Debatable

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── zayne

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── rafayel

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── sylus

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── caleb

Zayne

The two of you are at the hospital pharmacy picking up your prescription refill.

Just as you get ready to pay the pharmacist asks if you’re the spouse.

You smile and say, “Yes, this is my husband.”

Zayne, who was standing a few steps behind you looking at the display of vitamins, freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe for a second.

The pharmacist nods, hands you the bag, and says, “You two take care.”

You thank her and turn around to find Zayne staring at you like you just flipped his whole world upside down.

His face is carefully neutral, but his ears are scarlet.

You tilt your head. “What?”

He clears his throat.

“You called me your husband.”

A small laugh escapes you. “I mean… you basically are. You take care of me, I take care of you-”

He steps closer, voice low.

“I’m not complaining.”

Then he takes the bag from your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and walks you out of the pharmacy like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Later, when you’re alone, he pulls you close and whispers against your hair:

“Keep saying it. I want to get used to it.”

Rafayel

You’re at an art supply store buying paint for him.

The clerk asks if you’re buying for your partner.

You grin, “Yeah, this is for my husband. He’s an artist.”

Rafayel, who was browsing brushes a few aisles over, nearly drops the ones he’s holding.

He spins around so fast the clerk looks startled.

You’re still chatting them up, completely unaware.

When you turn to leave, Rafayel is already right behind you, eyes huge and sparkling.

He grabs your arm.

“You called me your husband,” he hisses, voice shaking with excitement.

You blink. “Did I?”

“Yes! To a stranger! In public!”

You laugh. “Well, at this point you kinda are.”

He makes a dramatic noise, pulls you into a tight hug right in the middle of the store, and buries his face in your neck.

“Say it again,” he demands.

You whisper, “Husband.”

He lets out the happiest little squeak and kisses your cheek so many times the worker starts smiling.

On the way home, he keeps repeating, “My wife called me husband in public. My wife.”

You’re never living it down.

Sylus

You’re at a high-end restaurant picking up a takeout order he placed.

The hostess asks if you’re waiting for your husband.

You smile and say, “Yes, my husband’s just finishing a call outside.”

Sylus, who was standing near the door on his phone listening to Luke ramble on about a mission progress, hears every word.

He ends the call immediately.

When you walk out with the bags, he’s waiting, eyes dark and expression smug.

He takes the bags from you without a word.

Then he leans in, voice low and seductive.

“You called me your husband.”

You shrug, teasing. “You don’t like it?”

He steps closer, backing you gently against the wall outside.

“I like it too much,” he murmurs.

He leans, closes the distance and kisses you slow and deep, right there on the street, like he doesn’t care who sees.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Keep saying it. Out loud. To everyone.”

You smile. “Husband.”

He exhales sharply, like the word resonates with him physically.

“Good girl.”

Caleb

You’re at the Fleet’s visitor center, picking up a package he left behind.

The receptionist asks if you’re here for your husband.

You nod cheerfully. “Yep, it’s is for my husband. Colonel Caleb.”

Caleb, who was walking toward the entrance to meet you, stops dead in his tracks.

His face goes bright red.

He stands there for a second, looking like he’s been struck by lightning.

Then he walks over, trying to act normal, but his voice cracks when he says, “Hey.”

You hand him the package.

He stares at you.

“You called me your husband.”

You laugh. “I mean… yeah? We’ve been acting like a married couple for years.”

He swallows hard.

Then he pulls you into his arms, right there in front of the reception desk, and hugs you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’ve waited years to hear you call me that,” he whispers against your hair.

You smile into his shoulder. “Get used to it, husband.”

A laugh, soft and shaky, leaves him and kisses the top of your head.

He was still stubborn. Still prickly about certain things. Still had moments where he dug his heels in just because he could. But the sharp edges had dulled, just a little. He didn't challenge her as much. Didn't push back on every small thing like he was testing to see if she'd snap.

They'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

In the mornings, she'd wake up and find him already in the kitchen. Sometimes sitting at the table now, sometimes still on the floor, but always there. They'd eat breakfast together, mostly in silence, but it wasn't the heavy, uncomfortable kind anymore. Just... quiet. Comfortable, even.

He spent a lot of time on the rooftop. She'd go up occasionally to water the plants and find him stretched out in one of the chairs, eyes closed, soaking up the sun. Sometimes he'd acknowledge her with a grunt or a nod. Sometimes he wouldn't. She'd learned not to take it personally.

In the evenings, he'd come down to the workshop while she worked. He didn't help -didn't really know how- but he'd sit on one of the stools near the kiln and just... watch. Like he was keeping her company without having to say it out loud.

It was working.

Whatever this was -whatever they were building- it was working.

But there was one small problem.

Well. Not small, exactly.

Just... persistent.

She had needs. Normal, human needs. The kind that came with being an adult living in her own space, with her own privacy.

Except she didn't have privacy anymore.

Bucky was always there. In the apartment. In the next room. Close enough that she was hyper-aware of every sound she made, every creak of the floorboards, every shift of weight on her bed.

And so she'd been putting it off.

For two weeks, she'd been putting it off.

But tonight—tonight she was done waiting.

----

It was late. Past midnight. The apartment was silent except for the occasional car passing on the street below.

She'd listened carefully at her door for any sound from Bucky's room. Nothing. No movement. No footsteps. No low rumble of his voice or the creak of his bed frame. He'd gone to his room over an hour ago, and she was pretty sure -pretty sure- he was asleep by now.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the closed drawer of her nightstand, her heart beating faster than it had any right to.

This was ridiculous.

She was a grown woman. In her own house. She shouldn't feel guilty about this.

But she did.

Because he was right there. Just down the hall. And even though she knew logically that he couldn't hear through two closed doors, some part of her brain refused to believe it.

She exhaled slowly, reached over, and pulled the drawer open.

Her vibrator was there, the supposed whisper-quiet contraption, which had been the deciding factor when she'd bought it years ago. She pulled it out, turned it over in her hands, and felt her face heat despite the fact that she was completely alone.

God, she was overthinking this.

Just to be safe, she grabbed her phone and pulled up a white noise app. Rain sounds. Soft, enough to provide a little acoustic cover without being suspicious.

Just in case.

She turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into near-darkness, and lay back against the pillows.

Okay.

She could do this.

She closed her eyes, let out a slow breath, and tried to relax. Tried to let her mind drift somewhere safe. Somewhere easy.

She thought about the last guy she'd been with -over a year ago now-. She'd met at a gallery opening. Nice enough. Forgettable, honestly. She tried to conjure up the memory, but it felt distant. Dull.

She shifted slightly and tried again.

But the image that came to her mind wasn't him.

It was Bucky.

Standing in the hallway. Naked. Water still dripping from his hair, his skin damp from the shower.

She'd tried not to stare. Had tried to look away like a decent person. But she'd seen all of him.

The base had been thicker. Ridged, maybe. She hadn't gotten a long enough look to be sure, but the difference had been obvious. Unmistakable.

And now she couldn't stop wondering what that would feel like. How it would stretch her. Fill her. Whether those ridges would catch on every thrust, dragging against places that would make her-

The vibrator pressed harder, her hips lifting slightly off the bed, and a sound escaped her throat before she could stop it.

Louder than before.

She flew her hand to her mouth, her eyes snapping open, her heart pounding.

Shit.

She froze, listening.

Nothing.

No sound from the hallway. No footsteps.

He was asleep. He had to be.

She bit down on her lower lip and let her eyes fall shut again, chasing the edge she'd been approaching.

Bucky. The thought of having him between her thighs. The feel of his hand -rough, strong, singular- gripping her hip. The way he'd look at her, all that intensity focused on her, maybe he would fuck her from behind and-

Her breath hitched sharply, her body arching, and she came with a muffled gasp against her palm.

----

He wasn't asleep.

He'd tried. Spent the last hour lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, willing his brain to just stop for five goddamn minutes.

But it didn't work. It never did.

His mind kept circling. Restless. Agitated. The kind of insomnia that came from spending too many years sleeping in places where letting your guard down meant waking up dead- or worse.

So he just lay there, hands behind his head, listening to the sounds of the apartment.

The creak of the old building settling. Some pipe groaning. A dog barking a few blocks over. All of it was familiar now. Safe.

And then- something else.

A sound.

Faint. High-pitched. Mechanical.

He swiveled his ears toward it instinctively, his brow furrowing.

What the hell was that?

He sat up slowly, tilting his head as he tried to place it. It was coming from her room. Steady. Rhythmic. Like a small motor running.

He frowned.

Was something broken? A fan? Her phone?

He stood, moving silently across the room, and eased his door open.

The hallway was dark, but his eyes adjusted immediately. He padded barefoot down the short stretch of hall, stopping just outside her door.

The sound was clearer here. Still quiet, but unmistakable now that he was closer.

Bzzzzzz.

Steady. Constant.

What the fuck was she doing at this hour?

He stood there, hovering his hand near the doorknob, debating.

Should he knock? Ask if she was okay?

And then he heard it.

A soft sound from inside. Barely audible. Muffled, like she was trying to keep it quiet.

A breath. A sigh.

Something caught in her throat.

His entire body went still.

And then the smell hit him.

It came through the gap under the door, subtle at first, then stronger as he focused on it.

Her scent.

But different. Richer. Sweeter. Heavier.

Arousal.

His brain stuttered, trying to process, trying to reconcile what he was hearing and smelling with the reality of where he was standing.

Oh.

She wasn't in trouble. Nothing was broken.

She was-

Another sound. Quieter this time. A soft hum that could've been pleasure or frustration or both.

He dropped his hand from the doorknob like it had burned him.

He should leave.

He should walk away. Go back to his room. Pretend he never heard anything. Give her the privacy she clearly thought she had.

But he didn't move.

Couldn't.

Because now that he knew -now that his brain had connected the dots- he couldn't unhear it. Couldn't stop smelling it.

The scent was everywhere now, filling his nose, sinking into his lungs with every breath.

His heart was pounding, heat crawling up the back of his neck, settling low in his stomach in a way that made his jaw clench.

He pressed his palm flat against the door, grounding himself, his breathing shallow and too fast.

Another sound from inside. A little louder this time. Less controlled.

His claws scraped lightly against the wood.

Fuck.

He thought about what she'd said to him that day they'd fought. The way she'd thrown it back in his face with that sharp, cutting tone: Maybe you're the one with curiosity. After all that time using your hand.

She'd been trying to hurt him. And it had worked.

But now -now- he couldn't help but think:

Looks like she wasn't so different after all.

No one in her bed that he knew of, or to smell on her after she came back from outside.

Just her. Alone. Same as him.

The realization didn't make him feel better.

If anything, it made it worse.

Because now he was imagining it. Her. In that bed. Her hand -or whatever the fuck was making that mechanic sound- and the way her breath would hitch, the way her body would move, the way she'd-

He shoved himself back from the door, his breathing harsh, and forced himself to move.

One step. Then another.

Back to his room. As quickly and quietly as he could manage.

He shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and dragged his hand down his face.

Fuck.

His body had responded whether he wanted it to or not. The evidence of that was pressing uncomfortably against his joggers, impossible to ignore.

He looked down at himself and cursed under his breath.

This wasn't going away.

And the scent -her scent- was still there. Burned into his nose, filling his head with images he had no right to be imagining.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to think about something else. Anything else.

But the ache in his body was too much. Too persistent.

So he gave in.

He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, exhaled hard, and let his hand slip beneath the waistband of his joggers.

He shouldn't be doing this.

But he couldn't stop.

Her. In that bed. Her legs spread open. Her hand between her thighs -or whatever- working her over until she made those sounds.

Those quiet, desperate little sounds that she thought no one could hear.

He moved his hand faster, tightening his grip.

He thought about what she'd look like. If she'd be shy about it. Or if she'd be bold. Demanding.

He thought about what it would feel like to be the one making her gasp like that. To bury himself inside her and feel her clench around him, hot and wet and tight.

Would she be able to take him? All of him?

Most women couldn't. Or didn't want to try. The ridges along his shaft -the extra thickness at the base that came with his canine genetics- it wasn't something humans were built for. Not comfortably, anyway.

But the thought of her trying. The thought of watching her stretch around him, of feeling her body adjust, accommodate, yielding-

A low growl rumbled in his chest, his hips jerking forward into his fist.

He imagined her underneath him. The way her thighs would shake. The way she'd cling to him, nails digging into his back. The way she'd smell- like she did now, but stronger, richer, mixed with his scent.

Marked.

His.

The thought sent him over the edge.

He came hard, clenching his jaw, working his hand through it until the last shudder passed and he was left sitting there, breathless and sticky and feeling like a fucking animal.

He stared down at the mess on his hand, his stomach, and the joggers and let out a harsh exhale.

He grabbed a discarded shirt from the floor and cleaned himself up, his body still humming with the aftershocks.

And the worst part?

He knew it wouldn't be enough.

Because now he knew.

Now he'd heard her. Smelled her.

And he wasn't going to be able to forget it.

----

Her alarm went off at seven, the same as always.

She reached over blindly, slapped it off, and lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

And then the memory of last night hit her.

What she'd done. What she'd been thinking about. Who she'd been thinking about.

She didn't feel embarrassed, exactly. She was an adult. She had needs. There was nothing wrong with taking care of them in the privacy of her own room.

But.

Bucky was a hybrid. Which meant his senses were sharper than hers. A lot sharper.

And she had no idea what that meant in practical terms.

Could he smell that even now, hours later?

She didn't know.

And that was the problem.

She sat up, ran her hands down her face, and made a decision.

Shower first. Get dressed. Then go to the kitchen.

Normally she'd just roll out of bed and head straight there, hair a mess, still in her nightgown, coffee before anything else. It was her house. She'd never cared what she looked like in the mornings, and she sure as hell wasn't going to start performing for him.

But today was different.

Today, she needed to feel clean. Fresh. Like there was no possible way he could pick up on anything.

Just in case.

She grabbed clean clothes -jeans, a sweater- and headed to the bathroom.

----

Bucky had been awake for hours.

He hadn't slept. Couldn't.

After what he did, he'd had no choice but to get up and deal with the mess. Which meant a shower. At three in the fucking morning. Standing under cold water and scrubbing his skin like that would somehow erase what he'd done.

It hadn't.

The memory was still there. The scent. The sound.

The way his body had responded.

He'd given up on sleep after that. Just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn.

When he finally heard her alarm go off, he'd gotten up, pulled on a clean shirt, and headed to the kitchen.

He needed something to do. Something to focus on that wasn't her.

So he'd started breakfast.

It wasn't complicated. Just eggs and toast. But it gave his hand something to do, and by the time he heard the shower turn off, he'd managed to get most of it together without burning anything.

He heard her footsteps coming down the hall -light, deliberate- and his entire body tensed.

Don't think about it. Don't fucking think about it.

She appeared in the doorway, freshly showered, her hair still damp and pulled back, wearing clean clothes that smelled like laundry detergent and that floral soap she always used.

Not in her nightgown.

Not rumpled and sleepy and smelling like warm skin and bedsheets.

Not like-

He shut that thought down immediately.

"Morning," she said, her voice steady but a little too bright.

He didn't look up from the stove. "Morning."

"You made breakfast?" She moved into the kitchen, her movements careful. "That's... thank you. You didn't have to."

"It's fine," he said flatly, flipping the eggs onto plates.

She hovered near the counter for a second, then busied herself with grabbing utensils, pouring coffee, anything to keep things casual.

The silence between them was thick.

He set the plates on the table and finally -finally- allowed himself to look at her.

Big mistake.

Because now all he could think about was the fact that she'd showered. First thing. Before coming down.

When she usually didn't.

Which meant she'd felt the need to wash.

Which meant-

He clenched his jaw and looked down at his plate.

Don't.

She sat down across from him, picked up her fork, and took a bite.

"So," she said after a moment, her tone deliberately casual. "Did you sleep okay?"

Fuck.

"Fine," he lied.

"Good. That's... good."

The silence stretched again, thick and uncomfortable, until Bucky pushed his chair back and stood abruptly.

"I'm going up," he said, not looking at her.

She blinked. "To the rooftop?"

"Yeah."

He didn't wait for a response. Just grabbed his plate, rinsed it in the sink, and headed for the door that led to the stairs.

She watched him go, her coffee mug halfway to her lips, and exhaled slowly once she heard the door close behind him.

----

The rooftop wasn't his cell. Open sky, fresh air, sunlight. It was a fucking paradise compared to the concrete box he'd spent months in.

But right now, he needed it to be a place where he could move.

He dropped down into push-ups immediately, pressing his hand flat against the rough concrete, moving his body in a rhythm he'd learned years ago. One-armed. Controlled. Efficient.

His mind was too loud. Too full.

He needed to burn it out.

She'd mentioned something a few days ago. Casually. Like it wasn't a big deal.

She was looking into getting him a permit.

He hadn't asked for it. Hadn't even thought about asking. But apparently, she'd talked to her friend, the one who took her to the facility, and asked him how other hybrids managed to move around the city on their own without getting stopped every five minutes.

Special documentation. Something that proved he wasn't a stray. That he had a legal guardian. That if someone questioned him, he could show papers and walk away instead of being hauled into a facility for verification.

It would mean he could leave. Go for a run. Hit a park. Stretch his legs somewhere that wasn't four walls or a rooftop.

He'd have to be careful, though. Keep his ears covered, wear a baseball cap, maybe. Tuck his tail around his waist and hide it under a hoodie so he didn't draw too much attention.

But if someone stopped him anyway, he'd have proof. Papers. Something that said he belonged to someone and couldn't just be taken.

Technically.

The thought should've felt good. Freedom. Autonomy.

And she was just... giving it to him, without him even asking.

Like everything else.

He pushed harder, his muscles burning, sweat dripping down his temples. His breathing turned harsh, uneven, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

Not until his arm was shaking and his body was screaming at him to quit.

Finally, he sat back on his heels, wiping his forearm across his forehead, and let out a long, rough exhale.

His stomach growled.

Loud. Insistent.

He should’ve had a proper breakfast, not run away from her like a pup.

He needed food. Protein. Eggs, maybe.

He stood, rolled his shoulder to loosen the knot of tension there, and headed back toward the stairs.

She'd be in the shop by now. Probably dealing with customers or working on something in the studio. He could grab something quick and stay out of her way.

But when he reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the kitchen, he heard her voice.

Quiet. Strained.

She was on the phone.

He froze, still touching the doorframe, swiveling his ears toward the sound instinctively.

"-No, I'm sure," she was saying, her tone polite but tired. "I just... I don't really use the service enough to justify the cost right now."

A pause. He could hear the faint buzz of someone talking on the other end, but not the words.

"No, I don't want to downgrade to a different plan. I- ma'am, I'm not in a position to afford a streaming platform right now."

His stomach dropped.

Streaming platform.

She was canceling her TV service.

It wasn't a huge expense. But it was something she'd had. Something she'd used.

And now she was cutting it.

Because of him.

Because keeping him here -feeding him, housing him, buying him clothes and everything else- cost money.

Money she didn't have. Money he didn’t produce.

He clenched his jaw, closing his hand into a fist against the doorframe.

She'd lost students because of him. That asshole Ewan. And the older woman who'd looked at him like he was a threat and never came back.

He didn't understand why she'd been so scared. He hadn't done anything.

But it didn't matter.

She was gone. Her money was gone.

And now this.

He stepped back silently, retreating into the hallway, and waited.

A minute later, he heard her sigh heavily. The sound of her phone hitting the counter. A muttered curse under her breath.

He gave it another few seconds, then walked into the kitchen like he'd just come down the stairs.

"Hey," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

She looked up, startled, then quickly schooled her expression into something less exhausted. "Hey. You done up there?"

"Yeah." He moved toward the fridge, pulling it open. "Thought I'd make some eggs."

"Oh. Yeah, go ahead."

She turned away, busying herself with wiping down the counter that was already clean, and he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

She didn't say anything about the call.

And he didn't ask.

----

He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them one-handed, and poured them into the pan. The sizzle filled the silence between them.

She was still wiping down the counter. Still not looking at him.

"I want to learn," he said, his tone casual. Like he was commenting on the weather.

She paused mid-wipe, glancing over at him. "Learn what?"

"Ceramics."

She stilled her hand completely, the rag forgotten in her grip. She stared at him for a beat, trying to process.

"Really?"

He didn't look away from the pan, just kept stirring the eggs with the spatula. "Yeah."

She set the rag down slowly, her mind racing. Bucky. Wanting to learn ceramics. The same Bucky who'd barely tolerated being in the workshop at first. Who'd sat stiffly on the floor watching her like he was waiting for her to give him orders.

"I... I thought you didn't like it," she said carefully. "Working with clay, I mean."

He flicked his ears back slightly. "What gave you that idea?"

"The day you got here. I offered to teach you, and you asked if you had to." She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. "You didn't exactly sound enthusiastic."

"Ah." He was quiet for a beat, then shrugged. "That was different."

"Different how?"

"That was the first day," he said flatly, scraping the spatula across the pan. "I thought you had some... agenda. Some reason you wanted me to do it."

Her chest tightened. Right. Because back then, he'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For her to reveal what she really wanted from him.

"And now?" she asked softly.

He turned off the burner. "I only asked if I had to. Didn't say I didn't want to."

She tilted her head, studying him. "So... you're just so bored, then?" she chuckled.

He flattened his ears slightly, and he didn't answer right away. Just moved the pan off the heat, working his jaw.

"I like what you do," he said finally, his voice low. Reluctant. Like the words were being dragged out of him. "The pottery. It's... good."

She blinked. "Oh."

He still wasn't looking at her. Just staring down at the eggs on his plate like they required his full attention.

"And if I learn," he continued, his tone even more grudging now, "and I can make things that are... decent. Maybe you could sell them."

Her chest tightened.

Oh.

He wasn't just trying to learn a new skill. He was trying to contribute. To offset the cost of keeping him here. To be worth something.

She opened her mouth to tell him he didn't have to do that. That he didn't need to earn his place here. That she wasn't keeping a tally of what he cost versus what he gave back.

But she stopped herself.

Because he wouldn't believe her. Not yet.

So instead, she just said, softly, "Yeah. We could do that."

His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, and he finally picked up his fork.

"Okay. Yeah. I can make time to teach you," she added, her voice a little steadier now. "We can start whenever you want."

He nodded once. Then, after a pause, he added -quietly, almost reluctantly- "I only have one hand."

It wasn't a question. But the uncertainty was there, buried under the blunt statement.

Her expression softened. "It's not going to be easy," she admitted. "But I've seen people with disabilities create beautiful art. Painters who use their feet, their mouths. There's no reason we can't figure it out."

He flicked his gaze to her, holding for a second longer this time, and something passed between them. Acknowledgment. Understanding.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," she echoed.

He picked up his fork and started eating, and she finally stopped pretending to clean.

The tension in the room had shifted. Not gone. But different.

Warmer.

----

She closed the shop at six, flipping the sign to CLOSED and locking the door with a satisfying click.

The idea had been in the back of her mind all day, with a kind of nervous energy she hadn't felt in a while.

She found him on the rooftop, stretched out in one of the chairs, eyes closed against the late afternoon sun.

"Hey," she called from the doorway.

He swiveled his ears toward her before he opened his eyes. "Yeah?"

"I don't want to pressure you or anything," she said, stepping out onto the concrete. "But I'm kind of excited about teaching you. If you want to try today, we could start now."

He sat up, considering her for a moment. Then nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Something warm settled in his chest at the way her face lit up. Pleased. Happy.

Because of something he'd done.

He told himself it didn't matter. That her approval didn't mean anything.

But his tail wagged once behind him, betraying him.

----

The workshop was quiet, the kiln still radiating faint warmth from the last firing. She grabbed two chunks of clay from the storage bin, setting them on the worktable between two stools.

"So," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "First thing you need to know is that pottery takes time. You shape it, let it dry, fire it in the kiln, glaze it, fire it again. It's not instant. You have to be patient."

He nodded, watching her hands as she spoke.

"For now, we're just going to mess around. Get a feel for the clay. See what your hand can do." She pushed one of the chunks toward him. "No pressure. Just... play with it."

He stared at the lump of clay like it might bite him.

She grabbed the other chunk and started working it between her fingers, rolling it, pressing her thumb into it, just to give him something to watch. Something to take the pressure off.

After a moment, he reached out and touched the clay. Pressed his palm against it. Tested the resistance.

"It's... soft," he said.

"Yeah. That's why it's workable. Once it dries, it gets hard. Brittle. But right now, you can shape it however you want."

He nodded slowly, then started kneading it with his hand, awkward at first but gradually finding a rhythm.

She watched him for a minute, then said, "I think we should start with something simple. A candle holder. Just a little dish with a handle on the side." She grabbed a finished one from a nearby shelf and set it between them. "See? Nothing fancy. And I think you could manage it with one hand."

He picked it up, turning it over, examining the weight and shape.

Well," he said dryly, "how awful could it possibly turn out?"

She snorted. "Oh, we're about to find out."

He twitched his mouth. Almost a smile.

----

They worked in companionable silence for a while, both of them making a mess, both of them figuring it out as they went.

She flattened her clay into a rough circle, trying to smooth the edges with just her fingers. It was harder than she'd expected; her left hand kept twitching, wanting to help, and she had to consciously keep it in her lap.

Bucky was doing better than she'd anticipated. He moved his hand slowly, deliberately, pressing the clay into a shallow bowl shape. But when he tried to add the handle, it kept falling off, too wet to stick properly.

"Here," she said, standing and moving around the table to his side. "Let me show you."

She leaned in close, her shoulder brushing his, and reached for his hand. "You need to score it first. Rough up the surface so it has something to grip onto."

She guided his fingers, showing him how to scratch lines into the clay with the edge of a tool, then how to press the handle firmly into place.

He was still. Completely still.

She could feel the heat of his body, the solid weight of his arm under her hand, the way his breathing had gone shallow.

"Like that," she murmured, her voice quieter now. "See? Now it'll hold."

He didn't respond.

And then -slowly, almost unconsciously- he leaned in.

He dipped his head, pressing his nose against the side of her throat, just below her jaw.

She felt the warmth of his breath against her skin as he inhaled. Deep. Deliberate.

Her heart kicked hard against her sternum, but she didn't pull away.

"B- Bucky?"

He jerked back immediately, flattening his ears, tightening his expression. "Sorry. I-" He looked away, clenching his jaw. "Dog thing."

She blinked, her pulse still racing, her skin tingling where his breath had been. "Dog thing?"

"Yeah." His voice was rough. Clipped. "Scent. It's... instinct. I wasn't-"

"Do you need to do it more?" she asked quietly.

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response.

"What?"

"If it's something you need -as a hybrid- then it's okay." She stayed exactly where she was, close enough that she could still feel his body heat. "I'm sorry I haven't been more aware of that stuff. I'm still learning. So if there's something you need, you have to tell me."

He stared at her, working his jaw like he was trying to figure out if she was serious.

"I don't... need it," he said finally. "But it helps. Grounds me. Reminds me where I am. Who I'm with."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. Then... it's fine. You can do that. When you need to."

He searched her eyes for a long moment, looking for- what? Disgust? Fear? Pity?

He didn't find any of it.

"Okay," he said quietly.

And then -carefully, like he was testing whether she'd really meant it- he leaned in again.

He pressed his nose against the curve of her neck, just below her jaw, and inhaled.

Slow. Deep.

It did help. Grounded him. Her scent was familiar now, warm skin, that floral soap, something uniquely her underneath it all. It told him where he was. That he was safe.

That she was his pack now, even if neither of them had said it out loud.

But then his mind drifted.

To last night. To the sound of her breath hitching through the door.

To what he'd done after. Alone in his room. His hand wrapped around himself; her scent burned into his nose.

He clenched his jaw, clicking his teeth together involuntarily.

And before his brain could stop him -before he could really think it through- he dragged his tongue across her throat.

Just once.

Slow. Deliberate.

She went completely still.

He pulled back immediately, flattening his ears, his heart drumming in his chest.

Fuck.

"Dog thing," he said quickly, his voice rougher than he intended.

She blinked at him, coming up to touch the place where his tongue had been, her skin still damp. "That's... also a dog thing?"

"Yeah." The lie -or half-truth, because it was a canine instinct, just not the only reason he'd done it- sat heavy on his tongue. "Pack behavior. It's... it happens."

She searched his face, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Couldn't tell if she believed him or if she was about to tell him to back the fuck off.

But she didn't.

She just nodded slowly, dropping her hand back to her side. "Okay."

"Okay?" he repeated, caught off guard.

"Yeah. Okay." She took a small step back, giving him space, but her expression wasn't angry. Just... thoughtful. Maybe a little flustered. "Like I said. I'm still learning. So... thanks for explaining."

He stared at her, his chest tight, his mind racing.

She wasn't kicking him out. Wasn't pulling away in disgust.

She was just... accepting it.

Accepting him.

"Yeah," he managed. "Sure."

She cleared her throat, turning back toward the worktable. "Come on. Let's finish these before the clay dries out."

He nodded, following her lead, but his hand was shaking slightly when he reached for the clay.

Because now he knew.

Now he'd tasted her.

And that was going to be a problem.

----

She sounded normal. Steady.

A complete fucking lie.

Because her body was screaming.

The spot where his tongue had dragged across her throat felt like it was still burning. Like he'd left a brand there. And worse -worse- was the way her body had responded.

The immediate, visceral throb between her legs.

The ache in her breasts, heavy and tight, begging to be touched.

She pressed her thighs together under the table and focused very, very hard on the lump of clay in front of her.

What the fuck is wrong with her?

He'd just explained it. Pack behavior. It was instinct. Something he did because of his genetics, not because he was trying to-

But her body didn't care about logic.

Her body had felt his tongue on her skin, and decided that was an invitation.

God, she was pathetic.

She was supposed to be helping him. Supporting him. Making space for the things he needed as a hybrid. And instead, she was sitting here wet and aching because he'd licked her neck.

Like some kind of creep.

She should be ashamed of herself.

She was ashamed of herself.

She'd told him it was okay. That he could do what he needed. And the second he took her up on it, her brain had gone straight to-

Stop.

She grabbed the edge of her pathetic excuse for a candle holder -lumpy, uneven, barely holding together- and focused on smoothing the rim with her thumb.

Anything to keep her hands busy.

Anything to keep from thinking about the heat still pooling low in her stomach.

"You doing okay over there?" Bucky's voice cut through her thoughts, low and rough.

She didn't look up. "Yeah. Fine. Just... concentrating on this. It’s harder than I thought."

"Hmn."

She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't meet them.

Couldn't.

Because she was afraid that if she did, he'd see exactly what she was thinking.

----

He could smell it.

The same scent from last night. Richer now, sharper, because she was right there across the table from him instead of behind a closed door.

Arousal.

Thick and unmistakable, cutting through the clay dust and the faint chemical tang inside the kiln.

He stilled his hand on the clay, clenching his jaw so hard it ached.

He shouldn't have licked her. Shouldn't have crossed that line.

But he had. And now she was sitting there, her breathing just a little too shallow, her scent telling him everything her face was trying to hide.

She wanted-

He shut that thought down immediately.

It didn't matter what she wanted. Or what his body was screaming at him to do about it.

This wasn't the time. Wasn't the moment.

There might never be a moment.

He forced his attention back to the clay in front of him, shaping the edge of the dish with more force than necessary.

But the problem below his waistband wasn't going away.

And neither was her scent.

He was going to have to deal with this later.

Again.

Fuck.

He kept his head down, moving his hand mechanically, and pretended he couldn't smell a goddamn thing.

She had no idea.

And he wasn't about to tell her.