did they do?” Dex asked. 

“They touched me.”

Dex only shrugged, as if it was a reasonable thing to do.

“Well,” Charles said, producing a small bag of peanuts from his coat pocket, “try not to kill each other before Germany.”

You looked at Dex. He looked back at you. Then your mouth curved up, entirely too pleased. “Don’t worry,” you said. “I have a feeling we’re going to be just fine.”

—

The first few missions were okay.

Dex had expected friction. He had expected you to get in his way, or slow him down, or make some sentimental speech about doing things cleanly because he’d expected a partner with principles. Instead, you were efficient. You were talkative, but quiet when you needed to be. You were quick in a way that made him understand, very quickly, that Charles had not been exaggerating about the super soldier thing.

Germany was a weapons ledger hidden behind a false wall in a private gallery. You smiled at the owner’s security like you were there to admire post-war sculpture, then put one guard through a locked door with your shoulder when the alarms tripped. Dex handled the cameras and anyone who would eventually get to you. By the time the police arrived, both of you were already three streets away, walking under one umbrella you had stolen from the cloakroom and laughing at how untrained these guys were.

Austria was colder. You had gotten intel of a Hydra courier in a ski town, three dead drops, one safe full of expired serum that didn't do anything except maybe get you high. Dex put a knife through a man’s hand before he could reach the panic button, and you raised a brow at him like you were impressed. Later, in the car, you told him his aim was annoyingly theatrical.

Taking it as a compliment, he told you that your melee skills were not too bad yourself. You smiled at the window and tried your hardest not to deflect it.

By the time you reached Romania, the process had become familiar. You took the left side of a room without being told. Dex took the high angle. You never walked directly in front of his line of fire. He never asked you to move. In safehouses, you cleaned weapons at the kitchen table while he checked exits and pretended he wasn't watching the way your hands worked. You drank terrible coffee. He made comments about it. You ignored him and made him a cup anyway.

You didn't talk much during jobs, but afterward, little pieces of you slipped out.

Unfortunately, a lot of them had Bucky fucking Barnes attached.

“Bucky hated safehouses like this,” you said once, standing in the doorway of a flat in Bucharest with peeling wallpaper and a radiator that knocked all night. “Said they all smelled like wet concrete and black mold.”

Dex looked around. “He sounds poetic.”

“He was mostly complaining.”

Another time outside Salzburg, you watched Dex hotwire a silver sedan and said, “Bucky used to do that one-handed.”

Dex didn't look up. “Congratulations to Bucky.”

You laughed like he had meant to be funny. He had not.

It was annoying, how he kept happening.

It wasn't a constant and definitely not enough for him to call it a problem without sounding insane. It was just often enough that Barnes became a third person in the room even though he had never met the man before, he found him irritating because he was apparently very good at everything.

Bucky had warned you about old Hydra storage locks. Bucky had taught you how to sleep sitting up without waking with a crick in your neck. Bucky had said Romanian winters were worse than Russian ones because at least Russia was honest about trying to kill you. Bucky had this dry little laugh when Steve and Sam got sentimental. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

Dex told himself he didn't care. It was obviously a lie, but it was a convenient one.

He didn't care that your voice changed around the name. He didn't care that you said it easily, like muscle memory. He didn't care that Barnes had known you before this, before Charles, before rain-slick bases and seven-month assignments and Dex learning that you hummed under your breath when you were stitching wounds.

He definitely didn't care that Barnes was the reason that you were here, with Bullseye, instead of the picture perfect ex-congressman, now leader of the most high profile superhero team in the world. Emphasis on hero.

The fourth mission was in Hungary, in an old textile factory outside Budapest that had been turned into a weapons relay point by boys too young to remember Hydra properly and too stupid to fear it enough. It went clean until it didn't. Someone burned the files before you could get to them. Dex shot out the sprinklers. You ripped the office door off its hinges. Together, you dragged what you could from the smoke and left six men zip-tied in the loading bay for Charles’s people to collect, not before killing twice as much along the way.

By midnight, you were in a safehouse above a closed bakery, both of you smelling like smoke and wool.

You sat on the floor with your back against the couch, cleaning soot from under your nails with the tip of a knife. Dex stood near the window, watching the street below through a gap in the curtains. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then you said, “Bucky once set an entire warehouse on fire by accident.”

Dex closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his reflection looked annoyed in the dark glass. “What is he,” Dex added, “your boyfriend?”

He meant it lightly, mostly. It came out almost like a joke.

The room’s air seemed to change at that; but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look wounded. You only looked back down at your hands, at the knife balanced between your fingers, and for the first time since he had met you, Dex saw the answer arrive before you decided whether to give it.

“He used to be,” you said.

Ah.

He waited for more but gave him nothing.

The knife moved again, scraping soot gray wasn’t there anymore. Your face had closed in that gentle, polite way he was starting to recognize as armor. And it wasn’t the super soldier armor. Not even the Hydra armor. It was more… personal.

Dex should have asked. He wanted to ask: How long? Why did it end? Did you love him? Do you still? Did he touch you? Did he know what to do with you? 

He asked none of it, mostly because that would have meant admitting he cared. So he only said, “Huh.”

You looked up. “Huh?” you repeated.

Dex shrugged, turning back toward the window. “Didn’t peg Barnes as your type.”

“And what’s my type?”

Dex seemed to consider it for a second. “Bad decisions.”

That got a small smile from you. “You’re not wrong.”

Dex stared out at the empty street, fist curled tight, his heartbeat skipping stupidly beneath his skin.

He told himself it was just curiosity. Barnes was relevant because Barnes had been Hydra, because Barnes knew the program, because Barnes had known you before Dex did. That was all: information, context, and nothing else.

But behind him, you went quiet again, and Dex could only assume and spiral about what you had not said.

He didn't want to know.

Ha! That was a lie.

He wanted to know so badly it made him angry.

You shifted on the floor, stretching one leg out, your boot nudging his discarded jacket.

“He’s a good man,” you said after a while.

Dex’s fingers tightened against the curtain.

Ugh. 

He didn’t know what that shift of note was in your voice. Was it longing? Did you miss him?

“Lucky him,” Dex said through gritted teeth.

You didn’t answer. When he glanced back, you were looking at the knife in your hand like you had forgotten why you were holding it.

—

The next mission went wrong.

At first, it was just another Hydra remnant with more confidence than sense, tucked beneath an old municipal archive in Prague, guarded by men who thought stolen weapons made them important. Dex took the cameras. You took the stairs. It should have been clean.

Then one of them said a name: Vasily Karpov 

Dex didn't know who that was at the time, but he would later learn that he was your old handler.

Still, he witnessed hearing it did to you.

He saw the split-second absence in your eyes— the way your face dropped first, almost blank, before an old and brutal version of you came up underneath it. The man laughed like he knew exactly what nerve he had touched.

He didn't laugh for long.

You hit him once and shattered his jaw.

Dex heard the teeth crack inside the man’s mouth before the body even hit the floor. Blood sprayed across the concrete in a hot arc, one of the molars skittering away into the dark like a dropped coin. The man tried to scream through what remained of his face, choking on it instead.

Then you hit him again.

Your fist came down with enough force to cave his nose flat against his skull. Bone gave under your knuckles with an ugly crunch. The back of his head smacked the floor hard enough to leave blood blooming beneath it, but you didn't stop.

The third punch ruptured his eye.

Dex watched as your knuckles sank into ruined flesh already turning unrecognizable, he saw red slick burst across your sleeve. The man’s limbs jerked once beneath you, involuntary, nervous system still firing even as his face stopped looking human. This was when Dex had to remember that you Hydra didn't just make a super soldier out of you; you were once a Winter Soldier, too.

You kept going.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each hit sounded worse than the last. Your breathing had gone frighteningly steady, not angry or frantic, just mechanically brutal, like your humanity had slipped somewhere far away from yourself and left only an asset behind.

Blood coated your hands to the wrist.

One of the punches split the skin over your knuckles open. You didn't notice.

“Hey!” Dex barked, because this was brutal, even for his standards. which was saying a lot.

The body beneath you had stopped moving entirely now. One arm twitched occasionally from the impact, dead weight bouncing under the force of your blows. There was barely a face left. 

You hit him again anyway.

Dex grabbed you then, hooking an arm around your waist and hauling you backward with a grunt. “Stop.”

You drove an elbow back hard enough to bruise ribs. Dex barely held on. Your boots scraped through blood as you tried to lunge forward again, eyes empty, locked on the corpse like it could still speak.

“He’s dead,” Dex sneered into your ear.

Your fist clenched again.

For one horrible second, Dex thought you were going to tear free and keep going until there was nothing left on the floor but pulp.

Then your whole body jerked still.

The room went quiet except for your heavy breathing.

Slowly, your eyes dropped to the body. Or what used to be one.

—

In the safehouse that night, you took the bed.

You had made a rule three countries ago that the two of you would alternate between bed and couch because you both had trust issues and didn't want to compromise. Dex didn't argue. 

So, tonight, he took the couch.

It was too short. The blanket smelled like dust. His ribs hurt where you had elbowed him. He lay there in the dark, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the old building settle around him.

He didn't sleep much.

That was why he heard you scream when you did. It was a full, blood-curdling scream that tore through the apartment like a mortician had opened you up.

Dex was on his feet before it ended.

He had a knife in his hand by the time he reached your door. He kicked it open, expecting an enemy.

But there was no one there. Only you.

You were standing beside the bed in the dark, barefoot, shaking, eyes open, and yet, you looked wrong. Your hair was loose around your face. One hand was curled at your side like it expected a weapon. The other was pressed against your own throat, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

Dex lowered the knife a fraction.

“Hey,” he said, smaller than he meant to. “It’s me.”

You turned toward him.

Then… you attacked.

This was what Dex had imagined Siberian-programmed Winter Soldiers to move like: a nightmare. 

Dex barely got his arm up before you struck him, the impact driving him back into the wall. Pain flashed white through his back, but it was fine. His back could take a hit now. He twisted away from the next punch, caught your wrist, lost it when you wrenched free. 

“Wake up,” he snapped.

You didn't. Instead, your fist cracked into the plaster beside his head when he ducked. He swept your leg; you went down and came back up too quickly. He had fought trained killers before. He had fought men who wanted him dead. This was worse.

Because he could tell, even now, that you were not trying to win. You were merely trying to survive something that wasn't in the room.

Dex said your name again. That got nothing out of you.

You lunged.

He caught you badly. Your strength drove both of you sideways into the dresser. A lamp shattered. His knife hand came up on instinct, not to strike, just to guard, just to keep space between you.

You twisted, and the blade sank into you in the form of a clean, ugly slice along the outside of your upper arm.

That was enough to wake you up.

Your eyes dropped to the blood welling against your skin. For a heartbeat, you only stared at it. 

“Oh,” you whispered.

Dex didn't move.

You blinked once, then again, like the room was assembling itself around you piece by piece. The bed. The broken lamp. The wall. Dex in front of you, breathing hard, knife still in his hand.

“Oh,” you said again, and this time it broke. “Oh.”

He understood before you explained, that this was what Charles had meant when Charles said you were deprogrammed enough.

Enough to pass evaluation. Enough to work. Enough to know your own name in daylight. Enough to sit in cars and drink bad coffee and pretend you were only dangerous by choice.

Not enough to stop a dead man’s name from reaching into your sleep and turning you back into his weapon.

Dex lowered the knife slowly.

Your eyes followed it. “I’m sorry,” you said.

He hated that. “Don’t.”

“I…” you choked, “I didn’t know where I was.”

“I know.”

“I could’ve—”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

That almost made him laugh, except nothing about you looked funny. You were standing in the wreckage of the little bedroom, barefoot and bleeding, trying to make yourself smaller when both of you knew you were not small at all.

Dex stepped closer, and you flinched.

For a second, the two of you just stood there with blood between you. Then, he said, “Sit down.”

You looked at him, eyes still adjusting.

His repeated, firmer this. “Sit.”

Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was the simplicity in the command. Maybe you just needed instruction.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

Dex went to the bathroom, found the medical kit beneath the sink, and came back without looking too long at the broken lamp or the dent in the wall where your fist had landed. He knelt in front of you because the bed was too short and the room was too small and because, apparently, he had decided this was his problem now.

You watched him clean the cut, with hands folded tightly in your lap.

The antiseptic made you hiss through your teeth.

“Hurts?” Dex asked.

“No.”

“Liar.”

That got the smallest breath out of you. Not a laugh, but Dex decided it was enough.

He stitched you up quickly. You watched his hands instead of his face. Dex was grateful for that. He didn't know what his face was doing, and he didn't want you to see it before he figured it out himself.

When he finished, he tied off the last stitch and taped gauze over the wound. Dex sat back on his heels. “Do you know whose name he said?”

Your face went still. “Yes.”

He waited.

You didn't elaborate. He didn't push.

He stood and turned to clean up the kit, but your hand caught his wrist.

It was light and careful and so different from the way you had fought him that it made his chest lock up.

“Stay,” you said.

Dex looked down at your hand, then at you.

Your face was controlled again, but not enough. Your eyes were too bright in the dark, your mouth pressed too tight, your body holding itself together through sheer refusal.

“Please,” you added, a bit more desperate.

He should have said no. Boundaries, professionalism, all of Charles’ stupid rules and all. He should have gone back to the couch and pretended the sound of your scream wasn't still crawling under his skin.

Instead, Dex nodded.

You shifted back on the small bed, making room that didn’t really exist. It was ridiculous: the mattress was narrow and dipped in the middle, the sheets smelled faintly like laundry powder and dust, and there was no way for him to lie beside you without touching.

He did it anyway.

You lay on your side facing him, one arm tucked against your chest, the bandage stark against your skin. Dex settled stiffly beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then your forehead lowered, just barely, until it rested against his chest.

Dex stopped breathing.

You whispered, “I thought I was back there.”

His hand hovered above your shoulder. Then he let it settle there. “I know.”

“You don’t,” you insisted.

The words were not cruel, but it was true.

Dex looked at the cracked ceiling.

No. He didn't know Siberia. He didn't know your handler’s voice. He didn't know the cold storage or the chair or whatever else had been dragged into the room with you when you screamed. He didn't know what cryo felt like. He didn't know what being erased felt like.

But he knew what it was to wake up and not feel like a person.

So he said, “Maybe not.”

Your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, and he found himself wanting to hold you a little tighter.

In the dark, in that too-small bed with your blood drying beneath his fingernails and the mission waiting beyond the walls, Dex realized he was jealous of Barnes for something even worse than having been loved by you.

Barnes had known how to comfort you because what was done to you was done to him, too. Dex didn't.

But you had asked him to stay anyway. So, he stayed.

—

After Prague, something changed between you.

The shift wasn’t dramatic, because let’s be real, neither of you were built for dramatic emotional breakthroughs. There was no late-night confession, no sudden honesty, no moment where either of you sat down and admitted that maybe the partnership had stopped being strictly professional somewhere around Austria.

Things just idly softened around the edges.

You stopped pretending the nightmares were rare. Dex stopped pretending he didn’t notice when you paced after missions instead of sleeping. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night and find you sitting on the kitchen counter of whatever safehouse you were in, wrapped in one of his hoodies with a mug of coffee gone cold in your hands, staring at nothing.

It was a mutual understanding: he never asked what you were thinking about and you never asked why he always woke up exactly three minutes before dawn.

It worked. Mostly.

And somehow, you became easier around him. You rolled your eyes more openly when he was being difficult. You stole food off his plate. You started sitting too close to him on trains and planes and safehouse couches, like your body had decided he was safe before your brain had caught up.

Dex noticed every little bit of it.

Unfortunately, you still talked about Bucky.

Bucky liked this kind of weather. Bucky hated old countryside safehouses. Bucky once broke three ribs falling through a church roof. Bucky said Eastern European plumbing was cursed. Bucky this, Bucky that.

Dex was beginning to suspect the ancient world war two fossil had opinions on literally everything.

He hated how irrational the jealousy felt. Hated that it existed at all. It was ugly and stupid and embarrassing every time the name left your mouth so casually.

But he swallowed it. 

Until Croatia.

The mission itself had been a disaster from the start. Charles had dropped a bad intel in the form of a wrong entry point in a Hydra splinter cell that turned out to be twice the size the files suggested. Dex got separated from you for exactly ninety seconds, which was apparently long enough for someone to nearly put a knife through your throat.

He found you in a collapsed stairwell with blood on your collar and three bodies around your feet. He had managed to cradle your face and slap your cheek twice to get you awake.

When you opened your eyes, though, he looked furious.

—

Dex tried to shoulder the safehouse door open, but the warped wood only groaned stubbornly against the frame, swollen tight from the rain.

Before he could hit it again, you shoved past him, “Move,” grabbed the handle, and yanked hard enough that the lock gave with a dull metallic snap, the door shuddering inward and banging against the wall. Cold air chased both of you inside as rain streaked down the back of his neck. Mud dragged across the floorboards beneath your boots. The cottage smelled like damp stone, stale smoke, and old wood that had spent too many winters rotting.

You stumbled in, one hand pressed briefly to your ribs because the movement annoyed whatever bruise was blooming there.

Dex saw it, refusing to take his mask off because he didn’t want you to see how frightened he had become. 

Worse, he saw more that you seemed to understand. He saw the split at your lip. The blood at the side of your neck, dried now, but still there in a dark line where that knife had kissed too close. He saw the way you were favoring your left side even though you were trying not to. He saw the notch in your sleeve where a bullet had passed close enough to cut fabric.

The second the door shut, the whole night caught up with him at once.

For one horrible moment back in that compound, Dex had heard the comm go dead and had thought, with a certainty so violent it had hollowed him out, that he had lost you. Not misplaced or separated. Lost. 

Asset unrecoverable kind of lost. Operative deceased kind of lost. 

He had not felt that kind of panic in years, and he didn’t like what it had done to him.

So by the time you were both inside the cottage, wet and bleeding and breathing too hard, he had nowhere to put it except anger.

“You broke formation,” he said.

You tossed your ruined gloves onto the kitchen table, one after the other, like you had all the time in the world. “You changed the route.”

“The route was compromised.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“You were off comms.”

“I was busy.”

Dex turned from the door to see that you were standing in the yellow kitchen light, hair damp around your face, jacket hanging open, blood on your throat like some deadly necklace. And you had the audacity to sound bored.

Busy, you had said, like you had missed a call. Like he had not spent the longest thirty seconds of his life tearing through five men and half a corridor to get to you.

“You disappeared.”

You looked at him then. Your stare sharpened, the same way they did before a fight when some poor man realized too late that the pretty woman in front of him had never been harmless.

“Oh my god,” you said, though you looked annoyed, not cruel. In your head, the mission had gone badly but ended fine. You were alive. He was alive. The intel had been recovered and bodies had been left behind. That was success, by every metric either of you had been trained to respect.

So why was he acting like this? You didn’t understand.

“You disappeared,” he repeated, louder this time. “And then I walk into a room and there’s blood all over you—”

“Not mine,” you reminded me. 

“I didn’t know that!” The words came thundering out of him before he could stop them. “You’re just so fucking reckless, are you?”

You barked out a small laugh, turning toward him, looking into his dark hazel eyes, the only part of his face not covered by fabric. “Oh, and you’re the picture of stability right now, Benjamin.”

Dex turned so fast you almost walked into him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows genuinely furrowed. “Do you not like your name?”

Still, there was no malice in your voice. You were being awful, yes, but not with the intention to wound. You didn't realize where the line was because no one had ever given you normal lines to stand behind. You were teasing him the way you tested knives: carefully, curiously, delighted when they were sharp.

Then, because apparently you had no instinct for self-preservation when it came to him, you added, “Bucky liked it when I called him James.”

Dex went still, but you didn’t notice immediately.

Not because you were stupid; you were not. You noticed threat, movement, weakness, exits, lies. You noticed the things that kept you alive. But this was different. This wasn't a gun drawn under a table or a man shifting his weight before a strike.

This was jealousy.

Dex hated how fast it rose in him. He hated that it didn't feel grown-up or controlled or even useful. It felt young, embarrassing, like a hot green pulse where his heart should be.

And you had no idea you had just fed it.

To you, it was a passing comparison. Bucky had been part of your life. James was a name he had let you use. It was a small domestic fact and nothing more.

To Dex, it was a door opening onto all the things he didn't want to picture.

Barnes smiling at you. Barnes letting you call him James. Barnes in your bed—

You caught the change in his eyes a second too late. “Dex?”

“Don’t.” His voice came out rough enough that even he heard the damage in it.

You stopped smiling, but that didn't help. 

Because Dex knew you had not meant it. He knew. He could see it in your face now: the faint confusion, the way your mouth parted like you were about to ask what you had done wrong. You were not trying to make him jealous. You were not playing Barnes against him. You were not cruel in that particular way.

You were just carrying another man around inside your memories and forgetting Dex could see the outline.

And the worst part was that this wasn't even really about Barnes. It was about the fact that you were standing there, acting like nothing was wrong after almost dying, telling him you were fine while blood dried on your skin like he had not spent the last hour with terror clawing down his throat. You had almost died tonight, and for a second Dex had not thought of you as his partner, or Charles’s asset, or the super soldier who would probably outlive everyone in the room.

He had thought:

No.

Not you.

And now you were standing there saying another man’s name while Dex was still trying to scrape that terror out of his chest.

Dex stepped towards you before he even realized he was moving.

When he got to where you were standing near the kitchen table, he had you shoved backward to the wall behind you.

Dex planted one hand beside your head, boxing you in. The other grabbed your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him. The impact jolted through both of you. Your body heat hit him instantly through layers of damp clothing.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, not frightened.

You were stronger than him. If you wanted him off you, he would already be across the room. If you wanted space, you would take it. Instead, you stayed exactly where you were pinned against the wall, fingers curling into the front of his tactical suit as he desperately took his mask off. 

God.

His grip tightened reflexively against your waist.

“I thought you were dead,” he said again, and this time the words cracked. “Do you understand that? You almost died.” Dex hated himself immediately for letting that much show.

“But I didn’t,” you murmured softly.

Dex looked down at you breathing hard against the wall, rainwater still dripping from your hair, blood drying at your throat, and suddenly the anger stopped feeling red and started becoming want.

Four months of tension crashed through him all at once. Every accidental touch in cramped safehouses. Every late-night conversation over bad coffee. Every time you had smiled at him after violence like the two of you shared some private language no one else understood.

And now you were looking up at him like this.

Your thumb brushed once against the front of his shirt where you still held him.

“You really don’t understand why that isn’t good enough,” he said.

Your eyes flicked over his face, and for half a second, the teasing left you. Then you tried to cover it, because vulnerability made you uncomfortable, too.

“Y’know,” you said, breath still uneven, “Bucky would’ve—”

Oh, fuck that. 

“—known what to do with— Hmph!!!”

The kiss came so suddenly you barely had time to make a sound.

One second you were speaking, the next Dex’s mouth was on yours, hard and immediate and furious enough to steal the rest of the sentence clean out of you. His hand tightened at your waist; the other stayed braced against the wall beside your head like he needed to keep himself from doing something worse, or kind, or both.

You froze beneath him for one shocked heartbeat.

Dex felt the hitch in your breath, the way your hand tightened in his shirt without pulling him closer yet, fingers twisting in the wet fabric like your body had reacted before your mind could catch up. 

He had kissed you to shut you up. That was the only explanation his brain could hold onto.

Not because he had wanted to do it for months. Not because the sight of blood on your throat felt like he had been skinned alive. Not because every time you said another man’s name, the hunger in him wanted to put his own there instead.

No.

He had kissed you because you would not stop talking.

Sure. That's why. 

When you sighed into his lips, his whole body locked up.

The kiss changed in the space of a breath. Your lips began moving against his, tentative for less than a second before the shock burned off and heat rushed in to replace it. Your fingers dragged higher in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

Dex made a sound low in his throat, and that seemed to snap both of you back to yourselves.

He pulled away, far enough that the kiss broke. For a second, neither of you moved.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Your eyes were wide, Your mouth was parted, damp from his, your breath coming fast. 

He should have stepped back. He should have done anything except look at your mouth again.

Your eyes dropped to his lips at the exact same time.

That was all it took.

Dex barely had time to inhale before your mouth was on his again, harder now, more certain now. Your hands fisted in his shirt and dragged him down into you like you were done waiting for him to decide anything on your behalf.

He kissed you back immediately.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping there, pulling you against him while your back stayed pressed to the wall. The kiss turned rougher, open-mouthed and breathless, all teeth and heat and months of tension finally catching fire. You made a small whine against him when his body curved into yours, and Dex swallowed it whole.

Your hand slid up into his hair, and he nearly lost his mind.

Four months of looking and not touching, and now you were kissing him like it had meant everything.

Dex pressed in closer, chasing your mouth when you tilted your head, the angle changing. You kissed like you fought, he realized distantly: direct, no wasted movement, no mercy once you decided you wanted something.

Then you pushed him away, palm flattening against his chest. 

Dex was suddenly stumbling backward like gravity had changed its mind. His back hit the edge of the kitchen table with a dull thud, wood scraping against the floor under the impact.

He stared at you for half a second.

You had not even tried.

You looked at him from against the wall, breathing hard, mouth swollen, eyes dark and bright all at once. You looked amazed now, wicked and dazed and pleased by the realization that you could move him so easily.

Dex knew that already.

He had known from the file, the missions, from watching you tear through men twice your size without breaking a sweat.

But knowing it and feeling it were different things.

Feeling your strength turned casually on him, not to hurt, not to threaten, just to move him where you wanted him, made his brain go haywire.

For one dangerous second, Dex wondered what you would do to him if you were given free rein. The next thing he realized was that he would let you do anything to him.

When you walked up to him, Dex’s hands found your waist again, but this time you were the one pushing into him, trapping him against the table, kissing him like you had decided he had started something and now you were going to finish it on your terms.

He let you.

Fuck, he let you.

Your mouth moved over his, hot and demanding, your fingers sliding into his hair again and tugging just enough to make his breath catch. Dex’s grip tightened on your hips, then loosened, then tightened again, like even his hands could not decide whether to pull you closer or surrender completely.

Dex leaned back against the table as you crowded him, and the old wood creaked under both of you. You had his knee pressed between yours, and even then he could feel the damp heat between your legs even though your trousers. He wanted to tease, but when hands roamed up his chest with a kind of greedy curiosity, he forgot language altogether.

He kissed you harder.

You answered immediately, biting at his lower lip until he groaned into your mouth.

Dex felt your smile against his lips for half a second.

Cruel little thing.

Dex pulled his mouth away for a second. You were about to complain, but whatever whiny words you were about to say was silence when his lips dragged down your neck instead. His lips found the place beneath your ear, then the line of your pulse, then the blood-dark smear where the knife had almost cut too deep, and you had mewled like a kitten in response. 

This was fine, he told himself.

Practical, even.

You had both been wound tight for months. Too much blood, too many missions, and not nearly enough release. Wanting you didn't have to mean anything. Wanting to have you didn't have to mean he was already too far gone. This was just mutually beneficial stress relief, right?

Dex almost laughed against your neck at his own reasoning.

It was stupid.

He didn't care.

Your hands slid under the hem of his tactical shirt and dragged upward, impatient and clumsy. Dex pulled back only long enough to tear the fabric over his head and drop it somewhere behind him. He barely had time to breathe before your eyes were on him.

Then, without a word, you followed, fingers catching at the hem of your own shirt, lifting it over your head, tossing it aside.

Dex stared.

Your mouth curved up. “What?”

He stepped back into you.

“Nothing.”

His mouth was on you again before the word had fully settled, kissing you hard, kissing the answer into your skin instead of saying it. His hands moved over your sides, your back, your waist, like he still could not quite believe he was allowed to touch and needed to make up for every second he had wasted pretending he didn't want to.

You made a sound when his lips found your throat again. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Dex obeyed before he could resent how easily he did.

He kissed lower, then back up, restless, greedy, unable to stay in one place because there was too much of you and he wanted all of it at once. Your hand slid over his shoulder, blunt nails dragging lightly over skin right next to his spinal surgery scar.

Then you shifted your weight, pressing closer, and the table knocked against his back again.

Wrong angle, some still-functioning part of his mind decided.

To fix this problem, Dex’s hands dropped to your thighs.

You barely had time to inhale before he lifted you.

Even knowing you were stronger, even knowing you could have taken control from him without trying, there was something inherently satisfying about the small gasp you gave when he picked you up and turned. Your legs caught around him by instinct, and for one brief second his face was against your shoulder and your breath was in his hair.

Then he set you on the table harshly because he knew you could take it. 

The old wood groaned beneath you.

Dex stepped between your knees immediately, one hand braced beside your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kissed you again from the better angle, like he had been right to move you and was very smug about it.

And because you were as desperate as him, you hastily unbuttoned your trousers as he hooked his fingers under your panties and helped you take them off with your spit still dripping from his lips. 

He looked at you again, mouth swollen from kissing him. You looked wrecked already, but not ruined. He thought you were beautiful, but he already knew that. Here, you looked less like a weapon with a heartbeat and more like a goddamn miracle pretending she wasn't one.

And then, immediately, his mind supplied Barnes.

Bucky Barnes had seen you like this.

Dex’s jaw tightened.

Barnes had known this version of you. He had known you warm and bare and breathless, too. He had looked at you in private. Had heard the sounds Dex was only beginning to earn.

Dex hated him for that. He hated him with that unreasonable jealousy that made his grip flex against your hips.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

Dex didn’t answer.

He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to admit that a man he had never met had crawled into his head again. He didn’t want to give that name space here, not now, not with you in front of him looking holy. So Dex leaned closer instead, eyes dark, mouth brushing your jaw as he laid you down on the wood. 

His hand slid along down your body, over your breast and your tummy, exploring and feeling and gripping until they settled on your thighs. 

He wasn't a super soldier.

Fine.

He could not match that kind of strength. He could not promise superhuman stamina or metal fingers or whatever mythic thing Barnes had been in your bed and your memory.

Dex had other talents.

Dex had perfect aim.

And he was determined to make his precision matter more than aimless brute strength. 

His hand slid closer between your legs, the other keeping it open, watching your face the whole time. Your breath caught before he even did anything. 

Your fingers curled into fists.

Dex’s mouth curved, before he peppered kisses on your collarbone, his finger having minds of their own. He touched you like he was mapping a weakness, like every gasp, every shift of your hips, like every sharp little inhale was information he meant to keep and use. You tried to stay composed. Tried to keep the upper hand. It didn’t work.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he teased, voice rough.

You glared at him, or tried to.

You wanted to pull him down. You wanted to push him back. You wanted to have him every way the tiny kitchen would allow.

“Tell me what you want.” he said, grabbing your chin with his remaining still-dry hand to make you look at him. 

You hated him for asking. You loved him for making you say it.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out at first except his name.

It didn’t take long after you felt his fingers in your core for Dex to find what ruined you.

“There,” he said under his breath, a newfound glee in his voice.

That was the unbearable thing about him, the infuriating thing, the thing that made you want to curse his name and drag him closer in the same breath. Dex noticed everything. Every hitch in your breathing. Every tremor you tried to hide. Every tiny shift of your body beneath his hands. He had the focus of a sniper and the patience of a man who knew exactly when he had found his mark.

And right now, all of that terrible precision was on you.

Your back was pressed against the old wood, head only slightly lifted, looking at the ceiling as rain battered the cottage windows.

“Dex,” you breathed, and it barely sounded like a warning anymore.

“Pretty,” he murmured more to himself than to you, rough and pleased.

He curled a finger, and your head fell back against the table with a soft thud.

Your mouth was parted, your breathing uneven, your whole body tense with frustration and the awful realization that he knew exactly what he was doing to you. 

Then he leaned over you, kissed the corner of your mouth, and whispered, “Again.” 

You didn't know whether he meant his name or the sound you had just made.

Either way, you gave it to him.

—

Morning came thin and grey through the curtains.

Dex woke up slowly, which almost never happened. 

He was aware of the sheets first, then the ache in his shoulders, then the faint smell of rain still trapped in the cottage walls.

Then he became aware of you.

You were beside him, half-buried in the blanket, hair spread messy over the pillow, one arm tucked under your cheek. Your breathing was calm and even, one knee had slipped out from under the sheet (which you had stolen), bent slightly, and there were bruises already blooming there, dark against your skin.

Dex stared at them for too long.

He knew exactly where they came from.

You had been on your knees for him the night before, looking up like a fucking falling angel crawling up from hell. He barely lasted at all, because no amount of training or discipline could have prepared him for you. 

Still, he looked at the bruises, and his chest turned over.

You stirred beside him with a sleepy little sound, blinking into the dull morning light. Your eyes found him, then followed his eyes down to your knee. For a second, you seemed confused, and then your lips curled with amusement.

“Don’t look so worried," you murmured, voice rough from sleep. “It’ll probably heal by sunset.”

Dex looked away. “I was assessing damage.”

You hummed, and for one ridiculous moment he wanted to put his mouth on that smile and keep it there. He wanted to ask if you were sore. He wanted to ask if he had hurt you, even though there was a statistically higher chance of you hurting him in such close quarters. He wanted to ask if you were going to regret it now that the sun was up and the mission was waiting.

He asked none of it.

You stretched under the sheets, lazy and unbothered, then rolled onto your side to face him. There was no panic in you, no awkwardness. No visible regret. If anything, you looked pleased with yourself, far too comfortable with the wreckage you had made of him.

Then you sighed happily and said, “Well. That was a successful evolution of our professional relationship.”

Dex looked back at you.

You were grinning.

“What?”

You propped your head on your hand. “I’m just saying. Good to know my fuck buddy has useful hands.”

For a second, Dex’s entire brain went blank.

Fuck buddy.

Fuck buddy?

You said it lightly, teasingly, like it was a joke between the two of you. Like it was cute. 

Fuck buddy.

After that?

After the wall, the table, the bed. After your hands in his hair. After his name in your mouth. After he had woken up beside you and, idiot that he was, felt at peace in his own mind? 

Fuck buddy.

He wanted to claw eyes out.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to ask if that was what he was. He wanted to say the words back to you, cruelly, just to see whether they hurt you, too. He wanted to get out of the bed, get dressed, put a gun in his hand, and see what the barrel felt like in his mouth.

Instead, Dex did nothing.

He did nothing because he understood that if he talked too much, he could lose this before he even knew what this was. If he asked for more, you might run away and give him nothing at all.

You were not trying to hurt him. You were smiling at him, sleepy and satisfied and completely clueless. To you, the arrangement was practical. A category: friends, partners, operatives, fuck buddies. 

Ugh. 

He wanted to tell you that if you called him that again, he might actually lose whatever was left of his mind.

Instead, he still said nothing, because he wasn't stupid.

Unstable, yes. Jealous, increasingly. Probably emotionally constipated beyond medical repair. But not stupid.

If he pushed too hard, you might make it a thing. And if you made it a thing, you might decide the arrangement was too messy and too complicated to continue.

Dex could not risk that.

“Useful hands,” he repeated eventually. His voice sounded normal. He was proud of that, in a distant, miserable way.

You grinned. “Mmhm.”

He gave you a sanitised look.

You laughed, nudging his leg beneath the sheet with your foot like you had any right to be that casual with him after detonating his life before breakfast. “Don’t be offended. That was a very good review.”

“Great,” he said flatly. “Should I expect a written evaluation?”

“I could make a rubric.”

“Don’t.”

Dex almost smiled.

—

Whatever had happened in the cottage didn't end there. It became a part of the mission, as much as false passports and burner phones were a part of the mission. The first time could have been dismissed as an accident. A one-time detonation after four months of tension neither of you had been handling well. But then there was the safehouse in Slovenia, where you came back from a mission with blood on your cheek and smiled at him across the hallway, and Dex knew that it was going to happen again.

Then Munich, against a bathroom sink in an apartment above a closed pharmacy. Then Warsaw, where you didn't even make it out of your tactical gear before dragging him down onto a mattress. Then a warehouse outside Lyon, because the extraction was delayed and apparently the two of you had lost all sense of professionalism somewhere around the fourth body. Then a supply closet in Milan, where he fucked you after you put his mask over your own face. An alley in Budapest. The back room of an abandoned train depot in Belgium.

And because Dex had the self-preservation instincts of a man chasing a moving target off a roof, he let it continue.

He told himself it was better this way. Casual meant stable. Casual meant you stayed. Casual meant you didn't have to examine anything too closely, and neither did he. It meant he got your mouth, your hands, your body in whatever safehouse Charles had arranged for the week, and all he had to do was not ask for more.

He even convinced himself it was more than he had any right to.

You reached for him. You kissed him first sometimes. You slept beside him when the safehouse only had one bed and, sometimes, even when it had two. You learned the scars on his body with your hands. You stole his shirts. You drank from his coffee. You called him by his name and it made him feel like it belonged to you now.

And then, in the morning, or in the car, or while cleaning a weapon at some tiny desk table in another country, you would say something that reminded him exactly where he stood.

“Don’t look so smug,” you told him once, adjusting the strap of your holster in a cracked mirror. “You’re still just my mission stress relief.”

You meant it as a joke, and Dex knew you did.

You looked over your shoulder at him with that wicked little smile, waiting for him to snap back. You expected him to say something dry, something cruel enough to be funny but not cruel enough to count.

He did.

“Good to know I have a job title,” he said.

You laughed and went back to your holster.

Dex stood behind you and wanted to break the mirror with his bare hand.

He had to remind himself over and fucking over again that you were not cruel, at least not like that. You were ruthless, yes. You were capable of killing a room full of people and then asking what was for dinner. But with him, you were not trying to wound. You were simply clueless.

You didn't understand that he had started listening for the way you called for him. You didn't understand that he noticed which safehouses made you sleep easier, which nightmares made you reach for him, which jokes pulled a real laugh out. You didn't understand that he counted every time you chose to sit beside him instead of across from him like a starving man counting coins.

And you really didn't understand what happened to him when you brought up Bucky.

You did it less now, as if you were just starting to get human customs: do not bring up the guy you used to sleep with to the guy you were currently sleeping with unless you were asked.

But when you did bring him up, it was clear as day that part of you loved being given the chance to talk about him.

See, you were guarded about everything else. You deflected questions about Siberia. You made jokes about getting shot. You went blank whenever Charles asked about your programming over the phone. You could talk for twenty minutes about tactical routes and never reveal one honest thing about yourself.

But if Dex mentioned Barnes, even casually, your face would change.

“Barnes teach you that?” Dex asked once, watching you bypass an old Hydra lock with a bent piece of metal and no visible effort.

You smiled immediately. “He tried.”

Dex should have stopped there, but because he apparently liked suffering, he didn't. “Tried?”

You glanced at him, pleased to have the thread. “He was terrible at explaining things. He’d just do it and then look at me like I was supposed to absorb it through proximity.”

Dex hummed.

You kept going. “He got so annoyed when I got better at it than him. He’d pretend he wasn’t annoyed. He used to do this thing with his jaw when he was trying to be mature about losing.”

You mimicked it without thinking. It was… fond.

Oh. Right. 

He watched your hands move over the lock and wondered how many doors Barnes had watched you open. How many safehouses had held the two of you. How many times you had looked over your shoulder at him with that same spark of amusement.

“That sounds annoying,” Dex said.

“He is,” you said. “Very.”

And there was that warmth again.

Sometimes, Dex brought Bucky up on purpose. He hated himself for it, but there was a sickness to his curiosity. He needed to open that wound over and over again to feel something.

“Barnes cook?” he asked one night in Vienna, after you complained about the contents of a safehouse freezer.

You laughed immediately. “Badly.”

Dex regretted the question before you even continued.

“It was tragic. He could survive in the wilderness, dismantle a rifle blindfolded, and break a man’s neck before breakfast, but give him a pan and he can’t make anything that doesn't taste like bland meatloaf.”

Dex stared at the vegetables you were chopping.

You were smiling at the cutting board.

Dex made a noncommittal sound as you talked about it for ten more minutes. 

It was unbearable. 

It was also the most relaxed he had seen you all day, so he let you.

That was the misery of it all. Dex hated hearing about Barnes, but he loved what talking about him did to you. He loved watching that stiff part of you ease when you remembered being loved by someone who had not used you as a weapon. He loved the sound of your voice when it had history in it. He loved that, for once, you were not pretending to be harmless or terrifying. You were just a person with memories.

He just wished the memories didn't belong to another man. Another man who had been your boyfriend.

Not fuck buddy. Not mission stress relief. Not a bad habit in multiple countries. Boyfriend was a real word. A word that meant Barnes had occupied a place Dex had not even been allowed to ask for.

Bucky fucked you and was a boyfriend. Dex worshipped you and was a fuck buddy?

In what fucking world was that even fair?

He hated that he was jealous of a man who had saved your life. He despised that he could not make himself noble about it. He hated that every time you begged him to touch you, some childish, vicious part of him wanted to ask whether Bucky had touched you there, too. 

He never asked, but he imagined plenty.

That was worse, because imagination didn't need evidence. It filled in everything: Barnes’s metal hand on your hip. Barnes’s mouth at your throat. Barnes in all the places Dex had put himself and still somehow felt like the original while Dex became the imitation.

And then you would turn around, clueless and bright-eyed, and ask, “You okay?”

Dex would say, “Fine.”

You would believe him.

That almost made him hate you, in the way a starving man might hate someone for leaving food just out of reach and not understanding why he was shaking.

The arrangement continued because Dex let it. Because he was too greedy to stop. Because having you underneath him, even temporarily, even without the label he wanted, was better than the alternative. Because when you reached for him, he forgot how much it hurt until afterward.

And afterward, there was always a moment that was too tender for his own good. You would button your shirt before going to infiltrate a gala. You would toss him his utility belt with a smirk. You would lean over a map like nothing had changed while Dex stood there with every nerve in his body still aware of the places your hands had been.

He would think, say something. He never did, because what could he say?

Don’t call me that. Don’t call me casual. Don’t talk about him like he still gets the best parts of you. Don’t make me ask for more when we both know you might say no.

So he kept quiet and kept his position, as miserable and humiliating as it was. And every time you called him your fuck buddy, your mission stress relief, your bad decision, Dex smiled like it didn't make him want to drown himself face first in a pool of starving piranhas.

Because for now, you still chose him. Not the way he wanted. Not yet, Maybe not ever.

But Dex had survived on less than scraps before.

So he took what you gave him, swallowed the rest down until it burned, and told himself that temporary was better than nothing.

Even if, some mornings, nothing would have hurt less.

—

Everything imploded during a mission in a church should have been empty.

That was what the file said. An abandoned stone church in a half-empty Italian village had an abandoned Hydra weapons cache beneath the crypt. Supposedly, there was no active civilian presence within a two mile radius, no active guard detail, no complication beyond an old lock. 

It was supposed to be a simple recovery: Secure the intel, secure the weapons for extraction, and leave before anyone in the village noticed the old place had been disturbed.

Dex should have known better by then, that nothing involving Hydra stayed dead just because the walls looked old.

The church stood at the edge of the village with its bell tower cracked down the middle, weeds climbing the steps, and cypress trees stood around the graveyard like black-green sentries. The sky had gone a red late-afternoon color, clouds pressing down over the hills. Inside, the air was cold and wet and stale. Broken saints watched from their niches with missing fingers and chipped faces. Light fell through the stained glass in fractured strips, magenta across the pews, blue over the altar, gold bleeding weakly across the floor like the church still remembered how to be holy.

You found the crypt behind the altar.

The stone slab had been disguised well enough for anyone normal to miss it, but you were not normal. You crouched in front of the mechanism with one knee on the floor, pushing aside a false piece of carved stone until the panel beneath exposed.

It was made of steel, and had a keypad. A half-dead little light blinked red right beside it. Hydra, but older than the other caches. Not Soviet standard. Not the Austrian sequence from month two. Not the lock you had cracked in Romania with a hairpin while Dex stood behind you pretending not to be impressed.

This one made you look… confused.

Dex noticed.

You were very good at focusing and most people mistook it for calm. Dex knew better by now. Your stillness was a sign of assessment, memory, and calculation. You were trying to remember a thousand old lessons while your face gave nothing away. 

But this time, there was no recognition. You only stared at the lock, teeth clenching once.

“You know it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Dex shifted his gun in his holster and looked toward the nave. The church doors were still shut, but the place had too many broken windows, too many side entries, too many shadows. It was bad news, because Dex knew for a fact that you were being followed on your way here.

“No,” you said finally.

Dex turned back, irritated. “No?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, annoyed and beautiful enough that he hated himself for noticing in the middle of a church with a possible kill team closing in. “Do you want to try?”

“I shoot things.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed.”

Dex might have smiled if he had not caught movement through the broken stained glass at the far left of the church. 

“How long?” you asked, noticing it too.

“Maybe five minutes,” he said, preparing a throwing knife. “Less if they’re competent.”

You went back to the lock, fingers moving over the panel, testing seams, and possible reset catches. Nothing opened. Nothing even flickered. Dex could feel your frustration building like heat in a closed room. 

You hated not knowing. You hated needing anything. That was one of the first things he had learned about you in the early weeks when he still thought learning you would help him keep distance instead of making him want to crawl inside your lungs and live there.

Then you sat back on your heels, reached into your jacket, and said, “I have to call someone.”

No. No, no, no.

He knew. Before you said it, before you even looked at the phone, before your thumb found the contact you should not have needed and Dex absolutely didn't want to hear. He knew the way he always knew when the bullet had already left the barrel.

“Who?” he asked, and his voice was too flat.

You didn't look at him. “Someone who might know.”

“Barnes,” he said through gritted teeth, because who else could you possibly know?

You hesitated, not long enough for anyone else to call it guilt. But Dex saw it, because Dex saw everything, because God or the universe or whatever rotten thing had assembled him had given him perfect aim and absolutely no mercy where details were concerned.

“Really?” he said.

“I’m calling someone with Hydra experience,” you insisted.

“Your ex-boyfriend with Hydra experience,” he shook his head.

You scolded him. “Dex.”

“It’s fine.” His smile was brief and horrible. You only caught a glimpse of it before he put his mask over his head. “Actually, it’s great. Let’s bring him into the room. Why not? He’s practically here most days anyway.”

You looked up then, irritation flashing across your face. “This is not the time.”

“It never is.”

“You want the cache?”

“I want you to know literally anyone else.”

“That is not my fault,” you frowned.

“No, I’m sure nothing is.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Barricade the door.”

Dex laughed once under his breath. It had no humor in it. “I don’t need to barricade the door.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” he said, voice flat with fury, “I really don’t.”

“Dex,” you said, voice strained, “Please.”

He stepped back from the altar, eyes set ahead, every muscle of his body pulled tight. “I don’t need to barricade the door while you call your ex about a lock.”

You stared at him, phone already dialing. Dex hated that he could hear the line ringing.

One ring. Two. Each little tone felt like a finger tapping the inside of his skull.

Then the call connected, and James Buchanan Barnes spoke through your phone for the first time. “Hey, doll.”

Dex had thought he was prepared for it. He wasn't.

It was just a voice, just a man’s voice through a tiny speaker, softened by distance and familiarity and whatever history lived between the two of you. It should not have done anything. Dex had heard men threaten him, beg him, scream under his hands. He had been praised by superior, insulted by criminals, given orders by bad men. A voice was air. It should be nothing.

But Barnes said doll like he had earned the right to.

And you changed, though not much at all. Your shoulders loosened by the smallest fraction. Your face relaxed before you could stop it. Dex didn’t know if it was still romantic, and Dex could not even decide if that would have been worse or better. It was familiar and lived-in, like a door in you opening because the voice on the other end had knocked in a pattern you still recognized.

Dex felt like he was on the brink of yet another mental collapse.

“Hey,” you said. “Sorry. I need help.”

Barnes answered with immediate concern, gentle as your hand had been on his skin last night. “You okay?”

Dex wanted to shove his head through the nearest stained-glass window.

He wanted to laugh until his throat split open. He wanted to walk outside, stand in the graveyard, and let the incoming kill squad do whatever they wanted just so he didn't have to stand there and listen to Barnes care about you in real time. It was one thing to know the man knew you. It was one thing to know he had loved you, touched you, saved you, left you for reasons Dex didn't know. Knowledge could be abstract. This wasn't abstract.

This was Barnes’s voice filling the church while you crouched over a lock in broken holy light, letting him help you.

This was a man Dex had never met reaching through the phone and occupying space that Dex had been clawing at for months with bloody fingernails.

“She’s fine,” Dex said, too loudly.

Dex knew he should have kept his mouth shut the second Barnes went silent.

It wasn't even a real silence, but Dex heard the shift in it anyway, because he was him, because he caught things no one else caught, because his whole body had become one raw nerve around the sound of that man’s voice. 

“Who’s that?” Barnes asked. It wasn't panic, and not even jealousy. It was just a calm assessment. 

Dex’s mouth moved before he could stop it. “The guy keeping her alive.”

Your head snapped toward him and Barnes went quiet again. Then, he said, “That right?”

Dex smiled harshly under his mask. “That’s right.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Barnes’s voice stayed low through the speaker. “She usually does a decent job of that herself.”

“She had a bullet to the back of the head last week,” Dex said.

“She mention why?”

“Boys,” you snapped, eyes flicking between Dex and the phone like you could physically strangle both ends of the conversation if given the chance. “Can we focus?”

Dex stared at the phone, rage crawling hot under his skin. It should not have hurt, but it did. It hurt because Barnes didn’t sound threatened. He sounded like he knew exactly what you were capable of, exactly how much danger you could survive, exactly where concern ended and respect began. He sounded like someone who didn't need to prove he belonged in the conversation because he had been there first.

You exhaled and looked back down at the lock. “Dex, meet Bucky. Bucky, meet Dex. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it.

You clearly didn’t mean anything by it. You were just irritated, distracted, trying to do your job. But the words hurt him. 

Don’t worry about it. Not he matters. Not he’s important. Not anything that could stand up against the familiar way that Barnes was calling you an old pet name through the speaker.

Barnes hummed once, unreadable. “Alright.”

Dex wanted to shoot the phone. He wanted to shoot the wall.

He wanted to walk outside and turn the incoming kill squad into a pile of meat just so he would have something to do with his hands besides stand there and feel pathetic in a church.

You pointed sharply at the side door without looking up. “Dex. Door.”

His teeth clenched.

Barnes said, almost mildly, “Might want to listen to her.”

Dex looked at the phone. Then at you.

“You alright?” Bucky asked when he was sure Dex was out of range. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

It was clear that he was going to say something again, but you shot him a glare to stop him. “We’re fine,” you said, “I have a lock.”

“A lock?” Barnes asked, and Dex hated the hint of humor there too, hated that he could hear the little frown in the man’s voice, hated most of all that you probably could picture his face when he made it.

“An older Hydra one,” you said. “It’s an Italian site with crypt entry. It’s not taking any of the sequences I know.”

Barnes went quiet, thinking.

Dex turned away. He could not stand another second of your face while you listened to him. He could not stand the concentration in your eyes, the trust. 

You trusted Barnes’s voice. You trusted him enough to call. Enough to ask. Dex didn't want to know what else you had trusted him with.

He stalked down the nave, past rotting pews and the saints’ blind plaster faces, knife, boots grinding dirt and broken glass into the floor. Your voice followed him. “No, I tried the lower sequence.”

Barnes, apparently, was patient and understanding. “Not that one. Check the left side. There should be a false panel under the carved edge.”

Your answer came after, almost pleased. “There is.”

Dex shoved the side door open and stepped into the graveyard.

The first man came over the wall in black tactical gear with his rifle raised. Dex threw his knife, and it sliced him through the throat.

He dropped backward over the stone wall with a wet, choking sound, his weapon clattering against the grave markers. Two more appeared at the corner of the church, moving in formation, disciplined enough to be annoying. Dex didn't give them time to become more than geometry. He put a round through the first man’s knee, watched him collapse mid-stride, then shot the second through the gap between helmet and mask as he turned toward the sound. The first man reached for his sidearm when Dex crossed the grass and drove his boot into the side of his head hard enough to silence him against the base of a weathered angel statue.

Inside, faintly, through the open door and stone walls, Barnes was still talking. “Don’t force it, doll. If it’s the one I think it is, it punishes pressure.”

Dex’s vision narrowed.

He reloaded while moving, hands steady despite the rage making a live wire of his spine. Another four came through the cypress line on the east side, sweeping toward the church doors. Dex moved between headstones, using them the way lesser men used cover and smarter men used angles. He threw an old stone before the man could fire, because he needed him to drop the weapon, then threw a knife into the second’s exposed thigh, deep enough to make him buckle. The third got close. Dex let him, and he caught the man’s rifle barrel, redirected the shot into the stone at his feet, and slammed the butt of his own weapon into the man’s face until the mask cracked and the body limped.

The fourth hesitated, so all Dex had to do was put him down with a shot to the chest, then another to the head before he hit the wet grass.

He could still hear you through the door. “Like this?”

Barnes said something too low for Dex to catch.

You gave a small laugh.

Dex stopped breathing for half a second.

Then a bullet cracked against the stone column beside his head, spraying old dust across his cheek.

He turned toward the shooter and became what he was good at being.

The kill squad came in waves, and Dex dismantled them one by one. Three from the road, two from the lower wall, another pair trying to circle around the sacristy entrance. He moved constantly, cutting through the graveyard, forcing them into bad angles, making the churchyard’s dead stone work for him. A man lunged from behind with a blade; Dex caught the wrist, twisted until the joint failed, and drove the man’s own knife under his jaw. Another tried to retreat toward the road; Dex shot him through the calf, stepped over him, and finished him only after taking his spare magazine. It was definitely meaner than necessary, maybe, but he had Barnes’s voice in his head and no interest in being merciful.

Blood darkened the grass. Rain began again, soft at first, then heavier, ticking over helmets and stone crosses and the bodies Dex left where they fell. He was breathing hard by the time the last five made a push for the front doors, their boots pounding over the church steps. Dex came at them from the side.

He shot the man with the fancy scope first. The second man reached for it. Dex put a round through his wrist, then threw his empty magazine at the third man’s face hard enough to make him flinch at the wrong second. That second was plenty. Dex closed in, drew his sidearm, fired twice, then slammed the barrel into the last man’s throat when he tried to tackle him. The man gagged, stumbled, and Dex drove him backward into the church door with enough force to make the wood boom from the impact.

The man slid down the door, and Dex stood over him, rain dripping from his hair, blood spattered across his face and collar, chest rising and falling.

Through the thick old wood, he heard Barnes again. “That’s it. Good. Now wait for the second light.”

Good.

Dex’s fingers tightened around the gun.

Good.

Barnes was praising you. Barnes was inside, with you without even being inside. Barnes was at your shoulder, in your ear, useful and alive in all the places Dex wanted him dead. Dex had just killed fifteen men in the graveyard and on the church steps, had turned a kill squad into cooling meat, and still he had not managed to get Barnes out of the room.

When he went back inside, the church swallowed him whole. His boots tracked blood and rainwater down the nave. He passed beneath the broken blue glass while your voice drifted from below the altar. “Got it.”

The crypt panel was open now. A cold blue-white light spilled across the stone, illuminating your face from beneath while you crouched by the mechanism, one hand still on the panel, the phone lying on the floor beside you on speaker. You looked relieved and a little flushed from the rush of solving it. Dex hated how beautiful you looked like that. Hated that Barnes got to hear it.

“Good job,” Barnes said.

You smiled, and Dex felt it like a gunshot.

“Thanks,” you said.

Barnes was silent for a moment, and in that silence Dex imagined him somewhere far away, metal hand maybe resting on a kitchen counter, brow furrowed, voice gentle because he knew exactly how to be gentle with you. Because he had practiced. Because he wasn't a fuck buddy in some safehouse bed waiting for permission to matter.

Then Barnes said, “I… good luck, doll. We’ll catch up when you get back, yeah?”

The rage in Dex went utterly still, like a calm before the storm.

You reached for the phone. “Yeah. I’ll—”

Dex walked towards you in three strides and you looked up too late.

“Dex—”

He snatched the phone off the stone before you could touch it.

Barnes’s voice crackled through the speaker, confused now. “What’s—”

Dex smashed it against the floor. It was loud, amplified by the echo of the hall. The plastic cracked and glass burst outward in glittering pieces. The speaker gave a shrill little whine, but not enough. It wasn't dead enough. 

Dex hit it again, harder, this time stomping it with his boots, the ruined device bouncing against the stone. A third stomp split the casing open. A fourth sent the battery skidding under the edge of the altar. He would have kept going until it was dust if your voice had not snapped him out of it.

“Dex!”

Dex froze over the pieces. For a second, the whole church held its breath.

Rain tapped against the shattered windows. Outside, one of the men he had left in the graveyard made a weak, wet sound and then stopped forever. The crypt light washed over you from below. Dex stood in front of you with blood on his hands, blood on his jacket, and the shattered remains of your phone between his boots.

You stared at it then at him as he took his mask off. 

You were not confused anymore. You were angry.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you demanded. “We got the cache. The lock is open. We can go!”

Dex laughed. It came out wrong, scraped raw in his throat. “You can go,” he said. “Maybe he can talk you through that too.”

Your eyes narrowed and your mind clicked into place to see just enough.

Not all of it, though. You could never see the full, ugly, pathetic cathedral of feeling he had built around every careless mention of Barnes’s name. Not the months of swallowing down jealousy. Not the way hearing Barnes’s voice had made Dex feel like he was standing outside his own body watching another man touch what he had never been allowed to keep.

Dex looked away because if he kept looking at you, he might say something dumb.

You stood slowly from the crypt steps. “You destroyed our only secure phone because Bucky helped me open a lock?”

“No.” The lie was so bad it was almost insulting.

You stared at him. “No?”

Dex’s teeth clenched once.

He had killed fifteen men outside without hesitation. Had moved through a kill squad like violence was language and he was finally fluent again. But this, standing in front of you while you looked at him like he was unreasonable, like he was the problem, like Barnes had not just reached through a phone and put his stupid vibranium arm around Dex’s throat.

“What, then?” you asked.

He said nothing.

Because if he opened his mouth, all of it would come out.

Because he called you doll and you smiled. Because you trusted his voice. Because he knew the lock and I didn’t. Because he had you first. Because he gets to be James and I’m your fuck buddy. Because I just killed fifteen men in the rain and came back to find you making plans with your ex-boyfriend to "catch up”.

Because I want to matter to you so badly I’m starting to hate you for not noticing.

He could not say any of that.

So he stood there, breathing hard, eyes fixed to a random point over your shoulder while the broken saints watched from the walls and the graveyard outside held the bodies of every man Dex had killed because rage was easier than asking you to choose him over that other man.

You stepped closer, anger burning bright in your face. “Dex.”

He looked back at you, and whatever you saw in his eyes made your own falter for half a second. 

Then the mission reasserted itself. 

You swallowed, “We need to move.”

Dex nodded once. “Then move.” 

—

Turns out, Hydra had hidden enough weapons under the crypt to arm a small war, packed in old military cases and reinforced steel crates stamped with symbols half-scraped away. Some of it was familiar: guns, charges, vials long since gone dark inside cold-storage cylinders, and files sealed in polymer sleeves. Then there were the stranger things, things that made even you go quiet while you put them into inventory: crystalline components, serum stabilizers, old prototype tech sealed inside glass casings with warning labels in Russian and German.

Half of it was water-sensitive, which became a problem when the storm thundered.

It came down hard over the village, wind screaming through the cracked bell tower, rain hammering against the broken stained glass until the whole church seemed to tremble. Water sheeted down the outer walls and leaked through the roof in thin, shining threads. 

Extraction was impossible because moving the cache would stupid. Trying to carry it out through that much rain would ruin half of what Charles needed and possibly kill both of you if one of the more unstable components reacted badly.

So you stayed. You and Dex packed what you could, sealed the crates, and wrapped the sensitive cases in altar cloths and plastic sheeting from your field bags. You worked in silence for nearly an hour, both of you moving around each other.

Neither of you mentioned the phone.

By the time everything was secured, Dex was sitting on the altar steps, forearms braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He had washed most of the blood from his fingers in a rain barrel near the side entrance, but some of it still clung beneath his skin. His jacket was damp. His hair was wet from outside. The scar on his cheekbone caught a bit of dirt and he hadn't bothered to clean properly.

You stood in the center of the altar above him, leaning back against the old stone podium with your arms crossed. The blue-white crypt light spilled up from behind you. The stained glass threw broken color over your face. The church was ruined, filthy, half-flooded by rain and full of weapons, and somehow you looked like you belonged at the center of it.

Dex tapped his knee twice, because he hated being silent with you.

Silence gave him time to feel things. Silence let the church fill with everything he was trying not to say. Barnes’s voice. He hated that he still expected to see you after the mission, as if he had the right to imagine your return, as if he had some claim on you after he dumped you.

Dex looked down at his hands and hated them for shaking. He lifted his eyes to look at you. You were staring out into the nave, not looking at him.

He should have apologized for the phone. He should have said something practical about the cache.He should have asked if you were cold.

Instead, because jealousy had been chewing through him for months and had finally eaten its way to bone, Dex asked, “Did you ever fuck Barnes in a church?”

The question should have been crude enough to make you angry. It was crude; Dex meant it to be. He wanted you to be angry at him. He wanted you to roll your eyes or call him a dickhead or throw something at him so the two of you could turn this into an easier emotion

You didn't answer. You only looked away, and that was answer enough. 

His face changed before he could stop it.

“No,” he said.

You stayed quiet.

The rain struck the windows harder, wind dragging it sideways against the glass in long furious sheets. “No,” Dex repeated, as if he said it again the universe might take pity on him and rearrange itself. “No.”

Your arms tightened over your chest. “Once,” you said.

A stake through the heart would have been kinder.

He stared at you from the altar steps, and the whole church seemed to gather to watch a wound open. The broken saints, the pews, the stone columns.He could see it without wanting to. You, in another church, another place, another mission, Barnes with you. Barnes, touching you where Dex had touched you. Barnes, hearing you gasp in a place people were supposed to pray.

Dex’s fingers curled against each other. “Where?” he asked.

He didn't want to know. He needed to know.

You hesitated. That pause was its own kind of mercy and its own kind of murder. “On a pew.”

Dex looked toward the old pews in the nave.

They were rotting, dusty, half-broken, washed in fractured color from the stained glass. Innocent objects, really. Nothing but dead wood. But Dex looked at them and hated every church ever built. He hated every prayer ever said. He hated every saint carved out of stone and every man forgiven by grace he had not earned.

Of course Barnes got to make sin romantic.

Of course Barnes got to be the good man and still have that with you. None who came out of Hydra clean stayed clean all the way through, and yet somehow Barnes had managed to become holy in your memory anyway. Saint James with the metal arm. They should really make him a statue just to give Dex the satisfaction of smashing it into million pieces. 

You looked at him in a new light now. “Dex.”

Your voice had changed, like you had finally realized he had gone past ordinary jealousy and arrived somewhere even worse.

He stood, slowly, as if every movement had to be chosen. He climbed the altar steps toward you, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on yours, making the space between you feel dangerously thin.

You didn’t move away. You never did when you should have.

He stopped in front of you. You were still leaning against the podium, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered when the pulse at your throat had started to beat harder.

Dex looked down at you for one long second, then lowered himself to his knees.

Oh. 

Your breath caught before you could hide it. Your perspective seemed to realign around the sight of Benjamin Leonard Poindexter kneeling in front of you on cold altar stone, not mocking, not joking, not pretending. His hands came to your waist, firm but not rough, as if he were afraid that if he touched you too carefully he might fall apart, and if he touched you too hard you might scare. But no, you didn't scare easy.

“Did he worship you?” Dex asked.

Your eyes darkened. “Dex.”

He hated the warning in your voice. “Did he?”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“Don’t.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “You know what I’m asking.”

You looked down at him, anger and affection warring across your face. He had seen you covered in blood, shaking from nightmares, laughing over terrible coffee, bored while fighting men who should have known better. He had seen you naked under safehouse sheets and pretending it didn't mean more than bodies passing time. But he didn't think he had ever seen you like this: trapped by sincerity.

You didn't know what to do with someone kneeling. Especially not him.

Dex leaned forward before you could answer and pressed his mouth to your stomach through your shirt.

The kiss was placed at the center of you like he was making a promise beneath the fabric, beneath the skin, beneath the version of you that knew how to survive but not how to be adored.

You went completely still. Dex closed his eyes. “I would,” he confessed.

Your hand hovered for a second near his shoulder like you didn't know whether to push him away or touch him.

“I would,” he repeated, and his mouth moved lower, another kiss to your hip, then the side of your waist, then just above the place where his hand held you. “If you stopped dragging his ghost into every room we’re in, I would.”

The words should have made you angry again, but all you could feel was endearment.

Dex looked up at you from his knees, and whatever mask he had been wearing was gone. There was no dry comment, no mean smile. Jealousy, yes, but not only jealousy. There was want, devotion, and hurt, tangled together until it looked almost like worship already.

“I don’t think there’s a God,” he whispered, just enough for you to hear.

Thunder rolled over the church roof as if answering.

Dex laughed faintly, eyes still on you. “No, I don’t. I look at the world and I think there can’t be. Not a good one. Not a fair one. Not if your handlers can make places like Siberia. Not if they can put you in that chair. Not if they can take someone like Barnes and hollow him out and then hand him back to the world like the world is supposed to know what to do with him. Not if they can make me and still expect me to be grateful to be alive.”

His thumb dragged slowly over your waist, grounding himself. “Most days, I think if there is something up there, it’s either blind or cruel.”

You should have said something, but you could not.

Dex was looking at you like he had started confessing and didn't know how to stop, like the church had brought out the darkest parts of him, and now all the things he had swallowed for months were spilling out at your feet.

“And then I think of him,” he said, the word bitten off with bitterness. “James Buchanan Barnes. And I hate him. I hate him so much it’s stupid. It’s pathetic. I know that. I know exactly how pathetic it is, and it doesn’t help.”

Your lips parted, but Dex shook his head once, not letting you interrupt.

“He gets to be the good one. The Winter Soldier who became a hero. He gets to have done terrible things and still be looked at like the tragedy belongs to him instead of the people he killed.” His jaw flexed. “And maybe that’s fair. Maybe he suffered enough. Maybe he earned whatever peace he found. I don’t know. I don’t care. I can’t fucking care.”

Your hand lowered onto his shoulder. Dex’s eyes flicked to it, then back up at you.

Your touch was light, but he looked like it nearly undid him.

“But I care that he got you first,” Dex said, and that was the confession beneath all his sorrows. “He got to know you before me. He got the history, the forgiveness. He gets to be James. I get to be Benjamin when you’re mad at me and Dex when you want me and fuck buddy when you’re trying not to think.”

You sighed. He was wrong, and you wanted him to know. He was wrong, but he would not let you talk your way out of this.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, and he sounded so furious with himself for saying it that it hurt. “That’s the part that makes me think there’s no God. Because what kind of divine hand puts you in the world and lets someone else find you first?”

The storm crashed outside, hard enough to make the stained glass tremble.

Dex leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your stomach, then another along your belt lint, then to the top of your thigh through the fabric of your clothes, each one less controlled than the last but still reverent. Then he looked up at you again, eyes dark and fever-bright.

“But then I look at you,” he said, “and I think I’m wrong.”

You stared down at him. “About God?” you asked quietly.

“About there not being one.” Dex’s hands tightened at your waist, not enough to hurt, enough to say he was holding on to the thought with both hands.

“Because you don’t happen by accident,” he said. “You can’t. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe the universe is that careless. I don’t believe a bullet just missed and that’s why you’re here. I don’t believe you survived because Zemo’s aim was off by half an inch. I don’t believe you happened by chance.”

Your eyes darted, tears welling on the corners. He saw the exact moment the words went under your armor and found skin. Because that had been the story, hadn’t it? The only reason you were alive was because someone had failed to kill you correctly. You had built yourself around that fact, maybe without meaning to. You had seen yourself as the surviving mistake, the remaining weapon. Dex looked at you like he wanted to tear that version of the story apart with his teeth.

“No,” he said, as if you had argued with him. “No. Some divine hand must have made you. Something had to. Because you’re too—”

He stopped, jaw working, searching for words and hating that none of them were enough.

“You’re too… perfect,” he said finally, almost angry with how mild it sounded. 

A faint, wounded sound escaped you.

Dex rose slightly on his knees, still not standing, still keeping himself below you.

“Hydra tried to turn you into a weapon,” he said. “That’s all they know how to do. But they didn’t make you. They don’t get credit. They don’t get credit for who you are. They don’t get credit for the way you taste like rain after a fight or the way you stand in this ruined church like the whole place was built just to make light fall on you properly.”

Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, and they shifted slower to his neck.

When he looked back up, his voice had gone lower. “You are part of some grand design I don’t understand,” he said. “You must be, because if you’re an accident, then nothing means anything. If you’re just what was left after everyone else died, then the whole world is worse than I thought.”

He put his forehead against your diaphragm just so he could feel you breathe. For a moment, he just stayed there.

You looked down at him, and your hand moved into his hair. Carefully, like he was the dangerous thing and you were the one trying not to startle him.

Dex shuddered.

“You’re not an accident,” he said against you. “You’re not someone’s failed termination. You’re not his second chance story either. You’re not proof Barnes got better. You’re not proof of anything but yourself.”

Your throat tightened.“Dex.”

He lifted his head, and the look on face made your chest ache.

“I would worship you,” he said. “Do you understand that? I don’t mean I’d say pretty things and get on my knees because it looks good in a church. I mean I would build my days around it. I would make a liturgy out of it. I would become unbearable about it. I would be so devoted you’d hate me for it.”

You tried to breathe evenly, but failed.

“I’d worship the weapon too,” he said. “That’s the part you never understand. You think people only get to love one side of you? I want all of it. I’d kiss the knuckles you break skulls with. I’d kiss the bruises that heal before sunset. I’d kiss the scar tissue and the places they put needles and your pretty mouth that keeps saying his name because you don’t realize what it does to me.”

Your hand tightened in his hair, tugging, simply just because you knew he liked it.

He smiled faintly, almost ruined by it.

“There,” he murmured. “See? That. I’d worship that too.”

You looked down at him, eyes dark now, anger and heat and desire moving through them all at once. The storm had swallowed the world outside. The church smelled like rain, stone, old incense, blood, and the cold metal of Hydra crates waiting below. It should have been an ugly place. Maybe it was.

But Dex was on his knees in front of you, talking nonsense about God and design and worship like a man bleeding out through his mouth, and somehow the ruined church felt less like a tomb than a threshold.

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest confession in the world.

That almost made you laugh, but the sound tangled in your throat and came out uneven.

Dex’s hands slid slowly from your waist to your hips, then back again, like he could not stop reassuring himself that you were close. His mouth brushed the side of your thigh through your clothes, then your hip, then your stomach again, each kiss more desperate than the last because the words had only made the wanting worse.

“I would,” he said again. “I fucking would.”

“Dex,” you called. When he looked up, you said, “Don’t make promises you can’t survive.”

For a second, the devotion turned visibly dangerous. “Oh,” he said certainly. “I’d survive you.”

You should have pushed him away.

Maybe that would have been kinder. Maybe that would have given both of you a chance to step back from the edge of whatever terrible, reverent sacrifice he had just placed at your feet. 

Instead, your hand slid from his hair to the side of his face, your thumb brushing over the scar along his cheekbone. 

For a second, you only looked at him.

Then you pulled him up.

You caught him by the front of his damp shirt and dragged him to his feet like you had run out of patience with being adored from a distance. Dex came willingly, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips as he rose into your space. He stopped close, eyes dropping to your mouth the second he was level with you.

“You want worship?” you asked, voice barely above the rain.

Dex’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt. “Then show me.”

Whatever restraint he had left vanished.

Dex kissed you hard, the force of it driving your back into the cold stone podium. Not like the cottage, not like that first furious interruption. This was worse: It had all the confession in it, all the jealousy. His mouth claimed yours like prayer and punishment at once, desperate enough to make you hiss into him.

Dex swallowed the sound like communion.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, needing proof that the woman he had just called divine was choosing him. The storm broke over the church in a roar, rain pouring through the cracks in the roof.

Before he could think better of it, he dragged you to the other side of the old stone podium, and your back hit the edge of it with a dull sound swallowed by thunder.

He turned you toward the pews. He knew exactly what you were. He knew that you could have thrown him halfway down the aisle if you wanted.

You didn't.

You let him guide you forward until your palms braced against the cold stone. You let him settle behind you. You grinded against him fully clothed, and he moaned anyway. His chest was your back, his breath hot in your ear. Let his hands move over you like he was both claiming and praying.

The empty seats stretched out before you in dark, rotting rows, facing the altar like an audience waiting for confession. Dex saw them over your shoulder, saw the ruined aisle, the broken glass, the blue glow from the crypt below. His imagination had the whole church watching. Every ghost, every ruined saint, every dead thing in the walls forced to witness the truth of what you had become to him.

His mouth found the side of your neck, then your shoulder, then the place just below your ear that made your fingers curl against the stone. 

Before you knew it, fabric shifted and zippers gave out. His touch grew greedier, less patient, dragging away layers of clothing like they offended him. 

“You’re perfect,” he said.

You swallowed hard. “Dex.”

“No.” His mouth pressed to your bare shoulder. You were naked now, your tactical trousers pooling at your ankles, while he was still annoyingly clothed. Surprisingly, it didn't feel humiliating. It felt thrilling. “You don’t get to argue with me about this.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You always do.” His voice was low, finally fumbling with his trousers. “You always act like it’s nothing, like you’re less than because you think you were made by them.”

His hands slid to your hips again. “But look at you.”

The storm roared overhead, and the church seemed to breathe around you. You could feel him behind you, all heat and muscle and restraint worn down to nothing. 

His hand came up to cover yours on the podium, fingers sliding between yours, pressing your palm harder to the stone. The gesture was grounding and possessive all at once. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you back against him, and his mouth found your ear.

“This is what worship feels like,” he whispered before bending you over to fuck you like you were delivering sermon.

—

An hour later, the storm had calmed down

Not stopped; not even close. Rain still sheeted against the broken church windows and slipped through the cracks in the roof in thin silver lines, dripping onto stone, into puddles. 

You sat together on the steps of the altar.

After wearing each other out, Dex had found the thermal blanket in your pack. He had pulled it free with hands that were still a little unsteady and wrapped it around both of you like the act of keeping you warm was something he could understand better than whatever had just happened between you.

You were tucked against his side now, shoulder pressed to his ribs, one of his arms around you beneath the blanket. Your clothes were still drying on the makeshift line you had made. Your hair was still a mess, your skin warm where his mouth had been. Dex had his chin tipped slightly downward, pressing his cheek to your temple.

He wasn't talking. This was how you knew he was still bleeding somewhere you could not see.

You shifted beneath the blanket, close enough that your knee brushed his. “Dex.”

His arm tightened slightly around you as a reply

You looked down at your hands, then out toward the ruined church. “You never had to worry about Bucky,” you said.

Dex went very still.

It was almost impressive, how completely he could vanish into his own body without moving at all. His breathing didn't change, but you felt something was off.

“I’m serious,” you added quietly.

He looked down at you then. There was no sarcasm in his face. There was only caution, like if he let himself want to believe you, it would become another way to get hurt.

You hated that a little. You hated that you had helped put it there.

“I don’t love him that way,” you said.

Dex’s brows furrowed.

“Not anymore, and I haven’t for a while. It got complicated towards the end, before either of us knew what to do with it.” You exhaled slowly, trying to make the words come out right. “But I don’t want him like that. I don’t think about him like that. I don’t want to touch him. I don’t want him touching me, not the way I want you.”

Dex blinked once.

I want you.

Did he hear that right?

His fingers tightened very slightly at your waist under the blanket.

You gave him a faint, humorless smile. “I know I talk about him too much.”

Dex looked away.

“I didn’t realize what it sounded like,” you admitted.

The rain filled the silence for a moment.

Then you said, “Bucky was... proof, I think.”

Dex’s eyes moved back to you.

You searched for the right way to say it. It was difficult. Not because you didn't know the truth, but because you had never had to explain it out loud.

“He was Hydra’s weapon,” you said. “And then he wasn’t. He was still damaged, but he was free. He chose things. He chose Steve and Sam, and the Wakandans and me. He chose to fight. He chose to stop being what they made him.” Your throat tightened around the next words. “I needed to know that was possible.”

You saw comprehension take form behind his eyes.

“When Steve was around, he was that to me, too,” you continued. “Not the Hydra part, obviously. But he was a super soldier who could’ve been used as a weapon by anyone with a flag and a speech, and instead he fought for what he believed in. He disobeyed when it mattered. He was made and still stayed his own.”

You looked out at the pews.

“And I never loved Steve like that. He was my friend. My irritating, Nazi-killing, righteous friend.” Your mouth curved softly. “And Bucky is my friend, too. Even now.”

Dex was quiet. You looked up at him again. “I think I talked about him because I didn’t know how else to explain what I wanted to become.”

Oh.

Dex stared at you like something had finally clicked into place.

Inside Dex, the jealousy loosened all at once.

It didn't disappear; he wasn't that kind of man. Jealousy didn't simply leave because it had been reasoned with. It would probably still bare its teeth the next time Barnes called you, because Dex was Dex and wanting made a monster out of him faster than anything else.

But he understood now.

Bucky Barnes had not been a rival in the way Dex had imagined. Barnes had been a direction, a fixed point. He was your fucked up version of a North Star.

Dex knew what that was.

Eileen Mercer, and then Julie Barnes had been that for him once. It was never really romantic, but rather a proof of concept. A person he had turned into a map because he didn't trust himself to know where goodness was unless someone else stood there holding it. 

Dex looked at you then, with the blanket tucked around your shoulders and your face softened by the blue gloom from the crypt. You had made Bucky into something similar. Not a lover you were still reaching for, but a symbol. A blueprint. 

It made Dex feel better. It also broke his heart a little, because of course you had done that. Of course you had taken a person and turned him into proof you could survive. Of course you had mistaken a man for a conscience because nobody had ever taught you how to trust your own direction.

You were more alike than he had realized.

Not in the neat ways. Not in the ways Charles’s files could measure. In pathetic ways. In starving ways. In the way both of you had looked at someone else and thought, if I stand close enough, maybe it’ll rub off on me. It was almost funny that you had found vastly different people that happened to have the same last name to call a moral compass, and somehow still ended up in each other’s arms. 

Maybe that was a confirmation of a higher power, and that they had a sense of humour.

You watched him carefully. “Say something.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re asking the wrong man.”

“No, I’m not.”

That got him a little.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your face. “You really didn’t know?” he asked.

“That it hurt you?”

He looked away, and you felt awful immediately.

“Dex.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. His hand shifted beneath the blanket, fingers finding yours, almost awkwardly. Dex stared at your joined hands.

“You called me your fuck buddy,” he said.

You winced. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought...” You swallowed. “I thought making it casual would make it safer.”

He tilted his head. “For who?”

You didn't answer fast enough.

Dex’s expression softened in the smallest, most devastating way. He understood that too. You had not called him casual because he meant nothing. You had called him casual because he had started meaning too much.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Dex looked like he didn't know what to do with that. So you shifted closer, blanket rustling around both of you, and pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

For a moment, he stayed rigid. Then, his arm came around you properly.

“You’re not Bucky,” you said against him.