hayley

You didn’t expect someone like him to say yes when your studio reached out looking for a freelance narrative consultant. But he did. Maybe because the game you were working on involved absurd comedy, existential robots, and morally grey NPCs who made dad jokes. His name was already well known from Smosh, but you only knew him as the guy who had strong opinions about quest trees and wrote shockingly good branching dialogue.

What started as a contract gig quickly became something more. When Spencer wasn’t filming, he’d spend hours on calls with you, fleshing out character arcs and cracking open emotional plot beats with surgical precision. You swore he could make a pixel sprite cry. You, meanwhile, designed entire levels inspired by inside jokes you had with him. Including one infamous boss battle that featured a corrupted save file and a possessed coffee pot.

He made your games better. Sharper. Funnier. More human.

And you? You made him laugh.

You were a cinnamon roll in programmer’s clothing; a storm of puns, pop culture references, and code magic. You wrote patch notes in limericks. You had a pet cactus named Commander Prickle. You once added a secret dev room in the game that contained a love letter to Star Wars, a playable cat, and a JPEG of your favorite breakfast burrito.

Spencer fell for you hard.

And, okay, maybe you fell for him first.

Two games. Countless late-night builds. One forehead kiss on a loading dock in Austin that derailed everything in the best possible way.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Because then came the investors.

They promised funding. Exposure. Global launches. All they wanted in return was control. Slowly, they took it all: your timelines, your characters, your creative freedom. They shelved Spencer’s favorite storyline. They told you to “scale down the weird” and “lean into monetizable emotional arcs.” They started talking about replacing the lead writer (Spencer) with someone “more brand-aligned.”

You walked out before they could rip up the last thing that mattered.

Spencer, to your eternal surprise, walked with you.

You went freelance. He went back to focusing full-time on Smosh. You thought that chapter of your life — game dev, dreams, building something bigger than yourselves — was over. You told yourself it was okay. That you’d survive.

But you didn’t expect the silence that came after.

You spent six weeks curled up with your laptop in a mountain of takeout containers, promising yourself you’d bounce back, that you’d build again. Instead, you started editing freelance, grabbing whatever work you could just to keep moving. Coding felt too raw. Too close.

And then an old friend texted you.

Alex Tran: Hey! Random idea. Want to come edit for us a bit? We need someone nerdy enough to get the Skyrim joke and fast enough to cut out Shayne’s fart soundboard.”

You: Are those separate qualifications?

Alex Tran: Nope. Same job, same person. And we’d like it to be you.

You thought it would be temporary. Just a few weeks of freelance work, maybe a couple of game-themed sketches. You didn’t expect to fall in love with the weird, chaotic brilliance of the Smosh crew. Or to find a second creative home in a room full of green screens, snacks, and too many rubber chickens.

You especially didn’t expect Spencer. Again.

He was quieter at Smosh. More sardonic, a little more guarded than the boy who used to send you playlists for your late-night coding sessions. But when he saw you in the breakroom with your eyes wide, fingers stained with hot Cheetos dust, and explaining the probability matrix you used to randomize enemy behavior in your old game, he smiled.

He hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had you.

You picked up right where you left off. Bickering over color grading. Sharing playlists. Syncing B-roll and giggling at outtakes until 2 a.m. You started eating lunch together, editing side-by-side, quietly rebuilding something that had never truly broken.

He saw you. That part still scared you.

Because you were always the quirky one. The one with snort-laughs and messy desks and Star Wars socks. You wore your weirdness like armor and your brilliance like a joke. Smart enough to break a game engine in a day, and soft enough to cry at the title screen music.

But Spencer never made you feel like too much.

He made you feel like enough.

Over time, “you’re fun to edit with” turned into “want to get dinner?” and then into long nights at his place, curled up with controllers and Chinese takeout. He didn’t care that you’d stepped back from the industry. He never treated it like a failure. In fact, whenever you got that itch, that hunger to build something again, he’d just tilt his head and say:

“I can’t wait to see what you make next.”

And that’s when the idea hit.

Not a game for money.

Not a game for reviews or awards or Reddit threads full of half-accurate theories.

But a game for him.

For the boy who helped you build a world out of pixels and code.

For the man who watched you crash, reboot, and rebuild with all the love in the world.

For the only player who ever really understood the rules of your heart.

You weren’t just going to tell him you loved him.

You were going to code it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Smosh Games office was alive with that specific kind of chaotic energy that only hit on shoot days and special streams.

Cameras were being positioned. Audio levels were getting checked. Lighting gels swapped out. You sat criss-cross on the floor beside the couch, laptop in your lap, pretending to tweak a plugin while secretly double-checking (for the seventeenth time) that the custom cutscenes in your game wouldn’t crash mid-stream.

“You good?” Courtney called from the snack table, cracking open a fizzy water. “You look like you’re gonna throw up or propose to someone.”

You didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

Across the room, Spencer adjusted his headset with a confused squint. “Which one?”

You smiled. “Guess.”

He blinked. “…Wait, what?”

Your heart thudded in your throat, but you just shrugged innocently. “Nothing, cinnamon!” And Spencer didn’t think any more of it.

Today was technically a work stream, a special feature on the Smosh Games channel titled “Spencer Plays a Game Made Just for Him.” The idea had started as a half-joke, pitched during a brainstorming meeting when someone asked what anniversary content might look like.

What no one else knew, not even Spencer, was that you’d spent months crafting the perfect game behind the scenes. A silly, sweet, emotionally explosive side-scroller designed specifically for him. To celebrate your years together. To relive it all. To ask a question you hadn’t been brave enough to ask out loud.

Until now.

Spencer took a seat on the main gaming chair, hoodie rolled to his elbows, sleeves slightly wrinkled from a full day of filming. You settled beside him, noticeably quieter than usual.

Spencer took a seat on the main gaming couch, flannel rolled to his elbows, sleeves slightly wrinkled from a full day of filming. You settled beside him, noticeably quieter than usual.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured under his breath, mic still muted.

You nodded too fast. “Totally fine. Just a little nervous, cinnamon.”

“I’ve seen you handle live crash bugs with one eye closed and a donut in your hand.”

“This is different.”

He looked at you curiously but didn’t press.

From behind the camera, Alex waved two fingers and counted them down. “And we are live in three… two…”

Spencer’s mic clicked on just as the title card splashed across the monitor behind him.

🔴 LIVE: SPENCER PLAYS A GAME MADE JUST FOR HIM: Anniversary Stream · Smosh Games Channel · Sponsored by Emotional Damage

The chat exploded instantly.

— OMGGGGGGG

— She MADE him a WHOLE GAME????

— I would literally combust if someone did this for me😭

— THEY’RE SO STUPID IN LOVE I CAN’T

— I HOPE HE CRIES

“Hey, guys,” Spencer greeted, lifting a hand in mock calm. “Welcome to our totally normal, definitely low-stakes stream. I’m here with my brilliant and mildly terrifying partner, who apparently built an entire game from scratch just so I’d play it on camera and embarrass myself.”

You waved awkwardly at the chat cam. “Hi.”

“She’s being modest,” Shayne’s voice piped in from off-screen, already halfway into a La Croix. “I’ve seenlike three seconds of it and it’s unreal.”

Courtney leaned into frame with a conspiratorial smirk. “I’ve cried twice already and I haven’t even touched a controller.”

“I’m so scared,” Spencer said flatly, eyes darting between you and the screen. “Anyway, it’s our anniversary today—”

— AWWWWWW💕💕

— I KNEW IT

— FOUR YEARS STRONG BABYYYY

— If he doesn’t propose by the end of this I’m suing

Spencer laughed. “We’ve been dating a while. This is probably the longest build-up to a game release I’ve ever experienced.”

“I’m a perfectionist,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer looked at you sideways. “You delayed this stream twice because you wanted the menu animation to ‘feel more emotionally resonant.’”

“That animation is doing heavy narrative lifting, thank you.”

He rolled his eyes, fond. “Alright, let’s boot this up.”

You plugged in the USB yourself, fingers trembling slightly, and watched as the screen flickered black. The game launched without a hitch, thank goodness, and a cascade of pixelated gold hearts and soft 16-bit music filled the monitors.

A retro-style title screen blinked to life:

QUEST FOR THE CINNAMON HEART💘

Press Start to Begin

Pixel-Spencer stood in the middle of the screen in all his tiny, hoodie-wearing glory. The background looked suspiciously like the Smosh studio.

Spencer leaned in. “Wait. You animated my stupid little walk?”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. “Accurately, might I add.”

— QUEST FOR THE CINNAMON HEART I’M GONE💀

— IT’S PIXEL HIM. PIXEL SPENCER.

— I would die for tiny hoodie Spencer

— STOP CINNAMON IS HER NICKNAME FOR HIM🥹

Spencer squinted at the text. “This is the most ominously romantic title screen I’ve ever seen.”

“Press start,” you whispered.

He did.

The screen went dark.

Then soft, pixelated piano notes trickled in, a simple melody which was almost lullaby-like. Warm tones bloomed into view: a small, animated storybook flipping open across the screen.

Once upon a time, in a world full of chaos and crash logs…

A pixel-art cutscene began, gently animated like an 8-bit fairytale.

…there was a programmer. Brilliant. Kind. Goofy as hell.

She built worlds for other people to explore… but rarely let anyone into her own.

On-screen, a tiny pixel version of you sat cross-legged in a glowing cave of code. Glitches flickered at the edges, little pixel storms of doubt and burnout. The sprite curled inward, eyes downcast, barely visible beneath the twinkling lines of code floating above her head.

Then a second sprite appeared.

Until one day, a boy walked in.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t ask to change her world. He just wanted to see it.

Pixel-Spencer entered the cave, in his tiny hoodie and nervous posture, holding a heart-shaped lantern. He didn’t speak. He just sat beside the other sprite, offering his light.

Together, they started building. Not just games. Not just stories.

Something else. Something quieter. Softer. Real.

The music swelled gently.

But even good code breaks sometimes.

The sprites stood in front of a massive glitch wall, a looming tower of red errors and broken platforms. They tried to climb it together. Failed. Tried again. A storm of pixel rain fell around them.

But they never let go.

This is their story.

The journey they’ve already taken… and the one that’s still ahead. Every memory. Every restart. Every choice that led to now.

The camera slowly zoomed out on the two sprites, now holding hands, as they stepped forward toward a glowing door marked Begin.

The text shimmered one last time.

Welcome to the Quest for the Cinnamon Heart.

Press any key to begin.

The room was silent.

Spencer hadn’t said a word.

You could feel his breath hitch beside you. His hand twitched near the keyboard, hovering like he needed a second to absorb it.

Behind the camera everyone had gone still.

The chat had frozen in reverence.

— …oh

— I wasn’t ready

— WHO GAVE HER THE RIGHT

— I just started crying and I don’t know why

— I would die for both of them

Spencer cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m already emotionally compromised and I haven’t even moved yet.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

He turned to you, and for a second, a full unfiltered second, he looked at you like he knew. Like he didn’t have the words yet, but something in him had caught a flicker of what was coming.

But then he smirked.

“Let’s do this.”

He pressed a key.

The game shifted.

The screen blinked into a lovingly rendered pixel version of the Smosh office, complete with crooked lighting rigs, Courtney’s coffee cup on a desk, and a cardboard cutout of Damien with googly eyes.

Pixel-Spencer stood in the lobby, blinking up at a glowing prompt:

LEVEL ONE: THE FIRST GLITCH 👾

OBJECTIVE: Find the New Editor

Tip: She has a sharp tongue and good taste in sci-fi.

Spencer squinted. “This already feels targeted.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

He moved his sprite around the space, clicking on various coworkers:

🧔‍♂️ Pixel-Shayne: “She’s in the edit bay. Try not to fall in love this time.”

👱‍♀️ Pixel-Courtney: “She already renamed one of your files something passive aggressive. You’re in danger.”

🧑‍🦳 Pixel-Damien: “Why are you sweating? Oh god, is this feelings?”

The chat was eating it up:

— PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE FILE NAMES I’M SCREAMING 🤣

— this is 100% real lore

— why is this game calling him OUT like this

— the dialogue is too good wtf she’s a genius 🙌

Finally, Spencer found her (you) tucked away in a tiny edit bay, headphones on, surrounded by glowing monitors.

Pixel-You looked up.

“You must be the guy who thinks he’s funny.”

[OPTIONS: FLIRT | PANIC | HAND OVER DRIVE]

Spencer groaned. “Oh come on.”

“Choose wisely,” you said.

He grinned and selected PANIC.

His sprite immediately dropped the hard drive and fell over. Pixel-You laughed and picked it up.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to roast you properly. Let’s do this.”

The level ended with both sprites sitting back-to-back at desks, screens glowing, a heart meter flickering quietly in the top corner.

The level ended with a soft chime and a fade to black, the pixel-heart in the corner pulsing slowly. The words “Level Complete” shimmered across the screen in bold gold letters. A tiny sprite of Spencer raised his fist triumphantly, even as real-world Spencer leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the screen.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

You could feel the air shift.

The studio had grown quieter too, as if everyone, even the crew behind the cameras, knew this stream was turning into something else. Something more than just a goofy anniversary bit.

Spencer’s eyes flicked toward you.

“You… remembered all of that,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Of course I did.”

A long pause. He looked like he was about to say something, something bigger, but then Shayne shouted from behind the camera, “IS THAT DAMIEN’S ACTUAL GOOGLY EYE CUTOUT?!”

You both broke into laughter, the moment cracking like glass underfoot.

Spencer shook his head, smiling down at the keyboard.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, half to himself.

You leaned forward, chin on his shoulder. “You haven’t even seen the boss fight yet.”

He tilted his head just enough to nudge his temple against yours, a small, quiet thank-you disguised as a gesture.

And then the screen shifted.

A flickering globe icon appeared.

Lightning crackled in pixel form. A choppy, 8-bit remix of a romantic theme underscored the stage, glitchy and distorted like an old VHS.

LEVEL TWO: BUFFERING LOVE 😍

OBJECTIVE: Stay connected across time zones, bad Wi-Fi, and international SIM card meltdowns.

Spencer burst out laughing. “Oh my god. It’s long-distance mode.”

You grinned. “Boss level Wi-Fi trauma.”

His sprite stood on the left of the screen. Pixel-You appeared on the right, backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee in hand, standing in front of a blinking router.

Between them: a broken, crumbling path of platforms, text bubbles, missed calls, lag symbols, and static clouds.

Tip: Connection is not guaranteed. Try anyway.

The chat blew up again.

— STOP THIS IS TOO REAL

— someone give her a writing award

— I once watched that Smosh Games stream where Spencer froze mid-sentence and she texted to say he looked like a concerned goat 🐐

— THIS IS CANON

— this is ACTUALLY beautiful, I’m not joking

Spencer started jumping from platform to platform, dodging:

Floating “Poor Connection” alerts

Flying Wi-Fi ghosts

Glitch walls labeled “Mismatched Time Zones”

A rapidly spinning dial that read “She fell asleep mid call”

“Oh my god, I forgot about that one night where you passed out mid-FaceTime with your laptop open on your chest.”

You covered your face. “I was jetlagged!”

Halfway through, he hit a new mechanic, a Text Message Puzzle, where Pixel-Spencer had to unscramble pre-written phrases to restore the connection:

“Goodnight from here”

“Wish you were closer”

“Still thinking about you”

“Don’t forget to eat”

He matched each correctly.

The connection bar filled.

Your sprite flickered in fully.

Pixel-You ran forward across the screen and collided with Pixel-Spencer just as the stormy backdrop softened into sunrise. They hugged.

The music swelled into a brighter, warmer version of the glitched love theme.

“Some connections take work. But they’re worth it.”

Spencer didn’t say anything this time.

He just stared at the screen, blinking a little too much.

You quietly bumped his foot with yours. “Still with me?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, still looking at the screen:

“…You built all of this for me.”

Your smile was soft now. “Took me three years to find the right engine for the hug mechanic.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes wet. “Of course it did.”

The heart in the top corner pulsed again, just a little brighter than before.

Level Two faded out with soft pixel sparkles and the words “Level Complete” drifting up the screen.

The studio didn’t erupt like it usually did after a successful gameplay segment. There was no bit, no gag, no Shayne screaming from behind the lights.

Just a still, quiet sort of hush.

Spencer leaned back slightly in his chair, a hand coming up to rub at the corner of his eye. Not dramatic, not for show, just reflexive. You sat a little straighter beside him, watching.

Courtney was the first to break the silence. Their voice came through from off-screen, softer than usual.

“Hey… I know we joke a lot but, uh… this is beautiful. Like, actually beautiful.”

Alex nodded from behind the camera. “This is gonna break the internet in the nicest possible way.”

Shayne whispered, far too loud, “If no one proposes by the end of this I’m walking into traffic.”

Spencer snorted, wiping his hand down his face. “Please don’t.”

— I love that everyone just went silent for that

— you know a moment hits when SMOSH goes quiet

— spencer’s eyes are glassy do NOT pan away👀

— she really made a therapy game and handed it to him on their anniversary

— BEST STREAM OF ALL TIME

You reached over, gently bumped your knee against his again. “Wanna take a break, cinnamon ?”

Spencer shook his head once. “Not yet.”

And then he hit continue.

The screen turned dark.

The music changed — stripped down now, a lo-fi piano melody underlined with static and distant echoes, like a song trying to play through a broken speaker.

The level title hovered:

LEVEL THREE: THE BREAKPOINT 💔

OBJECTIVE: Remember what we almost lost.

Spencer exhaled.

“Oh.”

Pixel-Spencer appeared alone, standing in the middle of a rainy pixel city street. Lights blinked in the background. Cars drove by in silence. Every few seconds, thunder rolled in faint flashes.

The sprite didn’t move at first.

The player couldn’t make him.

Instead, text slowly filled the screen, line by line, fragments of a fight.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening, you’re just not saying anything real.”

“I can’t do this tonight.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

Spencer swallowed thickly.

The character finally moved, but only at a slow walk. As he made his way across the side-scrolling city, bits of memory appeared in windows, lit like silent cutscenes:

A flash of you curled up on the couch crying.

Spencer pacing with a phone pressed to his temple.

A text bubble reading “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

The pixel heart in the corner? Cracked.

You said nothing.

The room said nothing.

Only the chat filled in the silence:

— this one hurts😔

— oh god this is the fight isn’t it

— she turned their lowest point into a game level??

— art. this is ART.

— how did she make sadness feel this beautiful

Spencer’s sprite stopped at a train station. A pop-up message appeared:

You can leave now.

[OPTIONS: STAY | GO]

He hovered.

You could feel the hesitation in him, both on screen and beside you. He didn’t want to get it wrong.

Spencer selected STAY.

The sprite turned around.

The music shifted. Same melody, but warmer, rising through the static like sunrise breaking through fog. As Pixel-Spencer retraced his steps, bits of color returned to the city around him. Faint light in the windows. People walking. Tiny sprouting plants on the sidewalk.

He returned to the apartment.

Pixel-You opened the door.

They stood in silence.

Then, slowly, they reached for each other’s hands.

“We didn’t fix everything that night.”

“But we chose each other anyway.”

The cracked pixel heart pulsed once… then slowly mended.

Level Complete.

Spencer sat perfectly still.

His fingers weren’t even on the keyboard anymore.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He finally turned, voice a little rough. “You remembered all of it. Not just the good.”

You met his eyes. “It wouldn’t be us if I didn’t.”

He nodded.

And then: “Thank you.”

The quiet in the studio deepened. Not awkward, not heavy. Just full. A breath held between beats. The moment right before something gives.

— I’m actually crying what is this😭

— I’ve never felt so emotionally invested in a relationship I’m not even in

— marry her immediately. I’m serious😠

— the narrative design of this game is UNREAL

— Spencer MARRY HER

Then the screen flashed:

Next Level: Pizza Nights & Patch Notes🍕

Press Any Key to Continue

Spencer blinked. Laughed quietly.

“Okay,” he said, voice lighter but still thick with feeling. “I’m emotionally destroyed, and we’re only halfway through.”

You just smiled.

Spencer pressed a key, and the screen faded from black into something softer.

The piano theme from the last level lingered, but now it was lighter, tinged with acoustic guitar and the occasional, playful pluck of strings.

Onscreen, a pixel version of your shared apartment blinked into view.

It was rendered with quiet reverence. There was a pixel couch with a rainbow quilt tossed over the back, a laundry basket half-full in the corner, an open pizza box on the coffee table, a cat curled up on a stack of game discs. Everything glowed faintly, like golden hour through digital glass.

At the top of the screen, the level title appeared:

LEVEL FOUR: PIZZA NIGHTS & PATCH NOTES🍕

OBJECTIVE: Build a home, one night at a time.

Spencer made a soft sound in his throat, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh.

His sprite appeared at the front door. Pixel-You padded out from the kitchen, hair messy, a controller in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.

You offered it to him.

He accepted.

— THEY’RE COHABITING IN PIXELS I’M SOBBING

— this is the romcom montage level and I love it

— not the laundry basket 😭 the DETAIL

— she made a whole love letter out of GAME MECHANICS

The level played differently than the others. It was less linear and more exploratory.

Spencer moved from room to room in the apartment, clicking on different interactive elements that triggered cozy memories.

The Couch 🛋️

A cutscene played of the two of you curled up, half-asleep while the TV played something neither of you were really watching. Pixel-You mumbled something like “I’d fight a dragon for you.” Pixel-Spencer replied, “I’d let you. You’re scarier.”

The Kitchen Counter 🍕

A mini-game launched where Spencer had to build a pizza to match your ridiculous order — half mushroom, no olives, extra cheese, crust well-done. Each incorrect topping triggered a disapproving head shake from Pixel-You.

The Computer Desk 💻

The screen shifted into a debugging mini-puzzle where both sprites worked side-by-side, fixing game code and bickering flirtatiously:

“You missed a semicolon.”

“You’re a semicolon.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“It’s the tone that matters.”

The Bedroom 🛏️

A quieter moment. Just two sprites sitting on the floor, backs against the bed, looking at a laptop between them.

A single line hovered:

“We’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

As Spencer moved through the space, the pixel heart meter in the corner filled with tiny bursts of color.

The chat, which had been full of weeping moments ago, was now unhinged in the most wholesome way:

— THIS IS DOMESTIC HEALING ❤️‍🩹

— I would die for pixel game night

— the semicolon line got me I’m DONE

— if this was a real game I’d play it once a month just to feel something

— this is what love looks like. she built what love looks like 🥹

Spencer reached the final door of the level, the exit to the hallway, and paused.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “There’s no boss fight?”

“Nope.”

He blinked at you.

You shrugged. “Not every level needs one.”

Spencer stared at the screen for a long moment, and then back at you. Something unsaid flickered behind his eyes.

“I love this level,” he said, voice low and warm.

You smiled. “Me too.”

He pressed a key.

Sometimes, love is just pizza and patch notes and showing up again tomorrow.

Level Complete.

The screen faded, and the studio lights buzzed softly in the quiet between scenes. Spencer turned in his seat and looked at you, really looked at you.

“You made our life into something playable,” he murmured.

You felt your throat tighten. “Is that… weird?”

He shook his head. “It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The chat was losing its mind again, but you hardly saw it.

Everything felt soft. Golden. Fragile in the best way, like something you didn’t want to breathe on too hard in case it shattered.

Behind the camera, someone sniffled.

Courtney whispered, “If you don’t marry her by the end of this stream, I will.”

Spencer gave a watery laugh. “You might have to fight me for her.”

And with that, the screen blinked again.

The next title card hovered into view:

Next Level: Meeting the Parents (And Surviving It) 🧍🧍‍♀️

Optional Side Quest: Impress Her Dad With Trivia

Spencer groaned.

“Oh no.”

The screen flashed.

A new level title appeared. This time scrawled across the top in bold, pixel-font red, with a dramatic orchestral sting that was definitely too intense for the context.

LEVEL FIVE: MEETING THE PARENTS (AND SURVIVING IT) 🧍🧍‍♀️

OBJECTIVE: Don't say anything weird.

Spencer groaned. “I already hate this.”

You grinned beside him. “This was your actual dialogue the night before.”

The scene opened in a pixel version of a suburban home, the familiar layout replicated with lovingly specific detail. A porch with potted plants. A welcome mat that said “NO SOLICITING (unless it’s for dessert).” A digital family photo over the mantle featuring a pixel-you in braces and a comically large cat.

— PLEASE. NOT THE MAT. — no because I bet her mom actually has that💅 — that cat is photorealistic someone check on her — “don’t say anything weird” LMAO so this level is impossible

Pixel-Spencer stood at the front gate, facing a blinking objective box:

Find a way into her parents’ hearts. Warning: There is no respawn button.

The level kicked off with a split-objective structure:

Main Quest: Survive dinner with her parents

Side Quests:

🟩 Compliment her mom’s lasagna   🟨 Avoid political traps   🟪 Pretend to understand sports   🟧 Impress her dad with trivia

Spencer winced. “I’m gonna die.”

“Be careful,” you said. “There’s a passive-aggressive silence meter.”

He moved cautiously through the entryway, triggering interactions:

👩‍🦰 Pixel-Mom:

“So… you make internet videos?” [OPTIONS: Say yes proudly | Downplay it | Deflect to your girlfriend]

He chose: Say yes proudly. Pixel-Mom nodded, then added, “Hmm. So… no pension?”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered. “That’s exactly what she said.”

You cackled.

🧓 Pixel-Dad:

“What’s your opinion on The Godfather trilogy?” [OPTIONS: Say Part II is best | Say Part I is best | Say you’ve never seen it]

Spencer hovered over “Never seen it.”

You grabbed his wrist.

He gasped. “YOU PUT A TRAP IN.”

“YOU NEVER SAW IT. I HAD TO WARN YOU.”

"I DID RIGHT AFTER THIS!"

He panicked, selected Part II is best.

Pixel-Dad nodded slowly. A +1 floated above his head.

Spencer threw his hands up. “Let’s goooo!”

— the GODFATHER TRAP I’M CRYING — she built a BOSS DAD and gave him OPINIONS — no because this is actually genius game design — HOW DO I PLAY THIS IRL — SPENCER NOT SEEING A MOVIE?! AND IT BEING THE GODFATHER?!😡

In the dining room, the dinner scene was a rhythm mini-game. Spencer had to match dialogue beats and deliver compliments at appropriate times to keep the family’s heart meter from dropping.

It included such iconic moments as:

“Wow, this salad is seasoned perfectly.”

“Your garden gnome collection is charming and not creepy.”

“My daughter talks about you all the time. She adores you.”

The last line caused a spark animation. The pixel heart in the corner glowed golden, and a small cutscene triggered:

Pixel-You reached under the table and squeezed Pixel-Spencer’s hand.

“You’re doing great.”

Back in the studio, Spencer’s hand had gone still on the mouse. He stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

“I was so nervous that night,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you were perfect.”

“Your dad asked me about six different baseball stats and then grilled me on what I’d do if you got a better job across the country.”

“I warned you he was dramatic.”

Spencer chuckled. “He said if I ever broke your heart, he’d do it backwards and with flair.”

“He meant it.”

— I WANT TO MEET HER DAD SO BAD — backwards and with flair 😭 this is the dad of the year — this game is a romcom AND a coming-of-age journey I’m not okay — someone give this woman a job directing emotional indie games immediately — THEY’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE STOP

The level ended with the two pixel sprites on the front porch.

Pixel-Dad handed Pixel-Spencer a Tupperware of leftovers and gave a solemn nod.

Pixel-Mom smiled gently and said, “You make her laugh. That’s good.”

The heart meter burst into sparkles.

Love is earned one awkward dinner at a time.

Level Complete.

Spencer leaned back in his chair with a hand over his heart.

“That was somehow more stressful the second time.”

You tilted your head. “You did better this time. You didn’t call my uncle’s dog a ‘tax deduction.’”

“I STAND BY THAT. HE FILED THE DOG UNDER BUSINESS EXPENSES.”

You both burst into laughter as the next level title appeared onscreen:

Next Level: “Couch Cuddles & Code Reviews” 🛋️ Objective: Support her through the burnout. Bonus XP for forehead kisses.

Spencer stared at it, then turned to you slowly.

“Oh. It’s that level, huh?”

You only smiled.

The title card for the next level hovered onscreen, but Spencer didn’t hit continue right away.

The studio had mellowed, the usual Smosh buzz giving way to something quieter. Shayne had long stopped throwing in commentary. Courtney now sat cross-legged on the floor beside the camera rig, watching with chin in hand. Alex had pulled out his phone, not to scroll, but to film the moment, like even he didn’t want to forget it.

Spencer reached up and tugged lightly at the cable on his headset, adjusting it out of habit. His other hand hovered uncertainly near his lap until you gently reached over and laced your fingers through his.

He held on like he needed the anchor.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice low, off-mic.

He looked at you, really looked, and gave a small nod.

“Yeah. I’m just…” He exhaled, almost laughed. “This is the best and most emotionally compromising workday I’ve ever had.”

You smiled. “You’ve survived worse and have inflicted worse. You’ve got this, cinnamon.”

A soft beat.

He squeezed your hand once. “Thank you for making me a whole damn game instead of just writing me a card like a normal person.”

“I tried that,” you said. “It turned into a game design doc after paragraph three.”

He let out a breath of laughter and leaned just enough to rest his shoulder against yours for a second. Just one second. Just long enough to say I love you without saying anything at all.

And then, he pressed the key.

The screen glowed soft orange, sunset hues melting into lavender pixels.

The apartment was back. But this time, it wasn’t lively or buzzing with banter. It was quiet. Still. Cozy in a different way.

The couch sat in the middle of the screen. Blankets piled high. A mug on the side table. One lamp on, casting golden pixel light across the scene.

Pixel-Spencer entered from the right.

Pixel-You was already there, curled up under a blanket, laptop on your knees, expression tired. A progress bar hovered above your head, labeled:

Burnout Level: 87%

— NO — I’M ALREADY CRYING 😭 — THIS LEVEL IS TOO REAL TOO FAST — WHO PUT THE BURNOUT METER — why is this better emotional writing than most movies

Spencer’s hand paused briefly on the mouse.

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t need to.

He clicked forward.

The screen prompted him to Choose a Support Response:

Offer Hot Drink

Suggest a Break

Sit Beside Her in Silence

Tell Her She's Brilliant

He chose Sit Beside Her in Silence.

His sprite sat down.

No music. Just the ambient loop of soft rain on the windows and the occasional keyboard tap.

Then Pixel-Spencer leaned gently against Pixel-You.

A new prompt appeared:

Unlocked Passive Buff: Comforting Presence Burnout Level -10%

Spencer laughed quietly. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

You shrugged, heart full. “You always knew when to just sit with me.”

The level continued with small interactions. Spencer had to navigate subtle “burnout care” mechanics:

🫖 Boil water without setting off smoke alarm 🧺 Find her hoodie (that’s really yours) in the laundry and bring it over 🎮 Offer co-op game night without guilt-tripping 🧠 Remind her of her worth, even when she can’t see it

Each successful action brought your burnout meter down by small increments.

Every once in a while, Pixel-You would look over and smile.

And the heart in the top corner?

It pulsed slow and steady, like breath. Like safety.

At the end of the level, the laptop closed. Pixel-You set it aside. Then curled into Pixel-Spencer’s side on the couch.

The screen zoomed in.

A final bit of dialogue scrolled across the screen:

“You didn’t fix me.” “I didn’t need to.”

Sometimes love is just staying. Just sitting. Just being soft when the world is sharp.

Level Complete.

Spencer swallowed.

He didn’t say anything this time.

He just turned slightly and rested his forehead against your shoulder for a long, steady moment.

The chat lit up again, but neither of you looked.

— THIS IS THE REAL BOSS LEVEL — why is this game slowly putting me back together — they’ve been in love for SO LONG oh my god — I never believed in soulmates until now — he better marry her at the end or we riot

The screen shimmered again.

Next Level: Final Quest – The Big Question❓ The Endgame Begins.

Spencer whispered, “Is this…”

You just smiled, heart racing.

“Go see.”

The studio was silent again. No chaos, no offscreen bits, no commentary.

Just a quiet sort of reverence hanging over everything.

Spencer hadn’t pressed the key yet.

He stared at the new title card on screen. He exhaled slowly, fingers resting just above the keyboard.

You could feel the shift in him.

His expression had changed, softened. That boyish smirk he wore like a shield had cracked somewhere between Level 3 and Level 6, and now something much more vulnerable had taken its place.

His hand lowered.

He turned to you.

“…Is this what I think it is?” he asked softly.

Your mouth went dry.

You nodded, barely.

Spencer’s eyes searched your face for a second, not for confirmation. For readiness. For permission to let himself feel what was coming.

You gave it with a whisper.

“Yeah.”

He looked back at the screen.

Then smiled.

And pressed Enter.

The screen faded in.

This time, there was no UI. No heart meter. No objectives.

Just the pixel moon above a quiet rooftop.

It was stylized to look like the roof of your apartment complex, all crooked vents and string lights and a skyline painted in soft purples and deep navy.

Pixel-Spencer stood alone in the middle of the rooftop, looking out over the city.

Footsteps echoed.

Pixel-You entered from the right, nervous and bouncing slightly on your heels.

The music started.

It wasn’t chip-tune anymore.

It was a real recording, the melody you’d been weaving through the game, now arranged for piano and strings. The theme that had played under every level, now in its final form.

You watched Spencer’s jaw tighten slightly.

He knew it.

The sprites turned to face each other.

A prompt appeared on screen:

FINAL CHOICE: PRESS [E] TO KNEEL

Spencer froze.

The chat erupted:

— OH MY GOD — SHE’S GONNA DO IT — SHE BUILT HER OWN PROPOSAL — SPENCER DON’T CRY I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH — PRESS E KING 👑

Spencer reached forward, almost reverent.

He hit E.

Pixel-Spencer dropped to one knee. Pixel-You stepped forward, holding out a small, glowing ring.

A text box opened. No options, no dialogue trees.

Just the line:

Spencer Agnew, will you marry me?

Onscreen the music swelled, rich and full and cinematic.

And just then — as Spencer’s hand lifted to his mouth in real life, as the chat exploded in all caps, as the cameras quietly zoomed in — you stood up beside him.

And pulled the ring box from your hoodie pocket.

You dropped to one knee in front of him, heart pounding.

He turned to you, startled and blinking fast.

“Spence,” you said, your voice barely holding steady, “you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re my favorite story, my best player two, the only person I’d ever let see my unfinished builds.”

He laughed, all choked and overwhelmed.

You opened the box.

Inside: a simple, elegant band engraved with tiny binary code that read forever.

“I’ve loved you through crash bugs and pizza burns and creative burnout and weird edit hours and every version of myself,” you said. “So… I made this. Because there was never any other way I wanted to ask.”

You smiled up at him.

“Will you marry me?”

Spencer let out a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and dropped to his knees with you.

He pulled you into a hug so hard you nearly lost your balance.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

The chat was losing its mind:

— I’M CRYING ON THE FLOOR — THIS IS THE BEST STREAM OF ALL TIME — THE GAME. THE RING. THE PROPOSAL. — HE SAID YES HE SAID YES HE SAID YES — GOD TIER COUPLE — ROLL CREDITS

The final cutscene played quietly behind you, unnoticed by most:

Pixel-Spencer and Pixel-You stood on the rooftop.

The words faded in:

“You were always the quest.”

And beneath that:

Game Complete. 💍 Thank you for playing.

The stream was technically still live.

But no one was watching the screen anymore. Not even the chat, which had broken into an endless flood of crying emojis, marriage memes, and declarations like “this is why I still believe in love.”

Spencer had long since turned off his headset.

The studio crew had given you both space — stepping back with misty eyes and wide, stunned grins, as if they’d witnessed something sacred.

You were still kneeling, forehead against Spencer’s, both of you laughing breathlessly through the aftershock of what had just happened.

Then you heard it.

The credits music.

Soft. Real. Yours.

You pulled back just enough to look up at the screen.

The final scene had faded into a black background with golden scrolling text in the classic game credit style, but written entirely in your voice.

CREATED WITH LOVE BY: Me FOR: Spencer Agnew SPECIAL THANKS TO: — Your incredible hoodies — Every cup of oat milk coffee — The way you hold me when I crash — Every eye roll you tried to hide when I over-scoped the narrative DEDICATED TO: The boy who saw my mess and called it magic. The man who chose me. Bugs, burnout, soft code and all. TO BE CONTINUED…

Spencer blinked hard.

He reached over and tugged you gently into his lap on the floor, your knees curled sideways, his arms around your waist like he couldn’t quite trust the moment to last unless he held onto it.

You rested your head on his shoulder, heart full and aching in the best way.

“I don’t know how to top this,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

“I mean, I will try,” he added. “There will be at least five bouquets and a surprise musical number at our wedding featuring Chanse and Angela.”

You smiled. “As long as you’re in a cape.”

“Oh, I will be in a cape.”

He kissed your temple. “I can’t believe you made a whole damn game just to ask me to marry you.”

“I’d do it again,” you said, eyes soft. “A hundred times.”

And Spencer, voice quiet but sure, said:

“Then let’s build the sequel.”

The game credits faded out behind you.

The screen blinked once.

And then, in soft gold text:

It’s a Friday morning when you make the hasty decision to drive down to Cousins. What did it matter? Belly was off skiing with Jeremiah, Conrad, and their father. Your mum was away on a work trip. Steven was in New York chasing some internship dream. Which left you—alone, restless, and with Steven’s car keys sitting on the kitchen counter like a silent dare.

The road to Cousins feels both familiar and foreign now, like something sacred you’re trespassing on. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel as you hum softly to the old playlist Conrad made for that one road trip two summers ago. The songs hit different now. Sharper. Each note tugging at a thread you thought you’d stitched back together.

The scenery rushes past you, green blurs and golden light through the windshield, but your mind lingers on every memory like it’s caught on rewind. The ferris wheel near the pier—where he leaned over and whispered something so dumb it made you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. The arcade where the two of you played laser tag and he let you win, only to spend the next hour complaining about it. The boardwalk where he kissed you under a sunset that looked too perfect to be real. You remember how his hands had trembled slightly on your waist, and how he pulled back only to smile that quiet smile of his—the one that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

You pass the farmers market next, and your stomach twists with longing. The scent of saltwater and strawberries hits you like a wave. You remember the lazy Sundays spent wandering between the stalls, stealing bites of ice cream from his cone, swatting his arm when he pretended not to notice you doing it.

Then there’s Britt’s. You slow down without meaning to. The faded blue sign, the chipped counter stools, the smell of cinnamon sugar and hot dough that lingers like muscle memory. That was your place. Muffin runs at dawn, hair still wet from the ocean, oversized hoodies and sleepy smiles. He always paid in cash. Always gave you the top half of his muffin because you liked the crunchy lid the best.

And then, the ocean.

Your heart clenches as you glimpse the water stretching out in the distance, shimmering beneath the pale winter sun. That’s where you surfed your first wave. You can still feel his hand wrapped around yours, steadying you, anchoring you. You’d been terrified. He’d said, “I won’t let go,” and he hadn’t. Not that day. But there’s something magical about the town as you pull into the town, something that ignites a small smile within your heart. Because Cousins doesn’t look the same anymore. Everything is covered in a soft, quiet layer of snow, like someone pressed pause on the whole world. The ocean is still there, wild and dark in the distance, but the sky above it is pale and heavy with clouds. The boardwalk creaks under the weight of frost. The steps to the arcade are dusted in white. Even the ferris wheel stands still, its spokes rimmed with ice, abandoned for the season. A hush has settled over everything—the kind of hush that only winter brings. You park on the side of the road, stepping out into the cold, and your boots crunch against the slush that’s begun to turn grey along the curb.

It’s strange seeing it like this. You’re used to Cousins in technicolor—sunlight dripping through the trees, sea spray in the air, laughter carried on the breeze. But now, the town feels like a memory that’s been frozen in time. Snow clings to rooftops and buries the wildflowers that once lined the fences. Britt’s still has its sign up, though the windows are fogged, and there’s a CLOSED sign hanging crookedly against the glass. You pause in front of it anyway, peering in, half-expecting to see your past selves sitting there. Him leaning back against the booth, you with your knees curled up, hands wrapped around a paper cup of cocoa you didn’t even like—but ordered it anyway just to warm your fingers. You shiver, before driving past, and slotting yourself in front of the beach house that welcomes you with soft whispers. You creak the door open, the cold air greeting your face and the lack of noise seemed to startle you. You’d never been in Cousins when it was so…quiet. It lacked the life and luster that it seemed to sing in the summer. You pause, stopping at a small framed photo of Susannah on the wall. And there she is, smiling, joyous, free. You let your thumb touch over her cheek, a tear stinging your eye. You sigh softly, before triumphing up the stairs, and putting your bags down.

The movie flickers faintly across your laptop screen, casting shifting shadows along the walls of the Cousins living room. You’re bundled on the couch, surrounded by silence and the soft hum of the heater, barely paying attention to the film as your eyelids grow heavier with each scene. Then — A car door slams outside. You jolt upright. Your breath stills in your throat. No one was supposed to be here. A crunch of gravel. You slam your laptop shut in a panic, plunging the room into darkness. Heart pounding, you stumble off the couch and grab the fireplace poker, hands clammy with adrenaline. The front door creaks. You raise the poker above your head with trembling arms.

“I swear, I’ll stab you!” you yell, your voice cracking slightly. A familiar voice answers.

“Woah—Y/N?! It’s me!” You freeze.

“Conrad?” He steps into the entryway, duffel slung over one shoulder, curls slightly damp with melting snow, brows raised.

“Why are you about to murder me with a fire poker?” You exhale loudly and drop the iron weapon back where it belongs, embarrassment flooding your face.

“I thought you were— I don’t know. A burglar. Or worse. You can’t just show up like that, I almost took your eye out!” He holds up his hands in surrender, smiling faintly.

“Noted. Next time I’ll knock.” Still flustered, you wipe your palms on your hoodie.

“What… are you doing here? Aren’t you meant to be skiing with Belly and your brother and stuff?”

“Flight got delayed cause of the weather,” he says simply, shifting his bag off his shoulder. “I didn’t want to sleep on a plastic chair at the airport, so I figured I’d crash here. Is that okay?” You nod, a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I’m going to go up…I’m pretty tired.”

“Mhm.”

“Cool,” he says softly. Then, a pause.

“Night, Y/N.”

“Night.” He disappears down the hall without another word. You stay frozen for a moment, staring after him before finally crawling back under your blanket — heart still hammering, but for a much different reason now.

You wake up late. Too late. The snow outside is blinding through the windows, and you scramble out of bed, thinking Conrad’s already gone — that you missed your chance to say goodbye. You tear down the hallway, feet slipping against the hardwood floor— Then crash hard into the bottom step.

“Shit—ow, fuck-” you groan, curling onto your side. You hear rushed footsteps and then hands on your shoulders.

“Y/N?” You blink up — dazed, wind knocked out of you — into Conrad’s face. He’s crouched beside you, concern all over his features. His hand gently brushes your hair back, checking for injuries.

“You okay? You just wiped out,” he says, half-laughing now that he knows you’re not dying.

“I thought you left,” you mumble, dazed and a little breathless. He chuckles.

“No, I was just grabbing a coffee in the kitchen.” You huff, letting out a sarcastic laugh, before whimpering and crawling into yourself, cradling your head. Conrad steadies you with both hands, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, you're definitely not okay.” You don’t argue. Mostly because you're still sprawled dramatically at the bottom of the stairs, one sock half-off, the other foot freezing, head spinning slightly. He gently hooks an arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

“Woah-am I flying?!” You giggle.

“You might’ve concussed yourself, Y/N. Just let me help.” You blink up at him as he lifts you like it’s nothing, carrying you across the living room.

“You smell like winter,” you murmur. “Like cold and pine and that stupid soap you use.”

“Thanks, I think?” He sets you gently down on the couch, grabbing the nearest throw blanket and tucking it around you like he's done it a hundred times before. You keep babbling, eyes half-lidded.

“Your hair's all messy. And wet. Like a sad golden retriever. I like it.” You reach out and flick a damp curl off his forehead, completely unfiltered.

“Your eyes are insane, too. They're like… angry ocean. But in a hot way.” His eyebrows shoot up.

“Okay, you're either concussed or drunk.”

“I’m just…” you trail off, giggling, cheeks flushed. “Snow drunk. That's a thing, right?” He kneels next to the couch, smiling despite himself.

“Snow drunk. Sure. We'll go with that.” Your smile fades just a little as your gaze softens, locking onto his. “You’re really pretty, you know.” Conrad breathes out softly, face faltering as your proximity lessens.

“Y/N…” But before he can say anything else — before you can second-guess yourself — you lean in and kiss him. It’s slow. Clumsy at first, your cold fingers brushing his jaw, but he doesn’t pull away. His lips are warm, surprised but still, like he’s been waiting. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s happening. When you part, your forehead rests against his.

“Merry Christmas Y/N.” He whispers, breath hot on your lips.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

“Out,” you responded, crossing your arms over your dress that was way too short in Bob’s opinion. You felt goosebumps crawl up your skin as Bob met your eyes and stared, and eyebrow cocked in suspicion.

He hummed, “Out… Where? Outside? It’s supposed to rain soon, I hope you know. You’ll get cold in that dress.” You rolled your eyes at him, he was being a smartass and both you and he knew it.

You scoffed, “No, doofus, out as in I’m going out. With someone.”

Bob felt a familiar feeling rise up his chest and in his stomach. He hated when you went out with random dudes who don’t even like you for you. They don’t know you like he does—don’t love you like he does.

The brunette went through every excuse to keep you here in his mind, but knew none of them would actually work. He still tried though. “Can’t you reschedule? Like I said, it’s about to rain, storm even, and it could be dangerous for you to go out.” Oh man, he was horrible at making up excuses. He struggled to find the right words to keep you here in the Watchtower with him, but they didn’t work. You really wanted to see this guy, apparently.

With a sigh, you walked over to Bob and rubbed your hand up and down his arm, “Thanks for your concern, Bob, but I’ll be okay. I can handle myself. Especially a little bit of rain.”

“But it’s gonna storm-“

You giggled, “Okay, I can handle a storm, Bob.” He sighed and looked down. There was no persuading you into staying home with him and he was finally starting to accept it. “I’ll be just fine, I promise.”

He nodded, still not meeting your gaze. “Is he picking you up, at least?” There was at least that, and it would ensure your safety which is all he cared about.

You sighed and shook your head, “No. He said it would be easier if I met him at his place so he would have more time to get ready.” Bob could hear the disappointment and embarrassment in your tone, not liking the idea of a selfish douche who won’t even pick up his date just because he needs more time to get ready.

“Are you serious?” The words flew out of Bob’s lips before he even had the chance to think about saying them. His eyes snapped up to yours, which were filled with an emotion he can’t read.

You gave him a nod, wishing you didn’t agree to go on this stupid date in the first place.

“Can I at least walk you there? I’ll leave before he sees me, I just want to make sure you get there safely.” Bob grabbed your hands that began to fumble with the fabric of your dress and held them gently.

Smiling, you nodded your head as blush crept up your cheeks and butterflies erupted in your stomach. “Of course you can.”

———

The walk to your date’s house was filled with a comfortable silence between you and Bob. There were people roaming the streets, making the usual bustle of a crowd, but it blended in the background as all you could think of was the brunette next to you.

As the crowd began to get bigger, Bob’s pinky finger found yours as you both waited for the crosswalk light to change, his heart rate picking up. Not only was he touching you, but he also hated big crowds. He always got anxious around big groups of people, always finding solace in the feeling of your pinky wrapped around his, grounding him that it’ll be okay and you were there. There with him. He’d rather stay inside all the time and avoid going out, but you dragged him out of his introvert shell without even knowing it. He would do anything for you, even if that meant being in a large crowd of strangers in the big state of New York.

“You okay?” You looked over to him with a soft look in your eyes, squeezing his pinky a little to reassure him.

He snapped out of his daze and looked down at you, “Y-yeah. I’m okay. This light is taking forever, though.” He puffed his cheeks, only making you let out a giggle. The sound of your laugh brings a smile to his lips, occupying his mind from his anxiousness with his favorite sound momentarily. He loved making you laugh, it made him feel special, and it meant so much to him.

The light finally changed, illuminating a little white silhouette of a person that instructed you to walk. The large flock of people began walking across the street, their moves quick and mindless of the others around them. You tugged Bob’s finger as you stepped onto the street, dragging him along with you to the other side.

Once you made it to the sidewalk, you looked over to Bob whose face was flushed and beat red—you assumed it was from the quick pace you were walking, but it definitely was not from that.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you spoke as the two of you strolled past stores and cafés and clubs that were surprisingly—but not really—still busy and filled with lively people. Bob nodded but stayed quiet, still following you as you turned a corner that led to a residential area.

The feeling of dread overwhelmed Bob; he knew that you were getting close to this guy’s house and hated the idea of leaving you alone with him.

This area was less crowded, you and Bob were actually the only people on this side of the street. There were a couple of others on the opposite side of the road, but where you walked it was just the two of you.

Silence filled the air around you both once again, but a loud clap of thunder broke it. Bob jumped slightly, unlacing his finger from yours to hold your hand. He hated storms, they brought back bad memories from his childhood and he always came to you for comfort during them. You remembered him telling you stories from his childhood after he got comfortable with you and trusted you, this fact being one of them.

You gripped his hand tight and tugged him closer to you, your arms pressed against each other like they were made to fit just like that. Bob let out a shaky breath as you continued walking, feeling his tense shoulders loosen a bit from your touch.

You were here. With him. It was going to be okay.

But soon you wouldn’t be with him. You would be with some random guy in his house, possibly even sitting on his couch while you waited for him to get ready. Alone. With him. Not with Bob.

He knew what he had signed up for when he offered to walk you to your date’s house. It would be pouring down rain by the time he dropped you off and walked back to the Watchtower, and even worse, it would be thundering and lightning. But he didn’t care about that. He was going to face his fears to make sure you were safe.

As you walked hand in hand, Bob couldn’t help but think of all the times he watched you go out with random men you met online or at a bar or whatever. He hated seeing you in the arms of someone else. Of another man. Another man who wasn’t him. He would see you kiss guys who don’t deserve your lips, dance with guys who don’t deserve to touch you, and get into cars of guys who don’t deserve you period.

He was sick of this. Sick of seeing your heart being taken away from him. It tears his world apart, and even worse, his heart in two. He should be the one feeling your lips on his. He should be dancing with you, even though he cannot dance whatsoever. He should be taking you on dates. He should be the one. Even though he doesn’t think he deserves it. Deserves you. Because no man could ever deserve you.

He beats himself up each day for not just telling you how he feels, but he didn’t want to ruin the great friendship the two of you shared. He couldn’t lose you, it would break him even more than watching you go out with guys who don’t actually love you.

Nothing could be worse than losing you.

Even though he loved you first and more than any other guy you dated could.

———

“Bob, you should just tell her.” Yelena’s voice spoke in his ear as he watched you dancing with some guy, his arms wrapped around your waist, hands slowly moving down your hips. God, Bob wanted to puke.

Valentina thought it was a great idea to throw a party at the Watchtower, and said it was “good publicity” for the New Avengers. The lights were dimmed and colorful lights were strung up all around the place that lit up the area. Lit up you on the dance floor and the stupid guy whose hands were sliding down a little too far for Bob’s liking.

Bob rolled his eyes with a sigh before looking down at his hands. He and Yelena sat at the bar with a perfect view of where you were dancing. He made sure to sit somewhere he could see you and make sure you were okay without disturbing your fun.

“I can’t. She doesn’t feel the same way about me,” Bob took a sip of his drink—a Shirley Temple with a few too many cherries it, just how he liked it. He didn’t drink alcohol, not since he had gotten sober from his drug addiction. He didn’t want to go down that road again.

Yelena scoffed and took a swig of her drink. “Bullshit, Bob.” She told him multiple times that she saw the way you looked at him, and that you most definitely felt the same way, but Bob never listened. He just couldn’t believe you would feel that way about him. No way. Why would you go out on so many dates with random guys if you did?

He didn’t answer her, only took another sip of his drink and chewed on one of the soft cherries as his gaze landed on you once again.

It should’ve been him dancing with you. He could’ve been where he is standing. With you and holding you so close that your bodies molded together like a completed puzzle.

It should’ve been him.

But it wasn’t.

———

The first time Bob saw you kiss a guy that wasn’t him, he felt his whole world crumble into a million pieces.

Since you were gone on a date, he felt brave and went out of the Watchtower all by himself to go to a nearby bookstore a few blocks down. He definitely didn’t pick it because it was right across the street from the restaurant you were at. Absolutely not. He wanted a certain book and it just so happened that the bookstore right across the street from you had it in stock. Definitely no other reason.

You had told him where you were going, just in case anything happened and you needed him. And he definitely did NOT force the information out of you before you left.

As he was checking out at the register with the book he came for and a few others, he peered behind the cashier and into the window to see if he could spot you. Gently grabbing the bag of books and his change from the cashier, he bid her a kind “Bye, have a nice evening.” and left the store.

His eyes finally found you, smiling and laughing at whatever your date was saying as you both made your way outside the building. He didn’t hold the door for you, and that made Bob scoff. He would’ve held the door for you. He would hold and do anything for you without being asked. But this guy didn’t.

Bob watched as the guy grabbed your wrist as you tried to start walking away. Walking back to the Watchtower. Back to Bob. He pulled you into his chest, and brought his lips to yours in an instant, his hands finding their way to cradle your head. Bob felt his insides explode in fire and fury as he watched you stand still with this guy’s hands on your head and lips on yours.

God, that should’ve been him.

He clutched the bag in his hand tightly as he watched you pull away from the kiss you and your date shared. He felt like a creep watching you like this, but reassured himself that he was just looking out for you. No harm in that.

Except there was. Watching you kiss someone else hurt. It hurt so bad because he knew that it would never be him kissing you. It hurt because you’ll never know Bob’s true feelings for you, and he knew you’d never reciprocate them.

That’s what hurts the most.

———

“Bob? Are you okay? You’re being kinda quiet,” your voice brought him back to reality. Brought him back from his torturous memories of you with other men.

He looked over at you as another clap of thunder erupted from the sky, “Yeah. I was just thinking about something, sorry.” He looked away from your concerned face and down at the concrete beneath his feet.

“Thinking about what?” You asked, but Bob immediately shook his head. He couldn’t tell you what exactly he was thinking about because he was thinking about you. Like he always was.

“Nothing. It’s not important,” he shook off, not wanting to discuss it anymore. You just nodded and went along with it, noticing how something was bothering him but didn’t push because it was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it.

After walking for a few more minutes, you finally stopped in front of what Bob assumed was your date’s house. His heart rate picked up once again, not ready to be alone without you with him.

“Well, this is the place,” you gestured to the building before you with your free hand. You turned to Bob with an appreciative smile on your face, “Thank you for walking with me, Bob.”

He felt a bittersweet smile form on his face, a soft nod as he spoke, “Of course, Y/n/n. Anytime.” You looked into his eyes as thunder boomed in your ears once again, making Bob squeeze your hand tightly.

“Are you going to be okay walking home?” You asked, silently communicating the fact that you know he hates storms and are concerned about him walking home alone in one.

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, “I’ll be fine.” You give him an unsure look, eyebrow raised. He laughed softly, “I’m serious, Y/n, I’ll be okay. If it makes you feel better, I’ll text you when I get back home.”

You sighed, “Please do.” He gave you a smile in response as you let go of his hand to walk to the door. His smile faltered slightly as the he felt the cool breeze of the nighttime air touch his hand when yours left it, wishing your soft, warm hand never left his.

He heard thunder again as he turned away and started to walk back the way you both came from the Watchtower, a familiar feeling settling deep in his stomach and chest as he walked away from you. He didn’t want to leave you here. He wanted you to come back home with him and spend the rest of the night watching movies and eating junk food until 3am.

As he began to move his feet in the other direction, away from you, his mind raced through all sorts of feelings and thoughts of you and what would happen if he told you how he felt. Maybe if he told you now, you wouldn’t step through that door to that guy’s house and go out on a date with him and possibly kiss him. The thought of that idiot kissing you irked him in so many ways to the point that Bob felt nauseous.

He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. He was so sick of this feeling, of yearning for someone who constantly puts themself through shitty dates in hopes of finding the one. Why were you searching for the one when he was standing right in front of your face this whole time?

The uncertain feelings that you didn’t feel the same way flooded him in that moment of thinking, however. What if he made a big mistake and ruined your friendship forever? What if he made it awkward between the two of you? God, he can’t lose you. He’d rather lose the world and anything else than you.

Before meeting you, he never understood what love felt like, receiving and giving. He never felt love from his parents in his childhood, so he didn’t know what it looked and felt like to be loved and cared about. And because of that, he never knew how to love either. He had a hard time trusting people, and always felt like a burden to everyone. But that changed when he met you.

From the first time your eyes met his, he knew that you were different from the others. From the very beginning, you had always been gentle with him and cared about his wellbeing and made him feel wanted. You had this soft twinkle in your eyes when you looked up at him, a look he hadn’t seen from anyone else. Maybe that’s what Yelena was talking about.

“I see the way she looks at you, Bob. She only has those eyes for you.”

Yelena’s voice played through his head as he thought about the way you looked at him and no one else. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy that you felt the same way about him. But he just couldn’t for the life of him wrap that thought around his head that you could actually feel that way towards him. He wasn’t lovable, didn’t feel like he was anyway. He’d done some bad things in his past, and he believed he didn’t deserve to be loved by anyone. Especially by you.

But he knew one thing.

That guy inside didn’t deserve you either, and Bob needed to do something about it before it was too late and too far gone. You would eventually find the one, and Bob wasn’t going to let that happen.

He had to tell you how he felt, and he had to tell you now. The rejection would sting and shatter his heart in a million pieces but maybe that’s what he needs to get over you and move on. He was terrified. He didn’t want to lose your friendship, but he knew if he didn’t tell you now, he never would.

So he did something he never thought he would do.

“Y/n, wait!” He quickly spun around as the words left his lips without thinking. You stopped your tracks at the top of the steps by the door, your finger hovering over the buzzer to your date’s apartment.

You felt nervousness wash over you, “Yeah?”

Bob sighed and clenched his fists tightly, “Don’t go in there.” God, what was he doing? He regretted opening his mouth, but there was no turning back now. His eyes met yours, which were filled with confusion as your hand dropped down to your side.

“W-what??” You didn’t know what was going on or what Bob was doing, but you couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved when he stopped you. “Why not?” You finally mustered up something to say to a very nervous Bob.

“Because…” He started, but didn’t know what to say or how to say what he feels. You stood there waiting for his answer as another boom of thunder filled the city and lightning illuminated the sky. “Umm… never mind. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything. Have a nice date.” He quickly blurted out before turning around and walking away from you, his fingers fumbling with the end of his sweater.

You felt your heart sink a little before running down the stairs and over to Bob before he got too far. “No, wait!” You caught up to him and grabbed his arm, softly tugging him back to stop him and turn him towards you. You felt a cold drop of rain hit your forehead as he spun around, making sure to not meet your gaze. “Bob…” You brought your hand up to his chin to make him look at you, his eyes filled with a sadness that made your heart melt. “Why don’t you want me to go in there?” You asked again, but oh-so softly this time.

He looked at you with flushed cheeks and worry filling up in his chest. This was it. The moment he didn’t want to come because he would tell you his feelings and you were going to reject him and tell him you didn’t feel the same. This was the moment he knew he was going to lose your friendship. “Because I hate seeing you go on dates with guys who don’t care about you like I do.”

Your heart skipped a beat, rapidly beating up your throat as Bob spoke to you. He couldn’t possibly be implying what you think he was implying, right?

“W-what do you mean?” You had to ask, had to know what exactly he meant by that. Your heart needed to know even though it was most likely going to crush it.

You felt another raindrop hit your face. And another. And another.

He looked down, “I mean, they don’t care about anything but the few facts they know about you. They don’t know you like I know you.” The rain began to pick up, raindrops falling on your still confused eyes.

“I still don’t understand-“

“Of course you don’t understand!” Bob’s voice boomed, startling you from his abrupt loudness. His eyes weren’t soft and sad anymore, now they were replaced with slight annoyance. “All you do is busy yourself by going out on dates with random men who don’t know you or give a shit about you.”

You gape at him, his words kind of stung. The rain picked up and started flowing down a bit faster as you stared at him in shock. “I do not.” What had gotten into him?

He pushed his fingers through his now-wet brown locks, “Yes you do! You always tell me about how you’re trying to find the right guy or someone to make you happy. How are you supposed to find someone like that on a dating app? Those guys don’t care about you, Y/n.” The rain was pouring now, soaking your clothes and your hair that you spent over an hour fixing. You could tell Bob was getting angry, and this was a side you never saw from him. What happened to your sweet Bob?

“And how are you so sure, Robert?” Your cadence was laced with venom now. You tried to be calm, but his anger and hurtful words made you upset and frustrated. You never used his full name, it was always Bob or doofus. He didn’t like hearing Robert come from your lips, it sounded foreign.

He scoffed and rubbed his eyes, the rain water beginning to burn. He felt his tense shoulders start to loosen slightly, even though the stress was still present in his body. This was going nowhere, and arguing was not what he intended on doing at the very moment. He had to tell you what he meant to tell you now before it was too late. “They don’t deserve your time, Y/n. And they especially don’t deserve you.”

You gave him an incredulous look, “What are you saying, Bob?” You were confused, angry, soaked, and quickly losing your patience. You looked at him expectantly, urging him to answer your question before you turned around and buzzed that damn buzzer to get you out of the rain.

He pushed his wet hair out of his face once again before beginning, “I can’t stand watching you go on dates with guys who don’t care about your wellbeing. With guys who don’t know you like I do and don’t know your likes and dislikes. With guys who really only talk about themselves and never ask about what you enjoy. It’s so hard listening to you after each date talking about how selfish these guys are and then watching you go out with a different one the next day!”

He ran his hand down his face, wiping the rain off just for it to pelt down on it once again. “When are you going to see that the right guy is standing right in front of you?!” His breathing was heavy and short as he stared into your eyes, feeling the weight begin to lift off his shoulders. Your eyes widened.

“Bob…” You began, not knowing what the hell words were or how to form a sentence in that moment.

He shook his head, water droplets hitting your face from his wet hair. “God, I’m so in love with you.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. He can’t look at your face right now, it would take every bit of confidence out of him. “Ever since we met and I looked into your eyes, I knew it. Even though I never understood what love felt like before, I realized that it was what I felt about you. I’ve loved you from the start and will till the very end. You’re the only person to make me feel like this and always will be. Even if you don’t feel the same way, my heart will always be yours.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt water fall down your cheeks. You couldn’t tell if they were tears or if it was the pelting rain, but you didn’t care. Bob put his feelings into words so beautifully it was poetic, making the butterflies in your stomach go crazy as you stared at the man in front of you. The right guy. The one.

He spoke the same feelings you had been feeling for a very long time now, feelings you thought he didn’t reciprocate. But he did. All of your constant overthinking and worry washed away at his confession, bringing you a certain joy that you thought you would never feel. The joy of being loved. The joy of being loved by Bob.

“Please say something,” his voice was low and laced with uncertainty. His eyes were open now but glued to the ground, watching the rain drops hit the puddles underneath your feet.

Your hand finds his chin, lifting it up to meet your gaze. There were tears in his eyes, you think, you couldn’t quite tell by the rain but saw the look on his face. He looked so defeated and dejected when he looked at you, expecting his heart to be crushed even more than it already was.

You brought your other hand to his face to cradle it like it was the most fragile thing in the world, a soft smile creeping up at the corners of your soft lips. “I’m so in love with you too, Bob.”

His eyes widened as thunder thrummed through the air once again, but the two of you barely heard it. You were both focused on one thing and one thing only, and that was each other. Your surroundings, the rain, the thunder, and even your date who was probably wondering where you are were silently in the background. Nothing else mattered except the two of you in that moment.

“You… you do?” Bob’s voice was still uncertain as his eyes flickered between yours and your lips. He needed to make sure he heard that correctly before he lost control of his senses and kissed the hell out of you.

You nodded, feeling Bob’s hands moving to tuck your wet hair out of your face before cupping it tenderly. “I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” Your forehead met his, both wet and cold from the pouring-down rain.

His eyes met yours, “Can I kiss you?”

“Of course you can, doofus.”

That was all it took for Bob to place his lips on yours and kiss you with such delicacy it makes you dizzy. It was slow and passionate, your lips moving and molding together in a way they were destined. You could taste the raindrops and salty tears on his lips and were sure he could taste the same on yours. The rain in the background created a wall around you and the only two people within those walls were you and Bob. His lips were so soft against yours, and it just felt so right.

You finally broke away from the kiss after what felt like hours of bliss and passion to catch your breath, just staring deeply into one another with a fondness no one else could give. The sound of the rain was the only one you heard, but there was still a comfortable silence between you two.

After a minute, Bob smiled and leaned in to place a tender kiss on your nose, “I love you so much.” His face was only inches away from yours but yet he still wasn’t close enough.

“I love you so much more,” your lips turned upwards as heat flushed your cold rain-soaked cheeks.

He hummed and shook his head, “Not possible.” Before you could speak up again, he leaned into your ear and his lips ghosted over it. “And you should probably cancel your date.” You could feel him grinning into your ear as you let out a giggle. He pulled away when you grabbed your phone out of your purse, sending a quick text to the guy before deleting and blocking his number.

You weren’t going on any other dates with random guys anymore. The only man who will be taking you out on dates from now on is Bob. And you couldn’t be happier.

———

“Hey, Bob, have you seen my-“ Yelena barged into Bob’s room, not even thinking about the fact that you might be in there before bursting through his door. “-charger.”

Her eyes were wide when she saw the two of you lying down on his bed with you on top of him and a movie playing softly in the background. Your lips were moving together slowly and passionately as Bob’s hands made their way up your back and to your hair, your limbs tangled with each other.

The sound of Yelena’s voice caused you both to snap your heads up and lips away from each other. Both of your lips were kiss-swollen and your eyes were wide, the looks on your faces were filled with embarrassment as you got caught making out with your boyfriend. Does anyone knock these days??

Yelena shivered and gagged, “You know what, I’ll just use Ava’s.” She then turned on her heel and slammed the door shut behind her, wanting to burn the image she just saw out of her brain forever.

With the slam of Bob’s door, you turned your head back to him and let out a flustered giggle. He grinned and laughed softly along with you, bringing his hands back down to settle on your hips.

Bob brushed your hair behind your ear with one hand, the grin on his swollen lips growing even bigger and eyes beaming up at you. God, did he love you.

You sighed, a smile still evident on your face and cheeks flushed bright red as you gazed down at him. “Yelena is never going to let us live that down.”

Bob chuckled, “Nope.” His hands traveled their way back up to their spot in your hair before pulling your face closer to his. “But I don’t care. I just wanna kiss you again.” And then he did, your lips met his again and moved and molded together like a puzzle that was finally finished.

You let him in—because of course you did—and he was on you in seconds. There was no way you were going to push him off. You’ve been in love with him for the better part of a decade. 

It was hot and desperate. All teeth and tongue, and handprints seared into your skin—ones you know you’ll never forget the feeling of. You were both so fucking wrecked there was no stopping it. 

Not even when the condom obviously broke while he was putting it on. 

Not even when something deep in your chest told you this was a bad idea. 

But now? Three weeks later—you wish you’d had more restraint. 

Sure, it was awkward the next morning—after Tyler snuck out of your room at three a.m., thinking you hadn’t noticed. It stayed awkward for about a week, with neither of you daring to talk about it. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t bring it up. It was obviously just one night for him. Maybe he was just curious. You’ve been friends for so long. A lot of friends have slept together at least once… right? 

But even in that painfully awkward week of trying to relearn how to be friends, you couldn’t quite regret it. 

Because eventually, he cracked a joke. Then you said something sarcastic. And although there was still a hint of something more simmering under the surface, things almost felt normal again. 

Almost. 

It’s only now that you regret it—everything. 

Right now, as you stare at the two pink lines on the stick beside the sink, your vision blurred with tears, and your stomach roiling with nausea. 

The harsh crack of knuckles against the bathroom door startles you, sending your heart leaping into your throat. 

“You alright in there?” Lily calls through the wood. “It’s been like ten minutes—I’m getting worried. Do I need to break down the door?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. “Y-Yeah, I’m all good.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Lily speaks again, her voice lower this time. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good.” 

You shake your head and hastily wipe the wetness from your cheeks. Then you snap a photo of the pregnancy test before tossing it into the trash—this is just a gas station bathroom. No one’s tracing that stick back to you unless they run a DNA test, and that’s not likely. 

It’s not like you plan on going missing. Just… away. For a while. 

You splash your face with cool water and stare at your reflection in the mirror until you’re convinced you look close enough to normal. Then you square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. 

It’s only Lily waiting there—thank God—but she’s already watching you with sharp, perceptive eyes. 

“You good?” 

You nod once, forcing a smile. “Never better. Sorry. Lady stuff.” 

Technically not a lie. Still, you cringe at the way it comes out. You’re not someone who shies away from saying things plainly—especially not something as basic as a damn period. 

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push. 

“Alright. Let’s get going. Tyler said we’re only twenty minutes out from a decent-sized town. Should be able to find good food and a motel where we don’t have to share rooms.” 

You nod again, not trusting yourself to laugh or offer a sarcastic remark. You just walk past her, the fake smile still fixed to your face, and head for the door. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re climbing out of the RV in a motel parking lot. Tyler’s truck is parked beside the reception office, his hat on the dashboard and Boone waiting in the front seat. Dani and Dexter walk ahead of you, muttering about something they saw pop up on the radar earlier, and Lily is rummaging around in the back seat of Tyler’s truck—her butt sticking out the passenger door—looking for the headphones she lost yesterday. 

Your heart aches at the thought of leaving, throbbing dully behind your sternum. You’re not sure if the nausea swirling in your gut is from the idea of walking away from your friends—your family—or because of your newly discovered… condition. Either way, you feel sick. And you need space. Time to think. To breathe. 

Once everyone has a room, you lug your few belongings up to the second floor and collapse onto the bed. You text Lily, telling her you feel sick sick—period pains—and that you’re going to skip dinner. You ask her to tell the others for you, because you can’t stomach lying to their faces. 

You spend the next few hours on your laptop, reading everything you can about pregnancy. You scroll through pages about what happens to your body, how your life is going to change. You read about complications, risks, even abortion. 

It’s strange, really. You’ve always been practical, logical. And this doesn’t seem like the practical choice. But you knew the second you saw those two lines that you were going to keep it. 

Call it maternal instinct. Or just plain insanity. Either way, your mind is made up. 

Now you just need a plan. 

Most people don’t announce their pregnancy until twelve weeks—you know that much—so you’re giving yourself twelve weeks to sort your shit out. 

First, you need to leave. You’ll make up some excuse about a sick family member and tell the crew your mom needs you immediately. Tyler will try to come with you—call it a detour or a bonus road trip—so you’ll have to convince him your mom only wants to see you. No one else. 

Then you’ll leave for... an indefinite stretch. You’re not going straight to your mom’s. You’ll hole up in a hotel halfway home, see a doctor, get the blood tests, the shots, the supplements—all the crap you’re supposed to do. 

Once your head is on straighter and you’ve got a handle on things, you’ll start looking for an apartment. Something short-term, just in case… well, in case you lose the baby. At least then you’ll have somewhere to crash and recover before deciding what comes next. It feels morbid, sure, but you’re not a total daydreamer. Life can be brutal, and you know better than to think you’ll be spared. 

But assuming things go well—assuming you hit that twelve-week mark after moving in—that’s when you’ll start telling people. You’ll tell your mom first, maybe find a therapist and tell them too. And then... Tyler. 

The moment his name crosses your mind, your body reacts. You jump up from the motel bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom, hunching over the toilet and gagging like you’re going to throw up. But nothing comes up—your stomach is empty. You know this isn’t the pregnancy making you sick. It’s the thought of telling him. 

It feels cruel, waiting three whole months before telling the father. But you can’t bring yourself to do it any sooner. You know this isn’t what Tyler wants. Especially not with you. What happened between you was a one-time thing—a fun night, a way to blow off steam. It wasn’t meant to change everything. 

So you’ll wait. Make sure it’s real. Make sure it’s sticking. Plain and simple. Harsh? Maybe. But you need time to figure yourself out before dropping a bomb on him. And by the time you do, it’ll be six months to impact. Give or take. 

You have no idea how he’ll react, but you know it won’t be like one of those social media videos where the dad cries and jumps for joy. No—this will be very different. Which is exactly why you’re not telling him for at least a month or two. You’ll figure out exactly how far along you are once you see a doctor. 

You take a deep breath and snap your laptop shut. Time to get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of driving tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy. 

- 

“What?” Tyler drops his bacon back onto the plate, staring at you wide-eyed across the diner table. “If you’re going home, then we’re all-” 

“No, Tyler,” you interrupt, sighing as you stare down at the table. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “She said just me. I know you want to help, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. I’ll call as soon as I get there and keep you updated. I just—she sounded really fragile, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm her.” 

It doesn’t feel like that much of a lie. You’re not talking about your mom—you’re talking about yourself. At least, that’s how you justify it to your guilty conscience. 

“You sure?” Lily asks, leaning forward beside Tyler. “We don’t have to go see her. We can just come to town, hang out nearby. We don’t mind staying a week or so.” 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked on your untouched plate of plain toast and fried eggs. “It might not be a week,” you say, bracing yourself. “It could be a couple of months.” 

“Months?” Dani echoes, her coffee cup clattering against the table. 

Tyler looks stunned, frozen in place. His expression is unreadable—shock, maybe disbelief, etched into every line of his face. His lips are slightly parted—lips you haven’t stopped thinking about, hot on your skin—and his brows pinch together. His cheeks are flushed, but not with embarrassment. He looks... unsure. Concerned. 

“What are we going to do without you for a couple months?” Lily asks, her eyes wide. 

You wave a hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ll be fine. I’ll only be a phone call away. If I can come back earlier, I will. But right now, I really need to be there for... for my mom.” 

God, you’re a terrible liar this morning. 

“When do you need to leave?” Tyler asks, his voice low and flat. 

You swallow hard, still staring at your toast. “Today.” 

A wave of protests, questions, and complaints breaks out—everyone but Tyler. He stays silent, still watching you like he’s trying to piece something together. Like you’re a puzzle he didn’t realise needed solving. 

He looks at you like he sees straight through the lie. His green eyes don’t blink, and it makes your stomach churn. 

For the next half hour, you lie and deflect as best you can. You keep your head down, your answers short. No promises, no explanations. Breakfast turns into a full-blown protest, your friends more upset than you expected by your sudden departure. But no matter how hard they try, nothing could convince you to stay. 

You can’t. 

Back at the motel, you pack your things. You’d already asked Dexter to drive you to the nearest car rental place—he grumbled but agreed. Now comes the part you’re dreading. 

The goodbyes. 

To them, this is temporary—a month or two, maybe. But you know better. This is something else. Something longer. More permanent. 

Moisture stings your eyes as you zip your duffel shut. Your nose burns, and this time, you don’t stop the tears from falling. 

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice startles you, and you realize in your rush to get into the room, you hadn’t fully shut the door. 

You sniff and wipe your cheeks, keeping your back to him. “Hey.” You clear your throat. “What’s up?” 

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?” 

You don’t respond. You just keep your head down and continue stuffing the last of your things into your backpack. 

He sighs as the door clicks shut behind him. A few steps bring him closer, and you can almost feel his warmth hovering just a few feet behind you. 

“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to press you about what’s really going on. But it’s obvious something’s got you rattled. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are. Whatever it is.” 

You close your eyes, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“I’m worried,” he continues. “This isn’t you. Cutting and running like this? I know you. I know your family. This is something else. And I’m really damn worried.” 

“It’s fine, Ty,” you say, your voice catching in your throat, the words barely a whisper. 

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, and now his warmth is unmistakable—his presence pressing in, impossible to ignore. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I need you to promise me you’ll be okay. That you’ll come back.” 

You drop the sweater you’ve been folding and refolding, letting it fall from your hands. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around your bicep, coaxing you to turn toward him. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

You can barely make out his face through the tears—hot and heavy, falling faster than you can blink them away. 

His voice cracks. “It’s not the same out there without you. You know that.” 

A sob breaks from your chest, and you fall forward. He catches you easily, arms strong and sure around your trembling frame. Pressed against him, for a moment it all feels like it might be okay. Like maybe this whole life-altering thing won’t change everything after all. Tyler makes you feel like you can handle anything. Like you’re more than human. Invincible, even. 

Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

But you can’t stay in his arms forever. You’re not even sure he’d be holding you if he knew the truth—if he knew you were the one holding the pin to the grenade that could blow his whole life to pieces. 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair. 

You sniffle against his shirt, steadying your voice. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” 

He slowly lets you go, giving you space to stand on your own again. 

“I promise you’ll see me again,” you say, trying to sound certain. “I promise I’ll be back once everything’s... sorted.” 

His brows draw together like he wants to believe you but can’t quite manage it. Still, he nods, swallowing whatever emotion is caught in his throat. Then he pulls you into one last hug, holding you tighter than before, like he’s afraid to let go. 

You inhale deeply—maybe too deeply—committing his scent to memory, as if you hadn’t already. You memorise the way he holds you, the way your bodies fit together, and the quick, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. 

You know you’ll see Tyler again. One way or another. 

But it won’t be the same. Nothing is the same anymore. 

- 

“You’re both doing really well,” the doctor says, eyes scanning the computer screen. “Your baby is perfectly healthy, and everything about you is exactly where it should be for fourteen weeks.” 

You nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, gripping the ultrasound picture like a lifeline. 

“And the bump isn’t... too big?” you ask, trying not to sound completely clueless. 

The doctor smiles warmly. “It’s perfect,” she assures you. “You’re showing a little more than some women might at this stage, but everyone’s different.” 

You nod again. “Okay, good.” 

“Any other concerns?” she asks after a moment. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” She pushes up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you in four weeks.” 

You smile and nod once more. “Thanks, doctor.” 

“No worries. And—” she pauses, brows pulling together slightly. “You know you can bring the father to these appointments, right? Regardless of your relationship, he’s welcome. It might help ease some of the anxiety.” 

You blink quickly at the sudden sting in your eyes—fucking hormones—and offer a watery smile. “Thanks. I’ll... talk to him.” 

She gives you one last kind smile before shutting the door, leaving you alone in the pale-yellow hallway with nothing but spiralling thoughts. 

Okay, so you haven’t told Tyler... yet. But you plan to. As soon as you stop crying at everything and start acting like a functional adult. These hormones have wrecked you—just like the internet said they would. 

One minute, you’re sobbing over nothing. The next, you’re halfway to committing a felony. And then suddenly, you’re numb. Emotionally whiplashed. And the thought of telling Tyler—of seeing him again—drags every human emotion you have straight to the surface. 

You’ve talked to him a few times. The rest of the crew, too. You’ve spun some lies and danced around their questions. You spoke to your mom and made her promise to keep your secret—because you know Tyler’s tried calling her since you left. But you haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell anyone else. 

It’s been exactly eight weeks since you left. You're running on borrowed time. You know they’ll come looking soon, and you can’t let that happen. You need to go to them. To Tyler. You need to tell him the truth—your way—before it all blows up. 

But first... you need a really big bowl of croutons. Just croutons. And if you don’t get them soon, you’re going to kill someone. 

Pregnancy is wild. 

A few hours later, you’re back in your studio apartment, curled up on the lounge you bought last week, your laptop propped on your belly and a second bowl of croutons at your side. Your résumé is open, and you’re tweaking it for a few job applications—hoping to land something at a desk for at least a few months. You could use the extra money. 

On the small TV across the room—still sitting on the floor because you don’t have a table yet—YouTube is playing. More specifically, the live stream of a storm chaser you used to know. Someone who follows storms and interviews other chasers. Her name is Corey—you’ve met her a few times, but she’s never interviewed you. She’s always wanted Tyler, though. Everyone does. The man has... an effect on people. 

Today’s the day, apparently. She finally convinced him to do an interview. And to say you’re jealous of how close she’s standing to him would be a laughable understatement. 

Think pregnancy crying is bad? Try the horniness. 

Ugh. 

You can barely glance at a photo of Tyler without creaming your jeans. Just thinking about him twists your stomach into a knot—equal parts guilt and raw, desperate lust. You’ve thought about him way more than you should while touching yourself, and honestly? You don’t even care. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s the father of the baby growing inside you or just because you’ve been in love with him for years. Either way, everything is louder now. Sharper. Half the reason you haven’t seen him again is because you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself from tearing him apart—devouring him the second he’s in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you sigh out loud, feeling that familiar ache low in your belly. 

You need to calm down. 

You shift your focus back to the Word doc on your laptop, trying to let Corey’s high-pitched voice blur into the background as she asks Tyler about the storm they just chased. It’s hard though—because then he speaks. And the second he does, his voice draws your attention like a magnet, sending shivers racing down your spine. 

You’d think after all these years of friendship, you’d be used to him by now. 

“So, Tyler,” Corey says, her bright blue eyes sparkling above a megawatt smile, “now that we’ve completely and totally hashed out that EF2, I think it’s time to move on to some live questions. Mind answering a few from the fans?” 

Tyler nods, the usual charming smirk tugging at his lips. “Bring it on.” 

“Amazing.” Corey flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and holds up her phone. “First question: which tornado wrangler would be most likely to survive a horror movie?” 

Tyler chuckles—low and rich, the kind of sound that somehow wraps around you even through the TV speakers. “Definitely Boone, but not because he’s outsmarted anyone. Just pure dumb luck.” 

Corey giggles, and the sound literally makes you gag. Because pregnancy nausea? Not just limited to tastes and smells. Nope—it’s upgraded to all five senses. 

“Okay, next up,” she says, eyes dropping to her phone screen. “What’s your go-to road trip snack?” 

Tyler starts rubbing his hands together as he answers, but you don’t register the words. You already know his favourite snacks. You’ve been buying them for him for years. Instead, you find yourself watching his hands—his long fingers, the way he laces them together in front of his body. Those fingers you know can find magic inside you. 

Your pulse thrums in your ears—and between your legs. Hot and heavy, making your breath catch in your throat. 

Corey’s pitchy laugh pulls you back. “Noted. I’ll be sure to bring sour worms to our next interview,” she says with a wink. 

Tyler laughs politely and pretends to adjust his belt—something you know he only does when he’s uncomfortable. 

Sucked in, Corey. He doesn’t like you. 

“Alright, I’ve got a slightly more serious one,” she says, tone shifting as she angles herself toward him. “This one’s come in from quite a few people, so I can’t not ask it.” 

Tyler’s brows furrow and he nods once. 

“Obviously, the Tornado Wranglers have welcomed two new members recently—Kate and Javi,” she says, referring to the two you met via video call a couple weeks ago. “But fans have also noticed the absence of one particular chaser. Your partner in crime…” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Will she be back?” 

Your heart crawls into your throat. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes—so routine by now, you don’t even bother blinking them back. 

Tyler shifts uncomfortably and glances at the ground. Then he mutters something the mic doesn’t quite catch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggles to find an answer. 

It makes your chest ache. 

“Well—uh,” he clears his throat, “we don’t usually get into personal stuff. We try to keep things focused on the storms. But, um...” His eyes are everywhere but the camera. “We all have personal lives, and sometimes things come up. Unexpected things. But in short… yes. She’ll be back. We’re not sure when, but she will be.” 

The confidence in his voice rips a sob from your chest. You push your laptop off your stomach and sit up, arms wrapping protectively around the little bump low in your belly. To say you feel guilty about this whole thing is a gross understatement. You feel wretched. Each day you wake up knowing you’ll find another excuse not to call Tyler, and each day you inch closer to hating yourself for it. 

You need to stop being such a coward and just do it. He has every right to know what’s going on—not just because he’s the father, but because he’s your best friend. These last two months have been the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him since you joined the chasers nearly a decade ago. And the distance—physical and emotional—is chipping away at both of you. 

You swipe the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your eyes and reach for your phone. Opening your chat with Tyler, you scroll through the brief exchange from a couple days ago about an EF3 they’d been chasing. You start typing a message—trying to ask when you can see him without sounding too obvious. 

But then Corey’s voice cuts through the room, snagging your attention again. “So, the fans want to know,” she says, “what’s next? What comes after storm chasing? Do you see yourself going back to school to become a qualified meteorologist—or maybe settling down? Starting a family?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your chest tightening until your lungs ache. 

Tyler scoffs. “There’s an after chasing?” he says, the words stabbing into you like pins into a voodoo doll. “Chasing is it for me. I’ve worked too hard to get here, doing what I love. Nothing’s going to stop me—at least not until I’m too old to drive my truck. And even then,” he laughs, “I’ll find someone else to drive me into the eye of the storm.” 

Corey giggles and tips her head, teasing. “So no dreams of settling down? No wife and kids someday?” 

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat and nausea roll over you in waves. 

“No,” Tyler says. “I just don’t see that for myself. Nothing feels as important to me as this—the storms, the research. Especially now, with Kate—she’s incredible—and Javi on the team, we’re doing real work in the name of science. I never want to stop. A family just doesn’t fit into that. It’s not what I want.” 

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the breath clean out of you. 

“That’s not to say I won’t have a wife one day,” he adds. “If I find someone who loves this as much as I do, then maybe. But kids? No. I know myself too well—I’d resent anyone who took me away from what I really love. Which is chasing.” 

You bolt from the couch and rush into the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet just in time to hurl up an unsettling amount of croutons. Tears blur your vision, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own pulse in your ears—and Tyler’s voice echoing in your head. 

It’s not what I want. 

- 

Your hands shake as you slide the mouse across the screen, clicking the answer button on the Skype call request. When Lily’s grinning face pops up—just Lily—you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh my goodness, hi,” she says, leaning toward the camera. “You look... different. Like, good, but different. How do you look different from last week?” 

You let out a soft laugh and roll your eyes, one arm resting on the kitchen counter where the laptop is propped, the other hung protectively across your stomach below the counter. You’re perched on the single barstool you picked up from a second-hand store last weekend, specifically for your weekly video calls with Lily. The couch wasn’t cutting it anymore, and you can’t exactly lie on your belly on the bed these days. 

“Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and what you’re seeing now is just a bad clone,” you tease, deflecting. 

She snorts. “Well, that would make sense, since that’s the only thing I can think of that would keep the girl I know away from chasing. Like, seriously. It’s been three months. Please tell me you’re coming back soon.” 

You sigh, eyes darting to the notepad where you’ve scribbled your pre-planned excuses—not trusting yourself to think clearly on the fly. 

“I’m sorry, Lils. I thought I’d be back by now too, but with everything going on with the family—it’s just been so stressful. And... I went to the doctor the other day. They think I could have a stress-induced stomach ulcer. I’m on meds, and I feel okay, but it needs to be monitored.” 

Until you give birth to it… 

Lily’s brow creases. “What? Seriously?” 

You nod slowly, avoiding her big brown eyes on the screen. “Yeah, but it’s okay. It’s not too serious—it’s manageable. I just need to, uh... stay here and keep things steady for a while.” 

“Can we visit, then?” she asks. “Everyone misses you so much.” 

“And I miss you guys too,” you say quickly. “But don’t come all this way for me. Keep chasing—it’s the season. Besides, it’s kind of boring over here. I’m just resting and helping out with family stuff. If you could actually help, I’d say get over here, but there’s really nothing to do except mope around.” 

She nods slowly, still looking a little unconvinced, but mostly reassured. 

“Besides, I need you to keep sending me updates so I can live vicariously,” you add, trying to lift the mood. “How was yesterday’s chase?” 

Her face lights up, and she launches into a detailed rundown of what they got up to. You try to stay focused, to really listen, but she keeps mentioning Kate’s name beside Tyler’s, and your thoughts start spiralling. 

You’ve met Kate and Javi—the new wranglers—a couple of times now via video call. They seem lovely and super smart. You hadn’t thought much of it. Until last night. 

You’d stupidly decided to watch one of Boone’s Instagram live videos—one where he and Tyler recapped the day over beers in a motel parking lot. You thought it might help ease the ache in your chest from missing them, but instead it twisted something sharp and jealous low in your gut. 

Kate had been there too, sitting beside Tyler, who wore a dopey grin and kept glancing at her like she was magnetic. They were clearly comfortable with each other—she even rested her hand on his knee once or twice as she answered some of Boone’s questions about the science side of things. Tyler didn’t adjust his belt. He didn’t shift awkwardly or look away. 

He looked at her like she belonged there. 

The jealousy that coursed through you had been instant and overwhelming. You’ve dealt with your fair share of Tyler’s girlfriends and hookups, but you’ve never seen him look at someone like that. Never once worried that maybe he’d find someone who didn’t just make him forget you—but replace you entirely. 

It’s your biggest insecurity, one you hate even admitting to yourself... Tyler doesn’t need you as much as you need him. 

“But anyway,” Lily says, her voice dragging you back to reality, “we were thinking of taking a break for a week or so. Maybe head somewhere quiet, less full of chasers. I think Tyler needs it—he’s been super stressed lately.” 

“At least he has Kate,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I—I mean, she sounds really great and helpful. Just what Tyler needs.” 

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Yeah... she’s cool, but...” She tips her head and sighs. “You know he misses you like crazy? I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping, and he’s always talking about coming to find you. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep him at bay.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual while swallowing down another wave of emotion. “I’m sure Tyler’s doing just fine. He always said I was a liability, so technically he should be way less stressed without me around.” 

She gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “You better be joking, because I’ve never seen Tyler this wound up before.” 

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest—small and fragile, but impossible to ignore. Maybe... just maybe... this whole fucked-up situation is still salvageable. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lily says before you can respond. 

You watch as she shuffles off the motel bed she’d been lying on and disappears out of frame. Your pulse quickens at the sound of a deep, muffled voice and approaching footsteps. For a split second, you consider ending the call—blaming it on bad reception or something—but it’s already too late. 

The video shakes as Lily picks up her laptop and spins it toward Tyler. “Look who it is!” she announces. 

He looks pale, the lines in his face more defined than you remember, but his eyes still sparkle the same. “Hey,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You look... different.” 

You blink quickly to stop the moisture welling in your eyes—internally cursing the hormones, even though you know they’re not the only ones to blame. 

You haven’t actually spoken to Tyler in almost two weeks. You mostly text, dodge his calls with excuses, and only agree to video chats with Lily or Dani. Tyler knows you too well—and you’re starting to look different. He’ll know something is off. 

“She’s sick,” Lily says before you can answer. 

“Sick?” Tyler repeats, his smile fading. “Sick how?” 

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in your throat. “I’m fine, really. Might be a stomach ulcer, but it’s mild and I’m already on meds. I just need a bit of rest.” 

“We can come visit,” Tyler offers quickly, his green eyes full of concern that makes your stomach turn. “We were planning to take some time off soon, and we could-” 

“No,” you cut in, your voice cracking. “Seriously, don’t. I’m okay. And there’s still stuff going on with the family. I just told Lily—if there were anything you could do, I’d say come help. But there’s not.” 

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then hesitates. His eyes flick across the screen, studying your face, your posture, the way you’re nervously chewing your lip. He’s probably already clocked that the background behind you isn’t your mom’s house. 

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” Lily says with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be back soon. She can’t stay away much longer—the chase is calling.” She looks at you with a playful grin. “Or we’ll come kidnap you.” 

You let out a shaky laugh. “I know you will.” 

“How’s your mom?” Tyler asks suddenly, leaning closer to the camera. 

Yeah. He’s definitely trying to figure out where you are. He’s been in every room of your mom’s place—he knows this background doesn’t match. 

“She’s alright,” you say, shifting closer to the laptop to fill more of the frame. “Still a little fragile, so it’s good I’m here. But she’s doing well.” 

He opens his mouth again, eyes narrowing slightly—keen and searching. 

“Anyway,” you cut in quickly, “I should go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Lily nods, oblivious to Tyler’s suspicion. “Love you,” she says. 

“Love you too, Lils,” you reply, before your gaze flicks toward Tyler’s frowning face. “You too, Ty. Stay safe out there.” 

Then you move the mouse and hit the red button, sighing out a breath of relief as the call drops. 

- 

The next four weeks are brutal—worse than the twelve before them combined. You’re creeping up on the six-month mark, which means the third trimester isn’t far off. Your belly has officially popped—there’s no hiding it now unless you borrow your mom’s retro maternity parka—and you’re out of breath more often than not. All you want to do is sleep, eat, and cry over the fact that your closest grocery store just stopped stocking your favourite juice flavour. 

But that’s not the hardest part. 

The hardest part is Tyler—he’s relentless, and you’re pretty sure he’s rallying the rest of the crew too. The messages haven’t let up, and now he’s started calling at random times during the day. He asks about your mom, your family, your ‘stomach ulcer’. And everyone else is pestering you to come back to chasing, even just for a week, because they miss you like hell. 

You feel like a total piece of shit. 

You’re running out of excuses, and you’ve deflected for as long as you can. You’ve tried over and over to come up with a version of the truth that doesn’t make you sound like the villain. But no matter how you spin it, you’re still the asshole who kept a massive secret from the people who are practically your family. They’re going to find out soon—you’re already on borrowed time—and you know you have to tell them before Tyler shows up pounding on your mom’s front door. 

The only thing you’re still absolutely certain about is this: you’re not telling Tyler he’s the father. 

On the surface, it makes you look like a terrible person, but every time you imagine telling him... you hear his words again. And you know you just can’t. 

It’s not what he wants. It would ruin everything. He’d resent you. 

You can’t do that to him. You don’t expect anything from him, and you’re more than ready to do this on your own. In fact, at this point, you’d prefer it. You made the decision to keep the baby—this is on you. All Tyler did was break a condom and fuck you more thoroughly than anyone else ever has. He didn’t sign up for consequences. And for him... there doesn’t have to be any. 

So you’ll tell them it was a one-night stand—technically true. That the father travels for work, and you gave him an out—also true. 

Now you just have to hope the baby doesn’t come out looking like a carbon copy of Tyler Owens. 

Not that you’re even sure the crew will be around to see much of the baby. You’re doing this solo for a reason—you don’t want to weigh anyone down. No matter how they react when you tell them, you’re not letting them give up chasing. That’s their life, and this choice? This was yours. 

So, yeah, you’re going to tell them. But after that... you have no clue. You might never see them again, now that you’re settling down. Or maybe they’ll pop in once or twice a year. You don’t know. 

The only thing you’re sure of right now is that you’re having this baby—and surprisingly, that’s more than enough. 

“She’s perfect,” the doctor says, handing you the sonogram. “What made you want to find out the sex?” 

You stare down at the little black and white image. Twenty-two weeks exactly. You’re more than halfway there. 

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Thought maybe I should get to know my new roommate a little better.” 

The doctor laughs softly but doesn’t press further. She types something into the computer, then jots a note on a scrap piece of paper—her recommendation for the heartburn you mentioned earlier. After a few more routine questions, she offers a kind smile and a dismissive nod. You thank her and step out. 

Her office is just around the block from your apartment, so you chose to walk today. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and—for the first time in a while—you’re feeling a little less weighed down. 

You’ve also decided that today’s the day you’ll message Tyler to ask where they are and see if you can meet up soon. You’ve practiced your story in the mirror more times than you can count, and you’ve run it past both your mom and your therapist—the latter was less thrilled about the lying, but you’re ignoring that part. All that’s left now is to show up and break the news gently. Although, your belly will probably do that for you the moment they see you. 

Strangely, you feel at peace today—despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks. You woke up clear-headed, even a little hopeful. Like if you can grow an entire human, you can handle anything. 

You try not to overanalyse the sudden shift—your moods have been a rollercoaster lately—and you’re especially trying not to compare it to the weather before a storm. But that’s exactly what it feels like. 

Everything is calm. Still. The sun is out, and there’s no wind. But you know better than to trust this kind of stillness. 

It’s the calm before the storm. 

You shake your head and take a deep breath, refocusing on your route from the doctor’s office to the grocery store. It’s still early—barely nine a.m.—and you’ve got a craving for the sugary cereal you ran out of days ago. 

The sun is warm enough that you have to shrug off your sweater the moment you step inside the store. It’s blissfully quiet—no crowded aisles, no screaming kids, and no one crashing their cart like it’s a demolition derby. 

You sling your sweater over one shoulder and head toward the breakfast aisle, one hand resting on your belly as the baby wriggles—still too small for proper kicks, but very much there. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you scan the shelves, eyes flitting across the bright, colourful cereal boxes. 

You really should start thinking of names. You haven’t even made a list. 

You grab the box you came for and continue toward the end of the aisle, already thinking about swinging past the bakery section. But just as you round the corner, a voice stops you in your tracks. 

“Holy shit.” 

You know that voice. You know it too well. 

You almost don’t want to look—but your head turns before you can stop it. And sure enough, there’s Tyler, looking downright sinful in a tight white T-shirt and faded Wrangler jeans. He’s wearing a cap, backwards, and it’s making your hormones riot. You could devour him right here in the middle of the store. But not only would that be wildly inappropriate... you’re pretty sure he’s gone into shock. 

He looks pale—too pale. Frozen. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. He looks like a fish out of water. And judging by the expression on his face, he probably feels like one too. 

“Oh my God,” you say, instinctively shifting the cereal box in front of your belly. “Tyler.” 

You want to launch yourself at him, to throw your arms around his neck. You want to hug him, kiss him, get lost in him the way you’ve been craving for months. But the way he’s staring... you’re not even sure he recognises you. 

“W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice shaky and weirdly high-pitched. “Are the others here too?” 

Panic overtakes you now, shoving the longing and hormones down into your gut and replacing them with a fresh wave of anxiety. 

“I—uh,” he clears his throat, blinking hard. “We were just... just passing through.” 

You can feel your heartbeat thumping in your throat. 

Tyler shifts on his feet and clears his throat again. “We got in late last night. I was going to—uh, call you. See where you were, but...” His eyes drop to the cereal box in your hands, like he can see right through it. 

“Wow,” you say, because it’s the only word your brain can summon. “That’s... great. I’d love to see them. Are they-” 

“They’re back at the motel,” he cuts in. 

Slowly, his expression twists—shock giving way to confusion, then something sharper. Anger, maybe. 

There’s a long pause, thick and heavy, before you clear your throat. “Well, maybe we could all catch up? I’m not doing anything this after-” 

“No,” he says, cutting you off again. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I mean, yes. They want to see you. But I think I’d like to catch up now.” His tone is harder now, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to grab a coffee—” he hesitates, “or... tea?” 

You rock back on your heels like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Tea still has caffeine in it,” you mumble. 

He doesn’t even flinch—just pins you with a look. There’s no room to argue. 

“But I could definitely go for a smoothie!” you say too brightly. “There’s a café around the corner, and my apartment’s just the next block over. If you don’t mind... can we go back there? I’ve got ultrasound jelly in my underwear and I really need to pee.” 

His brows draw together. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—hurt. “You have an apartment?” 

You didn’t expect that to hit hardest, but you see why. As far as Tyler was concerned, you were coming back. You’d only ever been on a break. But hearing you have an apartment here... it tells him something else entirely. 

That you’re not coming back. 

You nod, tears starting to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah... I do.” 

The walk out of the store and around the corner is one of the most painful things you’ve ever endured. You’re already planning to compare it to childbirth when the time comes—but honestly, you’re pretty sure this will still win. 

Tyler’s movements are stiff and deliberate. He keeps a cautious distance, like you’re contagious, and it takes everything in you not to cry right there on the sidewalk. 

Neither of you speaks. You just lead the way, and he follows. At the café, you order a smoothie—nothing else. You feel so nauseous, you're worried you might throw up your baby. Tyler orders a coffee, then steps back to type something on his phone. For a moment, panic grips you—is he telling the others? But no. Tyler’s not like that. He’s probably just letting them know that he got caught up. 

Once your drinks are ready, you head down the street toward your apartment. You don’t bother making conversation, you don’t even point out the ridiculous-looking dog in the window across the street. You just let yourself into the lobby and ride up to the fourth floor. 

Down the hall, you unlock your door and step inside, holding it open for him. 

The look on his face as he enters your space is what finally breaks you. The tears spill over before you can stop them. He looks wrong here—too big for the tiny apartment you’ve made your own. And he looks like you’ve just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. 

You make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping your untouched smoothie on the counter and diving for the tissue box. A sniffle escapes as you swipe at your eyes and nose, followed by a soft, rattling sob. 

“Hey,” Tyler says gently, suddenly at your side, a hand landing on your back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

Of course he’s not. He’s too good. Too decent to treat you the way you probably should be treated—without kindness. 

You clear your throat and look up at him, close enough now that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “You should be,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “It’d be easier if you were mad at me.” 

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, I’m not exactly happy. But why would I be mad?” 

You feel small. Pathetic. Like if the floor cracked open right now, you’d gladly let it swallow you whole. But it doesn’t. 

You force down another sob, blinking hard as you reach for your smoothie and carry it into the living room. You flop down into your favourite corner of the couch and nod for him to follow. 

Then you clear your throat, summoning every ounce of confidence you have left. 

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s the story.” 

You don’t say the truth or what really happened. Because that’s not what you’re about to give him. 

You’ve got a story. And that’s what you’re sticking to. 

“A few weeks after I got back, I went out with some old friends,” you begin, technically not lying. “It was supposed to be a way to blow off some steam after everything with my family... and I missed you guys so much, I thought it would take my mind off things. But I got a little too drunk, and I ended up going home with some guy my friend knew.” There's the lie. “It was stupid and reckless, but... that’s what happened.” 

He winces at your words, his expression unreadable. It looks like hurt, but why would he be hurt by that? Maybe it’s just disappointment. 

You clear your throat and continue, slipping into the rhythm of the story you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. “About three weeks later, I found out. I contacted the guy, but he travels for work, so... I gave him an out. I made the decision to keep it, told him I didn’t expect anything from him. So... here we are.” 

The silence hangs thick and heavy between you, suffocating you as you try to breathe through the storm of emotions clawing at your chest. 

“I was going to tell you,” you add, your voice steadier than you feel. “I just couldn’t find the right time. It all felt so messy and rushed, and time kept slipping by. You guys were so busy, and with Kate and Javi... I didn’t want to ruin the high you were on.” 

He doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you—his eyes flicking between your face and your belly. 

Then it hits him. A thousand emotions all at once. Confusion. Hurt. A flicker of anger. Sadness. And finally, he lands back on hurt. 

“You’re going to do it alone?” he asks, tension threading through his words. 

You nod once, steady. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I don’t doubt that. You’ll be amazing. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” 

Your heart squeezes. Would he still be saying that if he knew who the guy really was? 

“I won’t be alone,” you say, resting a hand on your stomach. 

His eyes fall to your hand and linger there. You think his bottom lip might wobble, just for a second. But then he looks back up, brow creased. 

“You know we’re all here for you,” he says, voice strained. “We’re not going to let you do this on your own. I know you’re strong, but-” 

“It’s not your problem, Ty,” you cut in quickly, desperate to stop him before the tears start again. “It’s not anyone’s burden but mine—not that it’s a burden. But I was scared to tell you for a reason. I didn’t want you to freak out. I made this choice knowing it would change my life, and mine alone. I know I have support if I need it, but wait for me to ask. Not that I could ask any of you to stop your lives—stop doing what you love. I’d never do that. I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to give. So please believe me when I say... I’m happy about the choice I made. I’m excited to do this by myself. You need to live your life, Ty. Chase those storms. Chase your dreams. I’m good. I’ll be fine.” 

His expression is unreadable—somewhere between pain and disbelief. He just stares at you, silent, like he doesn’t recognize what he’s looking at. Not scared. Just... bewildered. 

The silence stretches, the only sound your uneven, too-loud breathing. 

Then, finally, he whispers, “But it’s not the same without you.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “Don’t be silly, Tyler. You’ve got Kate and Javi now. You probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” You pause. “And Kate seems great. I’m happy for you.” 

No, you’re not. But you’re getting better at lying. 

His gaze snaps from your belly back to your face, eyebrows drawn tight. “Happy for me?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I really need a shower. That ultrasound goo gets everywhere. Want to catch up later? With the crew?” 

You need him gone. Now. Before you fall apart. 

“I—uh...” He glances around the room, like he’s trying to find an excuse to stay. “Yeah. They’ll want to see you.” 

You nod and head to the kitchen for your bag. “Could you do me a favour?” The guilt is immediate and sharp. How dare you ask anything of him right now? 

He nods. 

“Could you... tell them? Warn them?” You can’t meet his eyes, so you focus on the tear in the knee of his jeans as he approaches. 

“You want me to tell them?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s just... been a lot. And the way you reacted—I don’t think I can take five more of those. If you could just warn them before we meet up... it would help.” 

Straight to hell. That’s where you’re headed. You’ve spent months trying not to burden him—and now this? 

He swallows hard and nods, eyes drifting to something on the counter. “Yeah... okay. I can do that.” 

You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath. “Thanks, Ty.” 

He picks up the sonogram. “Is this the one from today?” 

“Oh.” As if she knows her dad is seeing her for the first time, your little girl wriggles. “Y-Yeah. That’s today.” 

His mouth twitches into a watery smile. “Can I take a photo? Then I can show the crew.” 

You nod, speechless, watching the way he looks at the picture. If he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to cry and throw up all over him. 

He snaps the photo and tucks his phone away, gently placing the sonogram back on the counter. 

“You said you weren’t busy this afternoon?” he asks. 

You nod, throat tight. 

“Good. I’m sure they’ll want to see you soon. Maybe dinner? I’ll text you after I talk to them. I bet you know all the good places around here.” 

He’s speaking too fast, his eyes everywhere but your face. He wants out just as badly as you want him out. 

You walk him to the door, trying to smile. It’s pitiful. It feels like everything around you has stopped moving. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of something unfamiliar. But then again, do you even know him anymore? Four months is a long time. 

Before you can say goodbye, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. Holds you like he means it. Like it’s the only thing keeping him together. 

Tears stream down your face, your shoulders shaking. The baby kicks—harder than ever—and you want to blame the pressure of Tyler’s hug. But then you wonder... does she know it’s him? 

The thoughts keep coming, hot and heavy, as your tears soak into the shoulder of his white shirt. 

After what feels like both forever and not long enough, he pulls away. His eyes rimmed with red. 

“I’ll text you,” he says hoarsely, then turns and walks down the hall. 

You shut the door—and collapse to the floor. You stay there for almost an hour. Crying. Thinking. And for the first time, wishing you’d just told him the truth from the start. Back at the gas station. Would it really have been that bad? 

You’re not so sure anymore. Because this? This doesn’t feel like the right thing. 

- Tyler - 

Tyler doesn’t remember how he got back to his truck in the grocery store parking lot. All he knows is that he’s in it now—but he doesn’t have the courage to drive. He doesn’t trust himself. His hands won’t stop shaking, his eyes are burning with tears, and his throat aches. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you: your soft smile, your wide, tearful eyes, and that intrinsic glow—granted by your pregnancy, despite how clearly distressed you’d been. 

He can’t believe you’re pregnant. 

He tried so hard to be understanding, to not blow through you with every emotion that crashed down the moment he saw you. But it was so hard. He wanted to be angry that you didn’t tell him—but he knew he had no right. He didn’t have the right to be upset at all. You were clearly stressed about him finding out—about the crew finding out. 

But why? 

That’s what he can’t figure out. 

Sure, it might not have been planned. It’s going to turn your life upside down. But why wouldn’t you want your friends to know? He knows you’ve rationalised it—told yourself you didn’t want to burden them. But he also knows that you know better than that. Your friends wouldn’t feel burdened. They’d just want to be there for you. 

He just wants to be there for you. 

And as complicated as this whole thing is, it’s confusion that lingers the loudest. He’s confused about how he should feel, and confused about what he does feel. He thought he knew you—but right now, he’s not so sure. You’re still familiar... but different. 

The sharp chime of Tyler’s phone cuts through the silence of the truck cabin. He glances at where he tossed it on the passenger seat, just able to make out the text from Boone: ‘You good?’ 

No. 

He exhales slowly and turns the key, the truck rumbling to life around him. Then he grabs the phone and fires off a quick reply: ‘Be back in 10. Get everyone together for breakfast.’ 

Then he pulls out of the grocery store parking lot and starts rehearsing how he’s going to break the news to the crew. 

An hour later, in a quiet café on the other side of town with two small tables pulled together, Dani leans toward Tyler and blurts, “She’s what?!” 

Dexter chokes on his coffee, spluttering into his napkin, while Lily’s jaw drops mid-chew, revealing a messy mouthful of pancake. 

“She’s pregnant?” Boone asks, his voice calmer than Dani’s, though his eyes are still wide as saucers. 

Kate and Javi exchange a quick, uncertain glance, both clearly unsure how to react to the news that’s left half the crew reeling over their breakfast. 

“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” Dani says, her voice tight with offense. 

Lily finally swallows. “So that’s why she’s been avoiding us?” 

Dexter tips his head, eyes narrowing on Tyler. “How far along is she?” 

Tyler shrugs, his stomach twisting with nausea—though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like this is his big news. “She said she met the guy a few weeks after getting home. So... she’s probably around four months.” 

“Four months,” Dani echoes. “And she didn’t tell any of us?” 

Kate’s quiet laugh draws every eye to her. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wide-eyed. “I just—” She glances at Tyler, then looks around the table. “I mean, can you blame her? Look at how you’re all reacting.” 

Tyler frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Kate sighs and leans back in her chair. “No offense, but you’re all acting like this is about you. If this wasn’t planned—and it doesn’t sound like it was—then she’s probably just scared. Of course she was nervous to tell you guys. She probably knew how you’d react.” 

The group goes quiet then, effectively chastised. And Kate isn’t wrong—Tyler knows that. As someone less emotionally entangled in your situation than the rest of the crew, she can probably see it more clearly. Understand why you did what you did. 

But that doesn’t make Tyler feel any less conflicted. He still feels off. His palms are damp and his stomach won't stop twisting itself into nauseating knots. His heart is beating too fast, sitting high in his throat. And he can’t stop seeing your face—those tearful eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips the moment you saw him again. 

For a fleeting moment, he’d been taken back to that night. The night where everything else blurred except for you. Your flushed face, kiss-bruised mouth, lips parted for him, breathless beneath him. The way you’d whispered his name like a secret, the sounds he drew from you with his hands and mouth, the feel of your skin against his. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about that night… a lot. At first, he tried not to. He couldn’t believe the lines he’d crossed, waking up with you in his arms at three a.m., your bare body pressed to his. He wasn’t even that drunk—just drunk on you. And God, he wanted nothing more than to pull you closer and fall back asleep. But panic had crept in. He had to get out. Had to breathe. 

The next day was awkward—mostly because he couldn’t stop seeing you the way he’d seen you the night before. He wanted to talk, to say something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk burning down years of friendship for one selfish desire. So after about a week, he cracked a joke. You shot back with something sarcastic, and things felt… almost normal again. 

Until you left. 

And when you did, you took a piece of him with you. A big piece. One he doesn’t know how to get back—or if he even wants it back. 

“Hey.” Kate nudges her knee against Tyler’s. “You good?” 

The rest of the group has slipped into quiet conversation, murmuring among themselves about you and the baby. 

Tyler nods once, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He opens it, pulls up the sonogram picture, and slides it across the table. 

“She had an ultrasound today,” he says, the words tasting like lead on his tongue. 

Lily’s eyes light up as she snatches the phone, gazing at the black-and-white photo. Dani leans over one shoulder, Dexter over the other, and it’s not hard to catch the soft smiles spreading across their faces. 

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset,” Kate says, her voice lowered just for him. “I just think... maybe consider how she’s feeling before you take too much of that out on her.” 

Tyler sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I tried to be calm. But it was so fucking hard. She kept crying.” 

Kate exhales a half-laugh. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Whatever you think you’re feeling, multiply it by a thousand. That’s probably where she’s at.” 

The memory of your tear-streaked face hits him square in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d felt so useless, even as he held you close. All he wants is to make things better. To go back, find you sooner, and give you everything you’ve needed but never asked for. 

“I just want to help,” Tyler mutters, his voice rough. “She said she’s happy to do it on her own, but... I want to be there.” 

“Then be there,” Kate says, brows furrowed like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You don’t have to overstep or force your way back in. Just be her friend. Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Just because she thinks things have to change doesn’t mean they do. Show her that.” 

Tyler’s eyes flick to Dani, who now has his phone and is zooming in on the sonogram with an awed expression. 

“But things have changed,” he says, turning back to Kate. 

On her other side, Javi has his phone in front of his nose, but Tyler can tell from his posture that he’s still listening. 

“For her, yeah,” Kate replies. “Her whole world’s flipped. But for you? Not really. So be something that hasn’t changed. Something stable. Something she can still count on.” 

Tyler’s brows draw together, eyes starting to burn again from the now-familiar sting of tears. He knows Kate’s smart—but wise too? Suddenly, he feels like a kid who threw a tantrum he didn’t fully understand. 

“I mean,” Javi chimes in, the straw of his milkshake still at the corner of his mouth, “it’s not like you’re the father.” 

The words hit Tyler harder than they should. They sink into his skin and burn as they draw blood, the pain spreading through his chest. His skin prickles, heat rushes to his face, and his head goes a little light—like the floor’s been yanked out from under him. 

He’s not just angry that you didn’t tell him. Not just upset that you left, that you ran away from the crew with a half-assed excuse. He’s confused, yes—but underneath it all, he’s heartbroken. 

Because it’s not just about you being pregnant. It’s not about the distance, or how much everything suddenly feels so different. It’s the fact that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby. 

Not his. 

And for the first time, the weight of it truly hits him— 

He wants it to be his. 

“Ouch!” Javi hisses as Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “What was that for?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Not reading the room.” 

“Shit,” Javi mutters, leaning forward past Kate to see Tyler—a very shocked-looking Tyler. “Sorry, man.” 

Tyler tries to shake his head, but it’s slow, almost robotic. “It’s fine,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

Kate rests a hand on his knee and leans toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. He was going to say yes—but that would be a lie. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since you left. 

Kate’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “You’re not, like... just realizing you’re totally in love with her, are you?” 

Tyler’s green gaze snaps to her face, a jolt of electricity running down his spine at hearing those words said out loud. 

“Oh, Tyler...” she sighs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Wake up.” 

He’s always known he loves you—of course he does. But in love with you? Maybe it should’ve been obvious. He hasn’t felt fully human without you by his side. There’s been a gaping hole in his chest since the day you left—because you took his heart with you. 

It always has been yours. He just never really thought about it that hard. He’s just always known, deep down, from the very beginning, that he belongs to you. 

And he’s always thought of you as his. Never questioned it, even through your crappy boyfriends and his meaningless hookups. Some part of him was sure you’d always come back. That at the end of the day—after the storm—you’d be his again. 

But now? Now some other guy has a claim on you. And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s primal. But God, he fucking hates it. 

After breakfast, the crew heads back to the motel. They try to work—and try even harder to pull Tyler out of whatever existential wormhole he’s fallen into—but it’s not easy. He spends most of the day staring into space, half-listening (at best) to anyone who speaks. Eventually, they give up and leave him to it. 

Lily ends up messaging you about dinner, since Tyler’s too dazed to even type a text. You agree to meet at a restaurant downtown, halfway between your place and the crew’s motel. 

“Okay, pal,” Kate sighs as she drops into the lawn chair beside Tyler’s. “You’re starting to worry us.” 

Lily drops into the chair on his other side, braced like she might have to chase him if he bolts. 

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Kate asks gently. 

Tyler nods—slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because you’ve been a damn zombie all day,” Lily snaps. “You think acting like this is going to make her feel loved and supported?” 

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her tone sharp. “The answer is no. So get your shit together.” 

Tyler turns to Kate, frowning. “Why is she being mean to me?” 

Kate rolls her eyes for what feels like the thousandth time today. “Because you’re being a child. So what, you’re in love with your best friend who’s now pregnant with some random guy’s baby? Suck it up. Start acting normal—or you’ll just make her feel worse.” 

Tyler lets out a long, dramatic sigh and tips his head back. “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can,” Lily says. “Come on—practice talking about baby stuff with us.” 

Kate perks up. “Good idea. Ask us about being pregnant.” 

Tyler slowly lowers his head and gives Kate a flat stare. “This is dumb. I’m not going to make things awkward. I’ll be fine.” 

“Then why have you walked away from every conversation about babies today?” Lily fires back. 

“Just try,” Kate pleads. “Let’s just talk about her, okay? And no deflecting.” 

Tyler groans but doesn’t argue, silently accepting the assignment. 

Kate folds her hands in her lap and leans in like an interviewer. “So, you said she’s got an apartment here—did you see the nursery?” 

“No,” Tyler replies, nausea twisting in his gut. Just thinking about that visit makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t exactly a show-and-tell kind of vibe.” 

Kate sighs. “I get that. But just work with us.” 

“I’ve got one,” Lily chimes in. “Did she say she’s having any weird cravings?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No.” Then, at her expectant look, he adds, “But she was buying some sugary cereal when I ran into her. I think she told the cashier it was the baby’s favourite breakfast.” 

Lily nods, satisfied. 

Kate clears her throat. “Did she say how far along she is?” 

“Not exactly,” Tyler says. “But from what she did say, I’m guessing around eighteen weeks.” He did the math—counting from the day you left the crew, assuming you met ‘the guy’ maybe three or four weeks later. 

“Nuh-uh,” Lily says, brows pinched as she shakes her head. “She’s twenty-two weeks.” 

Tyler’s heart skips. “What? How do you know?” 

“It’s on the sonogram, stupid.” 

His pulse kicks up, head spinning, hands suddenly numb as he fumbles for his phone. He yanks it from his back pocket and pulls up the image, squinting at the screen. 

Lily sighs and takes it from him, zooming in on the small print in the corner. “See? Twenty-two weeks.” 

Kate says something, but Tyler doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. Loud. Fast. Deafening. 

Twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months. You’ve only been gone four months and three weeks. 

That leaves three weeks. 

Three weeks you were still with the crew. Still with him. 

Somewhere in those three weeks… you got pregnant. 

The world tilts. He blinks, once—twice—but everything stays blurry. The thought barrels through him like a freight train. It doesn’t make sense—shouldn’t make sense—but it does. The timeline. The things you said. The look on your face when you saw him. His stomach drops as the pieces slam into place, sharp and undeniable. 

Holy shit. 

“Tyler,” Kate says, her hand closing over his shoulder. 

Lily frowns again. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, dude. You can’t keep freezing like that.” 

“I have to go,” he mutters, shooting to his feet. 

Kate blinks. “Where?” 

“I’ll meet you guys at the restaurant.” He’s gone before they can respond, feet already pounding the pavement. 

He throws himself into the truck and jams the key in the ignition, peeling out of the motel lot fast enough to make the tires squeal. 

His grip tightens on the steering wheel as the truck barrels down the street, heart pounding like a war drum. The shock is still there, curling cold and sharp in his chest, but the panic has started to harden. Settle. Sharpen. He’s not going to lose it. Not now. If this really adds up—if the impossible is true—then he needs answers. Not anger. He sucks in a breath through his nose, jaw locked tight. 

He’s not going there to yell. He’s going there to hear it. To look you in the eye and make you say it— 

The truth. 

- You - 

You stand in front of your closet with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out what still fits and also looks decent enough for a nice restaurant. You picked a nice place on purpose—you haven’t been out in months. Literally. Most of your friends have been too busy chasing tornadoes while you’ve been stuck in this town, growing a baby. And while you’re not angry about the choices you’ve made, you’re more than a little excited to be getting out for the first time in what feels like forever. 

You’re feeling a lot better than you did a few hours ago. After a solid hour of crying on the floor, you dragged yourself into the shower and stayed there until your fingers pruned. Then you wrapped yourself in two towels, curled up on your bed, and passed out. When you woke up, your phone was full of messages—hearts, check-ins, a few sweet “can’t wait to see you” texts—and you decided that maybe you’d been overreacting. 

Sure, seeing Tyler had been the emotional peak of the last five and a half months, but that’s over now. And yeah, things might still be awkward. A little tense. But the secret’s out, and your story had him convinced—hook, line, and sinker. He was just emotional because he missed you. Because you’re best friends, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone without each other. 

You’d thought about telling him the truth earlier, while curled up on the floor. But once the initial wreckage settled, you remembered why you hadn’t. Just to be sure, you went back and rewatched Corey’s YouTube interview. It still stung—maybe even more than the first time—but it did what it was supposed to: reminded you to stay strong. Because when it comes to Tyler Owens, strength is not your strong suit. 

A knock echoes through the apartment and jolts you into motion. You yank a pair of thick black leggings from the drawer and wrestle into them while shuffling toward your bedroom door, grabbing an oversized knit sweater on the way. 

“Coming!” you call, your voice muffled as you pull the sweater over your head. 

Random visitors aren’t exactly uncommon. Your neighbour Marge likes to accuse you of stealing her newspapers, and you’ve definitely forgotten about more than a few online orders until the delivery driver comes knocking 

You reach the door and tug the sweater down over your bump before pulling it open. 

“Tyler,” you breathe, startled, taking an automatic step back. “You’re—uh—you’re like an hour early.” 

Lily had mentioned he’d be picking you up—something about saving you the cab fare. You hadn’t objected, for obvious reasons, but you’d hoped for at least enough time to do your hair and makeup. 

Still, he looks infuriatingly good. He’s swapped his white tee for a red plaid flannel, the top few buttons undone down to his sternum. His hair’s a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s holding his cowboy hat in one hand. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured we could catch up some more.” 

Did he drive here? Or run? 

“Um, okay. Sure,” you say, stepping back further. 

He nods as he walks in, kicking off his boots by the door before heading toward the lounge. But he doesn’t sit—he just stands there, stiff and distant, eyes scanning the room like he’s searching for something specific. 

“I was just getting ready,” you say, slipping into the kitchen. “Mind if I do the quick version before we... catch up?” 

He shakes his head and sets his hat on the coffee table, still glancing around like he’s casing the place. 

“Want a drink?” you ask, watching him carefully. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

“Okay,” you mutter, and retreat toward your room. So much for taking your time and enjoying getting ready. 

Maybe he’s just trying to be nice after this morning. Or maybe the others sent him here to smooth things over before they all see you for the first time in over four months—baby bump and all. 

“How far along did you say you were?” Tyler calls, poking his head into your room. 

You jump, dropping the sock you were trying to pull on. “Oh... um, about four-ish months.” 

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press, just leans in the doorway, quietly taking in the space. 

This can’t be good. 

“When are you due?” he asks. 

“Five-ish months,” you shoot back with a smirk. 

His lip twitches, almost smiling—and it still gets you. That little flicker of him is enough to stir your heart. 

Then he asks, “What did you say the dad’s name was again?” 

You freeze mid-step toward the ensuite. “I didn’t.” 

“Oh...” His nod is slow, satisfied, like he was waiting for that. 

“It’s Todd,” you blurt, turning quickly and disappearing into the bathroom. 

Behind you, he scoffs. “Todd.” 

Yeah, this isn’t good. Tyler’s onto something. What, you don’t know. But you can feel it—he’s circling like a shark, toying with you before he bites. 

“So, when exactly did you find out you were pregnant?” he asks, stepping into view in the mirror behind you. 

The hairs on your neck rise. “About three weeks after I slept with him.” 

His eyes lock on yours in the mirror, steady and sharp as you try to run a comb through your damp hair. 

“What did he say when you told him?” 

You shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “Not much. He was shocked. Asked if I was keeping it, and I said yes. Told him it was fine if he wanted out. He took it.” 

Tyler shifts, raising one arm to lean against the doorframe. He’s filling the small bathroom doorway with his body—and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are, how strong his arms are, remembering the way he’d thrown you around that night... 

The memory slams into you, heat creeping between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together. 

He notices. That tiny smirk returning as he leans in a little more, boxing you in. 

“Bit strange, don’t you think?” he says, voice low. “Knowing you’re having a kid and not wanting anything to do with it. Sounds like a dirtbag move.” 

Anger slices through your chest. “Yeah, well. Some people just don’t see themselves settling down.” 

The words are out before you realise—they're his words, from the interview. 

His eyes narrow. “Who said anything about settling down? Kids don’t ruin lives.” 

You scoff, avoiding his gaze. “No, they just stop you from pursuing your dreams.” 

Another quote. Damn that interview. Damn you for watching it again. But the way he’s interrogating you is pissing you off. What right does he have? He’s the one who told the world he’d resent anyone who gave him a kid. 

And here he is, acting like he cares. 

A heavy breath hangs in the air as you trade your hairbrush for a makeup brush, leaning closer to the mirror. Tyler’s eyes stay locked on you—intense, unwavering, a little too focused. 

Then his voice slices clean through the silence. 

“Why didn’t you use birth control?” 

White-hot fury flares up your spine, lighting your cheeks on fire as you spin to face him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t recoil. He just stands there with that same infuriating glint in his eye—smug, steady, unreadable. His posture is so relaxed it makes your skin crawl, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade into the middle of your lie. 

“You know I’m not on birth control,” you snap, your voice low and trembling with rage. “And the condom. Fucking. Broke.” 

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to drag it back in. You could’ve said anything else—something careless, something wild, something stupid. But instead, you gave him truth wrapped in a lie—and now the whole thing is starting to crack. 

“That so?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Crazy how that happened... twice in a row.” 

Your jaw clenches. “Clearly I need to buy a new box of condoms.” 

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh and leans in closer, eyes glittering. “That was my condom that broke.” 

Your breath comes faster now, chest tight, nerves sparking under your skin like live wires. You can’t even remember the lie you rehearsed. Your heart’s thundering, the baby is moving restlessly in your belly—like she feels your panic. Like she knows. 

“Maybe you and Todd use the same damn brand,” you mutter, spinning back toward the vanity and gripping the edge like it might hold you steady. 

“You just said you need to buy a new box,” he presses, relentless. “Does Todd leave his condoms here?” 

You grit your teeth, drop your chin, and breathe in through your nose. “Jesus, Tyler. I’m sorry I don’t remember every single detail.” 

You hear him shift. Feel the heat of him behind you. Too close. 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. 

You turn, slowly, heart in your throat. He’s so close now your belly nearly brushes his belt and you have to press against the vanity for space. 

You meet his eyes. “What do you think, Tyler?” 

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I think you remember the night you got pregnant like it just happened. I think it’s carved into your brain. And I think you’re tripping over your story right now because you can’t forget what it felt like. Because it was so damn good, you don’t want to forget it.” 

Panic coils in your chest like a gathering storm—rising fast, twisting tight, pushing a tangled mess of guilt and frustration up your throat. Your breath catches on it, your lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and breakdown. And then it spills over. Tears blur your vision before you can even try to blink them back, heavy and hot as they streak down your cheeks—weighted with remorse and something close to desperation. 

Tyler is frozen in place, wide-eyed and still, his lips parted like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. You can see the regret flicker there—he hadn’t meant to be cruel, not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever version of the truth he’s starting to piece together... he’s probably right. 

And still, you can’t say it. Not yet. 

Instead, you swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater and slip past him, your shoulder brushing his arm as you squeeze out of the bathroom. You cross the room on shaky legs and drop onto the bed, curling in on yourself as a raw sob breaks free and rattles from your chest. You bury your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. 

Tyler doesn’t move at first. The silence stretches and settles around you, thick and stifling. But then comes the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he’s choking on his own emotion. “That was too harsh.” 

You don’t look up. Not yet. You can’t. 

“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he continues, voice gentler now. “I got caught up—and I guess I’ve been walking around with all this shit in my chest. Then I saw you again, and it just... it all hit me. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, like it didn’t gut me when you left. But it did. You took more of me with you than I ever realised.” 

Your fingers shift, just enough to peek through them—and there he is, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting near your thigh but not quite touching. His eyes search yours, glassy with emotion he’s clearly trying to hold back. 

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I did before all of this—before you left, before... the baby. I’ve always loved you. That night wasn’t a mistake. And honestly? I wasn’t even that drunk. I just—needed you. I still do. I need you more than anything.” 

You swallow hard. 

“But not more than you need the chase,” you mutter, tears spilling again. “Right? Because that’s it for you. That’s the dream, and you’ve worked too damn hard to give it up.” 

He blinks. Confused. Then his brows furrow as recognition dawns. You can see it hit him—he remembers. 

You let out a shaky breath and slide your hand over his. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ty. I don’t want you to give up what you love. You’ve got an out.” 

His eyes widen, locking onto yours like he’s just now realising what you’re trying to say. 

“You can still walk away,” you whisper. 

He stares at you, frozen—like your words knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. His brows knit tighter, his hand shifting beneath yours. 

Then, after a beat, he whispers, “Are you serious?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just look at him, eyes brimming, heart thundering in your chest like it’s trying to burst out and reach for him itself. 

His throat works around a swallow. Then he says it—low and broken and burning. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” His voice cracks. “I fucking love you. More than anything. More than storms and chasing and everything I’ve ever been stupid enough to think mattered more. That interview... it was bullshit. I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about you. Because with you, I want all of it.” 

Then he moves. 

There’s no breath between the words and the moment he surges forward—like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and searing, all teeth and desperation and need. One hand tangles in your hair, the other pulls you toward him with a grip that says he’s never letting go again. 

It steals your breath. Steals your thoughts. Your hands fist in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely, matching the fire with one that’s been simmering in your chest since the day you left. 

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s raw and reckless and messy, and it tastes like every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every broken piece finally slamming back into place. 

It feels like the truth. 

Between frantic kisses, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.” 

You feel his mouth curve into a smile before he murmurs, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.” 

The kisses slow, soften—his tongue sweeping against yours with aching intention, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, every breath. The hand tangled in your hair slides down to cradle your neck, while the other one drifts to your waist, settling gently against the curve of your swollen belly. 

Then the baby kicks—hard. Harder than she ever has. You both jolt. 

“Shit,” you whisper, hands flying to your stomach. “Sorry.” 

Tyler stares, completely still. He looks unfairly beautiful like this—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, wide, glassy eyes locked on your belly. He looks like he’s just witnessed something holy. Something impossible. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. 

You shrug, brushing your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. “She doesn’t usually kick that hard. I guess she’s getting stronger.” 

His eyes shimmer. “She?” 

You nod, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Yeah. We’re having a baby girl.” 

His bottom lip trembles, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We?” 

A shaky laugh bubbles up as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “Yes, Tyler. She’s yours.” 

His tears fall freely now, trailing down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you like you’ve hung the moon—just for him. 

“I’m yours too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We’re all yours.” 

Then he’s kissing you again—wet and messy and full of everything you’ve both been carrying for months. You’re crying, he’s crying, but neither of you care. You just hold on—breathing hard, laughing softly—lips meeting again and again as you both sink into the familiar shape of each other… into home. 

He's been carrying you bridal style for miles and has yet to break a sweat. Saying you’re uncomfortable would be putting it mildly – your busted knee is throbbing and your neck is aching from nonstop effort to resist resting your face against his chest. But you don’t dare complain – not when you know he’s likely still irritated with you for being a fuckin’ klutz and getting yourself injured.

You're on thin ice as it is. One more smart-ass remark and it wouldn’t surprise you if he sits you on a tree stump and leaves you to hobble back to the car on your one good leg.

“Besides,” he continues as he looks up to the sky. “We need to keep going. It’s going to start raining soon.”

“Rain?” You follow his gaze up to the sky. It’s mostly blocked by tree branches, but from what you can see, it’s perfectly sunny. “The weather report didn’t say anything about rain this morning.”

“Can't always trust the weather report,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I trust my senses. And I can smell that it's going to rain.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “And what exactly, Mr. Military Man, does rain smell like?”

You’re just testing him. He makes it too fucking easy sometimes. Plus, you need some entertainment for the last portion of this walk. Why did he have to park so far away?

“It’s… you know, earthy. Musky,” he shrugs, jostling you in his arms again. “The smell is produced by a chemical reaction with plant oils and bacteria when there’s an increase in humidity and moisture. There’s a name for it. It’s called, uh...”

“Petrichor.” You finish his sentence, and then purse your lips to resist smirking as you look up at him in amusement.

He looks down at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yeah. That’s it. Petrichor.”

You find yourself staring at him for a split-second too long. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Walker,” you jab, trying to ignore the fact that you’d been thinking about how blue his eyes are in this lighting.

As soon as he opens his mouth to retort, a low clap of thunder rolls in the distance. You hear the pitter-patter of rain colliding against the canopy of branches above you a second before you feel the drops hit your skin.

“Shit!” you exclaim, futilely wiping the water off of your face with your arm that isn’t wrapped around his neck.

“Told you,” Walker grunts as he begins to increase his pace to a jog.

Despite the trees surrounding you acting as an umbrella, you’re both sopping wet within minutes. The rain starts as a drizzle and quickly turns into a downpour, soaking through your tactical suit. After what feels like an eternity, the red Jeep that you’d driven comes into view from where he had parked on a roadside pull-off at the edge of the woods.

He seamlessly opens the passenger side door and maneuvers you into your seat before running to the driver's side and hopping in.

“Jesus Christ,” you huff, as if you’re the one who just carried another human being through miles of woods during a thunderstorm. Walker turns the key in the ignition, violently shaking his head to rid his hair of some of the water dripping from his blond locks. The drops fly all over the leather interior of the rental car, and hit you in the face.

“What are you? A dog?” you groan, retrieving your cell phone from the glove box to call Yelena with an update.

“It’s not like you aren’t already sopping wet,” he snaps. “Now buckle up.”

You roll your eyes, only halfway paying attention to him as you scroll through your recent calls to find Yelena’s name. Just as you’re about to call her, he curses under his breath and leans over, reaching across you to yank your seat belt over your chest and lap, clicking it into the buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him, momentarily surprised. “That was unnecessary. All you had to do was say please.”

“Please stop making my job more difficult. How about that?”

“Good boy. Now, will you please drive?”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, and shifts into drive.

The two of you exchange only necessary words for the duration of the drive. You fill Yelena in on your current predicament – fucked up knee, drenched clothes, and a thunderstorm that is bordering on dangerous to drive in. She suggests getting motel rooms for the night and waiting until morning to catch a flight back to New York instead of traveling in such inclement conditions. Exhausted and uncomfortable, even you and Walker aren’t stubborn enough to put up much of an argument.

You're in a small town in northern Georgia – the kind of town that no one has heard of except for the thousand or so people that live there. One bank, one drugstore, a couple mom and pop diners, and yep, you guessed it – a singular small inn with a vacancy sign glowing in neon letters.

Walker parks as close as he can to the entrance, and then opens the door for you as you limp inside before going back out into the rain to get both his and your bags.

“Hi,” you greet the small, elderly woman behind the front desk. She looks up from her computer screen, eyes wide and brows raised when she takes in your wet, disheveled state. “I need to get two rooms for the night, please.”

She gives you a polite smile and nod before she starts clicking around the computer screen. Walker walks through the door a second later, a duffel bag on each arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes, looking between the two of you. “We actually only have one room available right now.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to resist the urge to curse out loud. Could one more thing go wrong today? What have you done to deserve such a string of bad luck?

There’s no other hotels within a ten mile radius, and this heavy rain isn’t safe to keep driving in. You’re wet, and tired, and your knee is screaming at you to lay the fuck down and ice it.

“Does the room have – is it – are there two beds?” You stutter out. Sharing a room with Walker isn’t ideal, but you figure you can cope if you have your own beds. He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you.

The woman, whose name tag reads Arlene, glances back down at the screen in front of her for a brief moment before looking back up at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. It’s only one bed. But it is a king…” she trails off, eyeing Walker up and down. “So there should be plenty of room.”

You exhale, brainstorming a solution to this predicament. One of you could take the room, and the other could sleep in the Jeep, you suppose. The backseat is pretty roomy…

“We’ll take it,” Walker tells her when you start to open your mouth. You look at him with furrowed brows. “What? I’m not driving anymore tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You don’t have the energy to protest. You pay for the room before you have the chance to overthink it.

It’s not like you haven’t shared rooms with your teammates before. Hell, you technically have shared a room with Walker before – Walker, and Yelena, and Ava. But never just Walker.

While you're relieved to have someplace dry and comfortable to sleep for the night, there’s a small part of you – a part deep in the pit of your stomach – that feels nervous. When it comes down to it, you trust John Walker with your life. But when faced with the realization that you're going to be sharing a bedroom with him, your thoughts flash back to being cradled against his chest for well over an hour.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t exactly mind it. It felt secure. A little awkward at first, sure. But also safe.

And then there was the moment in the car when he took it upon himself to buckle your seatbelt. It should have pissed you off – he’s so damn bossy and impatient. It normally takes little to nothing for him to get under your skin.

Should have and normally being the key words.

You don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that it sent a rush of adrenaline through you. All you could think to do in that moment was deflect with sarcasm so that he wouldn’t pick up on the way you held your breath and your heart rate spiked at the small act of dominance.

You had every intention of catching a flight to New York and pushing those thoughts to the very back of your mind until you’re back home, where he will inevitably piss you off by leaving his dirty dishes in the sink or eating the last of your yogurts without asking you.

Instead, you’ll be spending the next twelve hours with him in a three hundred square foot room with only one bed while you attempt to not dwell on these sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

“I’m gonna go get some ice for your knee,” he announces as soon as you enter the room. He drops the duffel bags and his shield at the bottom of the bed as you begin to take off your combat boots. “There’s a diner right across the road. What do you want to eat?”

You shrug, slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness. It dawns on you that the two of you haven’t eaten since before your flight this morning. “Oh, uh – just a burger and fries is fine. Or a salad. Or chicken sandwich. Thanks.”

He nods, not phased by your indecisiveness. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” you tell him as he starts to exit the room. “I’m just going to shower off really quick while you’re out.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, you're not.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the problem?”

“You have a bum leg,” he retorts like it’s obvious. “You can barely walk. The last thing I need is you falling in the shower and cracking your head open while I’m not here. Just wait until I get back.”

So fucking bossy. But for some reason, it doesn’t annoy you as much as it typically would.

“Fine,” you huff. “Don’t get washed away by the storm. I’m starving and can't fend for myself right now, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, opening the door and rolling his eyes as he walks back into the motel hallway.

After the door clicks shut behind him, you take several deep, calming breaths. How dare you let yourself be flustered over Walker, of all people?

It’s a stretch to even call him your friend. Sure, the two of you technically live together. Go on morning runs together, and train together, and work together. Eat breakfast and dinner together most days, and spend a decent amount of free time together on your days off.

But you do all of those things with all of your teammates, too. None of them make you want to throttle their necks on a regular basis. So why is it that Walker has you so worked up?

All you know is that you need to get these wet clothes off of your body so that you can lay down without drenching the bed.

With your knee now swollen to the size of a softball, this proves to be a task that is easier said than done. You'd never admit it to him, but Walker is right – it’s probably smart that you don’t risk showering while he’s gone. You can’t put any pressure on your left leg and your balance is fucked.

Once you’re out of the wet tactical suit and changed into a pair of shorts and a crewneck sweatshirt, you finally plop down onto the bed and turn on the Roku television to find something to watch to pass the time. You prop an extra pillow beneath your knee to elevate it a bit, and silently wish that you had told Walker to stop by the Walgreens down the road to get you some ibuprofen.

You’re sure that he would if you’d just call or text him and ask, but you’ve already been quite an inconvenience today, and you don’t want to ask anything else of him right now. Maybe he has some in his duffel bag – though you highly doubt it, since super soldiers rarely have the need for over the counter pain relievers.

After losing track of time scrolling through movie titles on the TV, you select some generic looking action-comedy that you think is right up Walker’s alley. Checking the time on your phone, you realize that he’s been gone for quite a while. The diner is directly across the road from the motel, so you expected him to be back fairly quickly.

Maybe the diner is just busy? Sure, it's storming like crazy, but it is a Friday night and it’s one of the only restaurants in town.

Just when you open your and Walker’s message thread to send him a text and make sure he’s okay, you hear the beeping of a key card as it’s inserted and removed from the door lock. A second later, Walker enters the room with a few plastic bags, somehow even wetter than he was after your stroll through the forest just a little while ago.

You put your phone on the nightstand beside you, choosing to keep it to yourself that you were about to send him a message to check in on him.

Of course he’s okay. He’s a fucking super soldier. He can handle going across the road in a thunderstorm to get some food.

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, looking at the movie playing on the TV. “I’ve been wanting to watch this.”

You can’t help but grin at the fact that you’d been right.

“Some schmuck forgot to log out of their Netflix account before they checked out.”

He passes one of the take-out bags to you. “One burger with fries and a side salad.”

You happily take the bag from him, your stomach growling at the smell of the greasy diner food.

“And,” he continues, reaching into a bag that you hadn’t noticed. “Some extra strength Tylenol.” He retrieves a small bottle from the bag and tosses it to you from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” you quip, catching the bottle. “Uh – thanks, Walker. I appreciate it.”

He gives an awkward shrug. “Can’t say I never did anything for you. Grabbed a few water bottles, too.”

You dig into your food in hopes that it will distract you from the way your stomach fluttered when you realized he had gone out of his way to get you the medicine – without you even asking.

It really isn’t a big deal. It’s a five dollar bottle of over the counter pills. But Walker doesn’t exactly go around anticipating the needs of others – especially not at the expense of his own convenience. Still, you know better than to read into it. You’re just tired and the events of today are clouding your judgment.

Clearly. That’s the only explanation for why you’re experiencing what can only be described as butterflies over John Walker.

Once you finish scarfing down your food, you cram the garbage back inside the take-out bag and force yourself into a standing position despite your body's protests. You desperately want to shower, even just to have a few minutes kind of alone with your thoughts.

Walker, still in the middle of eating his own burger at the small desk in front of the bed, turns his attention away from the movie and to you.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” you explain simply, grabbing your duffel bag before limping towards the bathroom on the other side of the small room. You pause at the door when you hear footsteps behind you, turning to face him.

“Are you wanting to join me? Or…?” You ask sarcastically.

“Jesus,” he huffs, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. His face flushes pink. “No. I'm just going to wait behind the door and make sure you get into the shower okay.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise I’m capable of getting in the shower.” You can tell by the hesitant look on his face that he isn’t convinced. “I’ll yell if I need anything. Okay? Sit down and finish your food.”

You step into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face as he tells you to be careful in an annoyed tone.

Holy hell. Has he always been such a mother hen?

No, there’s no way. You would have noticed it on any of the other dozen or so jobs that you’ve worked with him in the last few months. He’s being uncharacteristically protective and considerate, and despite the fact that there’s a small part of you that almost likes it, you don’t understand the sudden shift in behavior.

Once you’ve managed to get into the shower without any further injury, you stand beneath the scalding hot stream of water until your thoughts stop racing and your skin feels blistered.

••••••

By the time you finish your shower and post-shower routines, it’s just after eight o’clock. Walker retrieves some ice from the motel lobby and assembles a makeshift ice pack for your knee before going to take a shower himself.

You’re halfway paying attention to the fight sequence unfolding on the screen in front of you when he exits the bathroom in only a pair of black sweatpants. No shirt, hair dripping, and skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower.

Taken by surprise, your eyes freeze on him as he walks by you. Luckily, he doesn’t notice your gaze and you snap out of it before he turns to face you as he pulls a t-shirt from his bag and then yanks it over his head.

Six foot two and well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle – you’re not blind. He looks damn good, but you’re not about to let him know that you think so.

Fucker. There’s no way that was an accident. How does someone remember to take a pair of pants with them into the bathroom but somehow forget their shirt?

You bite your tongue, holding back the smart-ass comments that threaten to spill from your mouth. Something in your gut tells you that’s exactly how he’s hoping you’ll react, and you aren’t going to give him that satisfaction so easily.

“Are you ready to go to sleep? Or do you want to keep watching the movie?” You ask instead.

You’re ready to turn the lights off and pass the fuck out, but he'd been a good partner today, and only a fraction as annoying as he normally is, so you figure it won’t kill you to show a little consideration for his wants, too.

Maybe it's the tone of your voice or the look on your face, but he seems to pick up on the fact that you have no real desire to continue watching this movie.

“I’m beat.” He yawns dramatically, stretching for emphasis. “Carrying you for miles really wore me out.”

You grab the closest pillow to you and chuck it towards his head. “You know, I was going to offer to let you take the bed, but after that comment, I think I’ll stay right where I’m at.”

He catches it with ease and laughs as he tosses it to the ground, in between the bed and the motel door – directly beside you. He grabs a spare blanket that's folded at the bottom of the mattress and then sinks to his knees.

“I promise, I've had far worse sleeping conditions than this.”

You know he's just joking around, but something about the comment gets to you more than it should. All of the far worse places that he had to sleep during his time in the Army flash through your mind and make you feel a pang of guilt for hogging an entire king sized bed to yourself.

“What?” He asks, kneeling on the floor next to you. It hits you that you're just staring at him.

Before you can overthink it, the words are pouring from your mouth.

“Just get in the bed.”

“What?” He repeats, this time in bewilderment. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly – or like you’re pulling a prank on him.

“You heard me,” you sigh, pressing the power button on the TV remote and turning it off. “This bed is huge. There's no sense in you sleeping on the cold, hard floor when you don't have to.”

His eyes flicker between you and the empty space on the bed beside you. “Are you sure? It's not that big of a deal. I can sleep on the flo—”

“John, get in the fucking bed.”

He closes his mouth, an indecipherable expression on his face. He hesitates for a second longer, and then stands up with the pillow that you'd thrown at him.

“Okay. Scoot over.”

“What?” you chuckle. “Why do I need to scoot over? Just take the other side.”

“Because I want to be closest to the door,” he says like it’s obvious. “In case someone tries to break in or something.”

You roll your eyes, reluctantly moving over to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’re too tired to fight him on this one.

“How noble of you.”

He takes your place, slipping under the scratchy motel comforter and flipping the bedside table lamp off. The two of you are now encased in darkness – the only noise coming from a television playing in the neighboring room due to paper thin walls.

It’s silent for a moment, and you assume that you’re both going to drift to sleep without saying anything else, when he speaks into the darkness.

“You know, you called me John.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, though it’s too dark to see anything other than his silhouette. “Well, that is your name.”

“Yeah,” he replies after a loaded pause. “But you never call me John. You’ve only ever called me Walker.”

You purse your lips. He’s right – you don’t remember ever calling him by his first name in all the time that you’ve known him. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget that Walker isn’t actually his first name.

You exhale through your nose – something between a sigh and a laugh. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No.” His voice rises an octave. The response comes quickly, like he didn’t think before speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mind it,” he murmurs, his voice returning to its normal cadence.

“Oh,” you whisper.

The silence that follows feels heavy. You’re both completely still. A loud clap of thunder booms, shaking the building and breaking whatever tension was lingering between you. You exhale a shaky breath, ignoring the way your heart is beating in your chest.

“Goodnight, John.”

••••••

When you open your eyes, the room is dark except for white flashes of lightning that creep through the cracks of the motel room’s curtains.

You feel groggy and disorientated, so you know that you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. With the way that the storm is raging outside, you quickly piece together that it was a loud clap of thunder or the violent screeching of wind that must have startled you awake.

Goosebumps decorate the exposed skin of your legs and you shiver, wrapping the cheap, thin comforter tighter around your frame.

There's movement from your left and you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in this bed.

“Storm knocked the power out,” he mutters, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” you groan. Your teeth chatter involuntarily.

He snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “Not everyone has super soldier serum turning them into a human space heater.”

You can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body despite the good foot or so of space in between you. In your half-awake state, you fight the urge to move closer to the only heat source in the room.

“Well, if I’m a human space heater…” He trails off. The bed creaks as he readjusts his position, turning on his side to face you. “I could, uh.. I could help warm you up. Just until the power comes back on,” he adds quickly.

The offer takes you by surprise. If you weren’t so cold, you’d probably burst into laughter. But you’re shivering too much to find anything funny right now. Why the hell did you only pack shorts to sleep in?

Oh, yeah. Because it's spring time, and you’re in Georgia. It shouldn’t be this cold right now. But thanks to the heavy rain and the motel’s lack of proper insulation, it feels like the middle of a New York winter night.

“Really?” you ask lamely. You feel dumb for even considering the offer.

“I mean…” You feel him shrug. “Yeah, why not? You’re cold, I’m warm. You did me a favor by letting me sleep in the bed, so…”

Cuddling with Walker. If your teammates found out, they’d never let either of you hear the end of it. You can hear Alexei’s teasing now.

“Or you can just be cold. I’m fine either way,” he adds when you’re quiet for a moment too long. He starts to turn in the opposite direction when you grab him by the shoulder.

“No, wait,” you mutter, embarrassment creeping over you at the realization of what you’re about to do. “Okay.”

He settles back down, this time laying with his back against the mattress. He extends his arm closest to you, a silent offer for you to tuck yourself between it and his side. Before you can overthink it any further, you close the distance between your bodies and press yourself against him.

Your head rests against his chest, and you throw your arm over his stomach. He wraps his arms around you without any hesitation, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. When you do, you let out a noise that can best be described as a sigh of contentment.

He’s even warmer than you'd imagined. You instantly stop caring about how weird this is and focus on the relief that his body heat provides.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He runs a large hand up and down the side of your arm, warming you further with the friction.

You snort. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t lying about being cold just to snuggle you.”

“Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

You pinch him just below his ribcage in response to his teasing. His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t say anything else.

You're both fast asleep within minutes. The power comes back on at some point during the night, but you’re still entangled with each other when the sun pours through the curtains come morning time.

••••••

Neither of you mention your night in the small Georgia inn after checking out the next morning.

Not on the drive to the airport, or the flight back to New York, or at any point since returning home almost a month ago.

For the most part, things go back to normal between the two of you. You continue to work together, and train together, and banter persists as it usually does when your other teammates are present.

But more and more often you’re noticing that as soon as you find yourselves alone for more than a few minutes, John suddenly has every excuse to be elsewhere.

It’s not as if you used to spend all of your free time together – but the fact that he suddenly wants to take the stairs up to the twentieth floor of the Watchtower instead of taking the elevator with you is a little odd.

It doesn’t bother you at first. You think it’s weird, but why should you let it get to you? You weren’t exactly the best of friends to begin with.

Then, there starts to be moments that you find your thoughts drifting to him when they shouldn’t. When you get caught in the rain and you think back to how he looked with raindrops dripping from his hair and beard, and when you wake in the middle of the night and it’s a little too chilly and you remember how it felt to be pressed against him in the freezing motel room.

You’ll lie awake at night, wondering if he’s in his bed, directly across the hallway, thinking about the same thing as you.

It's fucking stupid.

Like right now – you’re all at a lavish gala, thrown in celebration of Sam Wilson’s Avengers and The New Avengers(z) coming together to form one big, happy super team.

There’s a full service bar, unlimited hors d’oeuvres, and good music – you should be having a good time.

Instead, you’re staring across the room at the back of a dumb blond super soldier’s head while a reporter attempts to ask you questions about who designed the dress you’re wearing.

“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt her. “I just remembered I have to… go to the bathroom. Will you please excuse me?”

You don’t wait for her to answer before you begin walking across the dance floor without a concrete idea as to what you’re going to say or do when you reach him.

“Hey,” you greet him casually. He turns to you at the sound of your voice, a look of mild surprise on his face. There’s a sudden, undeniable fluttering of butterflies in your stomach. He looks too handsome with his suit and tousled hair.

“Did you try the goat cheese and salami stuffed dates?”

Why that’s the question you decide to start off with, you don’t know.

“Uh – no,” he shakes his head, confusion taking over his features. “No, I guess I must have missed those.”

“That's too bad. They’re fucking delicious.”

He cocks a brow at you. “That’s good to know.”

Well, there goes your ice breaker.

It’s the longest conversation the two of you have had by yourselves in weeks, but there’s a level of awkward tension that you just don’t know how to shake – and it obviously isn’t going to go away on its own.

You toss the rest of your drink back before biting the bullet. “Can we, uh – do you mind if we go somewhere a little more quiet so that we can talk?”

As soon as you get the last word out, Valentina walks up and grabs you by the arm.

“There you are,” she says through gritted teeth. There’s a smile plastered across her face, but her voice gives away her irritation – at what, you never really know or care. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

You sigh, unable to hide your irritation at her timing. “What is it, Val?”

She fake laughs, waving to someone off in the distance. “John, would you be a dear and get me another drink while her and I have a short chat? Thanks so much.”

John's annoyance is palpable. He glares at Valentina with daggers, clenching his jaw as he storms off in the direction of the bar.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot, she turns to you. “I need a favor.”

You resist rolling your eyes in case there’s any cameras pointed in your direction at the moment. “I’m here, aren’t I? Is that not enough of a favor?”

She ignores your quip, pointing to where Sam, Joaquín Torres, and Bucky are mingling with a few random attendees.

“I need you to dance with him.”

“Dance? With Bucky? Why?” You sputter the words out, not expecting that to be her request.

“Not Bucky,” she shushes you, plucking your empty martini glass out of your hand. “The young, cute one in the middle.”

“Joaquín?” You exclaim. “I barely know him.”

You can count on one hand the number of conversations you’ve had with Joaquín. You have no problem with him – he's good at his job, a team player, and he’s enjoyable enough to be around. But the last thing on your mind right now is dancing with a man you hardly know.

“That’s the entire point of this whole thing.” She gestures dramatically to all of the people around you. “Bringing the two teams together. It’ll show people how well everyone is getting along. Ava has already agreed to have a dance with Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble beneath your breath.

“I’ll give you an extra week of paid vacation days,” she offers before you can argue any further.

You know she isn’t going to let up. Valentina is nothing if not persistent. Truthfully, you just want her to leave you alone so that you can get on with your night – the extra paid time off is just a bonus.

“One dance and one dance only.”

You walk away from her before she can give you any half-assed words of gratitude.

On your way over to where Joaquín is talking to Bucky and the others, you glance around the crowded room for John. You don’t see him anywhere, and you can’t help but feel the slightest inkling of disappointment.

What would you say to him even if you did happen to run into him right now, anyway? Valentina is making me dance with Joaquín and I really hate dancing but for some reason I don’t think I’d mind it nearly as much if I was dancing with you?

Yeah, right. You’d probably just make awkward small talk about the fucking appetizers again.

You do your best to pretend that there's nothing else on your mind for the few minutes that you talk to Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín, but you can’t stop yourself from glancing around the room every other minute.

“Are you ready to give all of the reporters something super exciting to take pictures of?” You ask Joaquín as he guides you to the middle of the dance floor.

There’s a few other couples slow dancing to the live, classical piano music that fills the venue, so you shouldn’t stick out too much, but of course reporters start flocking around with their cameras when they see a member of the New Avengers(z) and the new Falcon slow dancing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells you as he takes one of your hands in his, placing the other on the small of your back. You lift your arm to his neck and begin following his slow, rhythmic steps to the music. “Sam and Ava are going to dance any minute now, and then all eyes will be on Captain America and the infamous Ghost.”

“Me? Nervous?” you scoff playfully. “I’m not nervous.”

“Could have fooled me,” he shrugs. “You looked like you might puke when Valentina first asked you.”

He guides you into a gentle spin, clearly far more experienced with all of this than you. When he does, you catch a brief glimpse on John. He’s standing several yards away with his hands in his pockets and a stoic expression on his face – looking right at you and Joaquín.

You nearly trip over your own foot, but Joaquín catches you and quickly gets you back on rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I hope you don't take it personally, because it's nothing against you. At all. Dancing just isn't my forte, and I've kind of… had a lot on my mind.”

He looks behind you for a moment before meeting your eyes with a curious smirk. “Would that happen to have something to do with why Walker is looking at me like he wants to bash my head in with his shield?”

“What?” you exclaim, nearly stumbling again. You have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder where John is standing. “Don’t be crazy. He… wouldn't do something like that again.”

Joaquín throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t know about that. I think he just might over you.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you just might be exaggerating.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. At that exact moment, Sam and Ava begin dancing just a few feet away from you and Joaquín. All of the reporters suddenly lose interest in the two of you.

“Or maybe not. Only way for you to find out is to chase him down and ask him, I guess.”

“Chase him down?” you repeat, looking over your shoulder to see John walking directly towards an exit.

Shit.

“Go on,” Joaquín encourages. “I think it’s safe to say we have given Val the photo op that she was hoping for.”

You give his hand a grateful squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Joaquín.”

You really fucking wish you weren’t wearing heels right now. As fast as you can without twisting an ankle, you make your way across the dance floor, heading straight towards the hallway that you saw John enter just a few seconds prior.

There's a voice in the back of your mind screaming that you don't even know what you’re going to say when you manage to catch up to him, but that doesn’t stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until his large frame comes into view.

“John!” You call. He stops right away, though he hesitates for a moment before turning to face you. His face is relatively expressionless, but there's tension in his jaw.

“You okay..?” You ask. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just need some fresh air. Is that okay?” He starts to walk away again, but you reach out and grab him by the hand.

“Is it okay if I come with you? I could use some fresh air, too.”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp – not violently, not harshly, but yet it still stings.

“You sure about that? I would hate to keep you from Torres for too long.” There’s a hint of venom in both his stare and tone. He starts to walk away again, and it takes you a moment to react.

Maybe Joaquín was right, after all.

His strides are long and quick. By the time you start walking after him, he’s already turning the corner of the hallway and out of your sight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter. You pause long enough to yank off the obnoxious stiletto heels that had been killing your feet since you’d taken your first steps in them tonight. With your shoes in hand, you all but sprint down the hallway after him.

The second that you turn the corner of the hallway, it feels as if you have collided with a brick wall.

A brick wall that smells like sandalwood and cedar.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, barely even stumbling when the front of your body slams into his back. “What the hell are you—”

“I like you,” you interrupt him. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide. The martini that you you’d finished earlier threatens to come back up, but you swallow and force yourself to continue.

“I like you, John,” you repeat, softer. “I was only dancing with Joaquín because Valentina told me to. I know things have been… weird, ever since Georgia. You can go back to avoiding me like the plague, if that’s what you want. I just needed you to hear—”

The next thing you know, his large, calloused hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours.

It takes you a second to realize what is happening, but when you do, you're kissing him back like there’s no chance of an unsuspecting stranger walking down this hallway at any moment. You drop your shoes to the floor so that your hands are free to trail up his chest. You grip fistfuls of the satin material of his suit in your hands and pull him closer to you.

Without ever taking his lips off of yours, he backs you against the wall of the corridor. His tongue dances along your bottom lip and you open up for him, your brain turning to static white noise as he slips inside your mouth.

He tilts your head, deepening the kiss. He’s all you feel, smell, and taste – the two of you may as well be the only two people in this entire building right now. It's too easy to forget that you’re at a very public gala, and that any person with a camera could snap a picture of him pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.

You let out an involuntarily whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away as if it physically pains him to do so.

“The only reason I’ve been avoiding you like the plague,” he quotes your words, using the pad of his thumb to trace the swell of your bottom lip. “Is because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing that for the last month. Ever since you fell asleep with your head on my chest. Ever since I carried you through those woods…”

He trails off, leaning down to bring his lips to yours once more.

This kiss is slower – delicate and intentional in a way that the first one was not. As if he's trying to commit it all to memory. His hands rest on your hips, and yours in the short tufts of his hair.

“This is all I have wanted to do.”

“So…” you start with a nervous laugh. You smooth the fabric of his suit that you had bunched in your fists back to its original state. “You like me too, then..?”

He laughs, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, did I not make that obvious?”

“Nah. I think I need to hear you say it,” you hum.

He sighs, and then places another gentle, soft peck to your lips that ends sooner than you’d like. “I like you. You drive me crazy, but I like you so much that it hurts.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

It must have worked, because soon the elevator dinged and you glided into the room, mid-laugh as you bantered back and forth with Bob.  You both wandered towards the minibar, placing the stack of books you had bought down on the countertop. Your conversation was lively and bubbly, and you continued like you hadn’t even seen Walker in the room. He rose from the couch, wandering over to wrap his arms around your midsection and rest his chin on your shoulder. You acknowledged him by rubbing his forearm, never breaking away from your conversation – that wasn’t what he wanted.

Bob awkwardly shifted, still enjoying your conversation but struggling not to stare at the unusual sight of a cuddly John Walker. Especially when said John Walker was staring him down with such a fire in his eyes that Bob thought he was willing him to combust.

Eventually, John tired of not being the focus of your attention – and his subtle hints were not working. He had tried gently running his fingers down your arm, with hopes of interlacing your fingers and leading you away but was brushed off so that you could act a statement out using rapid hand gestures. Utterances of your name fell on deaf ears, and deep sighs with puppy dog eyes were ignored.

 You were so frustrating, couldn’t you see that he was tired? He let go of you, not that the action affected you. You kept nattering on – intent on discussing a plot twist in your favourite book with Bob, who was nodding earnestly at every shocking reveal. Walker returned to glaring at Bob, fists clenched and jaw set, hoping that if he could remove the obstacle, then you would return your focus to him. Bob, of course, did nothing except stare back with wide eyes.

Goddammit.

Walker rubbed his face, a tired sigh escaping him. Drastic measures were going to be required. He positioned himself next to you and bent down to wrap his arms around your waist.

“John, what are you – oof!” A shriek escaped you as he picked you up, tossing your body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You smacked his back in protest. “Bob! Help me!” Bob looked at your grabby hands, starting to move towards you. But one sideways glare from Walker was all it took, and he backed down, arms held up in submission.

“Sorry,” Bob chuckled. John walked you both into the lift, leaving your books scattered about in the common room – you could sort them later.

“I was in the middle of a conversation, John.” Your voice was matter-of-fact but not angry.

“It’s nap time.” You could hear the edge in his voice, how tiredness knawed at the corners of his words. So, you quietened and stared at the wall. Once you reached the living quarters, John beelined past his own door to your room.

See, John didn’t just want to be with you when he napped. He wanted to be surrounded by you, enveloped in your scent, in your warmth. And your room, well, that was just an extension of you.

He knew your door code, of course he did. He had memorised everything about you, meticulously, as if he was going to be tested on it. Because that was just the type of man he was.

Once you were both hidden in the privacy of your room, he placed you gently on the bed. When you tried to get up, he softly pushed you back down. An order without a statement. Stay. You obeyed, watching as he closed your curtains over and found your softest pair of pyjamas. He handed them to you before he pulled his own shirt up over his head. You ogled him, the taught stretch of his muscles as he removed his clothes, stripping down into his underwear. He was a well-built man, with wide shoulders and big arms that allowed him to toss you around like a ragdoll. Yet he was always surprisingly delicate with you, like he’d break you in an instant if he didn’t restrain himself. You followed his lead and changed into your pyjamas, then you scooted back onto your side of the bed, lifting the covers invitingly to him with a warm smile.

John clambered in, body sluggish and slow with fatigue. His head found purchase on your chest, and a low rumble of content could be heard from him as he wrapped an arm around you. His hair tickled at your chin as he settled, and his leg was slung over your thighs; you were effectively pinned. You didn’t mind, though; instead, a comfortable sigh left you while you reached up to run your hands through his hair. You scratched your nails gently across his scalp and down the back of his neck, feeling the muscles of his toned back before you traced your fingers back upwards to repeat the action in a soothing, cyclical fashion. All of his muscles relaxed, like he was a spring that had just uncoiled.

“Can you talk to me… like tell me about your day or something? I like hearing your voice.” His volume was low, like every syllable was a massive effort. You felt a smile rise to your cheeks. You kept your own voice quiet and lilted as you started to tell him about your morning shopping trip. How you had nearly missed your bus to the shopping centre, how Bob had been too polite to escape someone handing out brochures and had gotten stuck talking to them for well over 20 minutes, how you had bought a bullet journal because it had reminded you of him and his routines. You kept talking, even though you had noticed the way his breath slowed barely two minutes in, and the way that his weight had increased like all the resistance had left his body. You stopped, enjoying the feeling of your human weighted blanket. Exhaustion tugged heavily at your eyelids and your vision went hazy. One final thought stood out as you also succumbed to the depths of sleep.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, your boyfriend, well ex now, said he was just going to tap out a friend. Yet, she threw herself into his arms once she was tapped out and pressed her lips to his. Then he introduced you as his friend who just needed a ride here, and the two left you stranded alone.

You took a trip to the bathroom, you didn't want to cry in front of a bunch of Navy men. But when you left the bathroom, you noticed a man, one who was still standing at attention. You slowly walked over, wondering how odd it would be to tap a stranger out.

"Uh, hi," you said before placing your hand on his shoulder. You saw how he relaxed his stance and peered down at you, god he was tall. "I don't know if you have people coming or not, but I saw you from over there and it seemed like you were one of the last people still at attention. So, I decided to tap you out," you rambled, unsure if you made the right decision. But then he collapsed into your arms, pulling you tight to him as he breathed in your scent like you were the oasis in a desert.

"Thank you," he whispered, tightening his arms around you. You tightened yours in return, letting him hold you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He pulled away slowly but kept his hands on your waist, his eyes searching yours. "I, uh, I didn't have anyone here to tap me out," he told you and saw your face flash a few emotions at once.

"Oh, what was going to happen then?"

"One of the COs would tap me out, or I would wait until everyone was tapped out before I moved," he explained and you pouted at the idea. Bradley would later tell everyone that your pout, the little crease in your forehead as you pouted, was the reason he fell in love right then.

"That's bullshit," you muttered, your pout deepening. It was only then that Bradley had a thought.

"Aren't you here for family or something?" His hands quickly moving off your waist in fear of you being taken.

"No, my boyfriend, well ex now, took me here claiming to be tapping a friend out. But when he did, he kissed her and said I was only his friend. They left me here with no way to leave," you told him. Bradley was outraged at the idea, who would cheat on you? "Wait, this is a big day. You survived bootcamp, we should celebrate," you told him.

"We?" It came out more questioning than he liked.

"Well, duh," your smile returning. "We're friends now, no take backs," you pointed at him and he laughed with you.

"Ok, come on, my car is parked in the parking lot," he took your hand in his and led you to his Bronco. Bradley opened the door for you to jump into the passenger seat before closing it once you were in. He rounded the car and got into his seat after throwing his things into the back.

"This is a bad way to start our friendship, but what's your name?" You sheepishly looked at him, you were very aware of the fact that you were in the car with an unknown man.

"Bradley Bradshaw, though my callsign's Rooster," he told you and you smiled.

"I'm y/n, it's nice to meet you," you told him as you watched him drive.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You and Bradley ended up just getting burgers and going to his place for a movie.

"My mom would have a fit if she knew I was at a stranger's house," you said with a laugh.

"More or less mad that you were left by your asshole of an ex on a Navy base?" Bradley questioned, you were leaning into his side as you watched the movie play out.

"Probably tied," you told him, your finger absentmindedly drawing random shapes on Bradley's leg. "Though I think she'd be proud of me for helping you," you sighed, pressing into Bradley's side even more. Bradley adjusted to lay down and pulled you to lay on top of him, your chest pressed into his stomach while your head rested on his chest. You made yourself more comfortable against him and didn't even try to fight the pull of sleep.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

The moon was still out when you woke up, you were in a bed with a warm body pressed against your back and an arm thrown over your middle. You briefly recalled Bradley waking you up earlier to walk to you his room, let you use his face wash to remove your makeup, and give you a shirt and some of his sweatpants for you to sleep in. Now you were uncomfortably hot in the sweatpants and wanted nothing more than to strip them off. You tried not to squirm too much but apparently it was enough for Bradley to wake up.

"Are you ok?" Bradley questioned and it took you a full minute to respond after hearing his morning voice.

"Would it be weird for me to take the sweatpants off? I'm hot," you mumbled.

"Not unless you make it weird," Bradley answered you and you nodded while scooting away from him, you scrunched in on yourself a little before stripping the sweats off and throwing them on the floor. Bradley pulled you back into him as you both got pulled back into sleep, the last thought to cross both of your minds was 'I never want to leave'.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Years passed like that, you and Bradley got close yet never enough. You spent more time in Bradley's bed than yours but nothing happened. Not when you would spend the last 24 hours with him before deployment and not when you were there when he got back.

Eventually you thought moving away, putting physical distance between you two, would be enough to keep your feelings away.

"I got a job offer in San Diego," you told Bradley one day, you were currently in his apartment a few minutes away from Oceana.

"Are you taking it?" Bradley questioned, he would never tell you to not take it, even if he wanted to be selfish and keep you with him forever.

"I think so, it pays a lot more and I'll be remote for all but one week a month," you told him, scooting closer to Bradley on the couch.

"When do you leave?" Bradley was understanding that this is what you felt like, the hollow feeling of knowing he wasn't going with you. That he would have to see you leave with nothing more than a goodbye.

"I start next week," you mumbled, looking down. "My grandma said I could stay with her until I found a house or apartment," you told him.

"I'll help you pack," Bradley said, he was determined to be with you as long as he could.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You had been gone for months when Bradley told you he was going back overseas in two weeks. You decided to go into work the next week and spend the week before he left with him.

You stood at his door, your bag in hand and hesitated for a moment. You were worried he wouldn't be excited to see you but you shook your head at the though. You nodded on the door and Bradley opened the door, he was wearing his signature jeans and Hawaiian shirt.

"Hi," you waved a little but Bradley pulled you into a hug.

"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" Bradley questioned, his pet name for you falling from his mouth like it was natural.

"You leave at the end of the week, I'm here to spend time with you," you told him, a smile overtaking your face. "Phone calls and Facetimes are nice and all but it's not like being right here," you added on and Bradley lead you to his couch.

"Where are you staying?" Bradley secretly hoped you would say with him.

"I have decided, I have some points I could use at the Comfort Inn," you told him, relaxing on his couch like you were meant to be there.

"Or you could stay with me," he offered and watched the way you lit up at the offer.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Then Bradley was gone and you were going back to San Diego, at some point you found yourself hoping he would come back to orders to Miramar. You suffered through phone calls when he had time and worrying if he was ok the other times.

You told yourself you needed to do something to keep your mind off of Bradley. So you went to the Hard Deck and offered Penny help when she needed it. You worked every other day mostly, sometimes everyday depending on how often the other bartenders were working.

You got called in, Penny told you there was an influx of Navy personnel and that she needed the help. It was normally a slower night, so it was only her there. You walked in after a bunch of people where there and a familiar voice was singing.

You saw Bradley sitting at the piano as he finished Great Balls of Fire, you made eye contact with him as he looked up and you made it to the bar. You gave him a small smile before placing your purse on the small shelf Penny leaves empty under the bar for that purpose and turning to work.

"Can I get a beer and possibly your number?" A blond was standing there, a smile on his face. You eyed his down, the name on the name tag on his khakis was vaguely familiar.

"A beer? Sure," you grabbed one of the bottles you had spied him holding when you walked in. "My number? Not so much," you gave him a smile as he payed and walked away. You looked back to the piano to see if Bradley was still there but you didn't see him, a part of you hoped he didn't leave.

"You're working at the Hard Deck?" Bradley's voice was to your left and you whipped your head up to look at him.

"Bradley!" You jumped a little to hug him over the counter and he laughed against you. "Not really, I help on nights Penny needs me," you told him as you spun to look at one of the regulars as they ordered another drink. "Wait, what are you doing here?"

"Secret mission," he told you and you nodded slowly, you looked him up and down. He wasn't in his khakis like the others but he was still distinctly Bradley.

"Where are you staying?" You leaned on the counter in front of him, your eyes locking on his.

"Barracks," he told you and you pursed your lips.

"Uncomfortable," you replied before you were interrupted by the blond walking back up.

"If you told me no because I'm Navy, I have bad news for you," he told you, his smile on his face. You removed your gaze from Bradley and back to him.

"I know he's Navy," you replied. "Just like I know his name is Bradley Bradshaw and that he spends too much time obsessing over his mustache," you added on and you saw the blond have a flash of recognition.

"Hangman, this is y/n," Bradley introduced you to the blond and they both saw anger flash on your face.

"You're the asshole!" You announced loud enough that the other khakis turned their heads. Bradley laughed, loud and unguarded, as Jake held his hands up.

"I'm known as the asshole?" Jake questioned.

"To me, he calls you Hangman. But you're an asshole," you informed him, the bar had emptied out after Bradley's song and you were grateful. You watched as Jake spluttered for a few moments before Penny came up behind you.

"You can leave if you want, it's empty enough that I'll be able to manage," she told you, her hand on your shoulder.

"Are you sure?" You spun to face her and she nodded.

"Go," she handed you your purse and urged you out from behind the bar. You only made it a few steps before Bradley laced his fingers with yours and pulled you to the pool tables.

"This is y/n!" Bradley announced and you smiled at them all with a small wave, your hand still being held by Bradley.

"Hi," you greeted them, waving your right hand.

"You're the one that called Bagman an asshole," a woman greeted you. "I'm Phoenix," you shook her hand with a smile.

"It's nice to meet you," you told her and the rest of the introductions went like that. You ended the night with Bradley trailing behind you in his Bronco to your house. You had offered to let him stay with you if he wanted to be more comfortable and Bradley jumped on the offer.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You and Bradley really only had the brief early morning chats and sleepy night time hang outs. But it was time you cherished, you hadn't even noticed how much you were missing Bradley until he was with you.

You were sitting out back at the Hard Deck with Penny as she tried to balance her books. The entire group of pilots were playing dogfight football and you noticed Penny staring at Pete.

"What's going on with you and Mitchell?" You questioned, taking a sip of the strawberry lemonade you made yourself before offically joining Penny.

"Nothing, he's just an old friend," she told you but you raised an eyebrow.

"Old friend, huh?" You teased and she gave you a pointed look, you didn't hear her response as you saw Bradley chest bump someone before doing a little dance. A smile spread across your face as you watched it.

"What about you and Rooster?" Penny questioned and you whipped your head back to look at her.

"We're just friends," you told her and bit the bullet before she could try and tease you. "But you're right," you looked back at Bradley as they kept playing. "I do like him," you sighed.

"Why not tell him?"

"Are you kidding?" You looked back to her as they lifted Bob up as he won the game. "There's no way he likes me back," you told her, completely obvious to Bradley walking up to you.

"Who doesn't like you back?" Bradley asked and you looked up at him, your eyes lingering on his bare chest for a moment.

"Just some guy," you waved him off. "Why are you in jeans? Why are a lot of you in jeans?" You asked, disgusted by the idea.

"Not all of us have our entire closet or even thought we would be going to the beach," Bradley said and you raised your eyebrow while offering him a drink of your lemonade.

"Yeah ok, but you knew you were coming to San Diego and you didn't bring one pair of shorts?" You took your cup back and placed it on the table.

"You're just being judgmental," Bradley told you but you snorted a little.

"Sure," you replied, you saw how everyone was packing up behind him. "Go back to your friends, they're going to leave you," you waved him off and ignored the annoyed look on his face.

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"Here," you dropped a bag onto Bradley's lap when you walked into your living room.

"What is this?" Bradley questioned you.

"Shorts," you replied, sitting down next to him. "You'll need them if you and you're squadron are going to the beach," you told him, automatically throwing yourself against him.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were standing with Bradley at the dock, no one else had family or friends close enough for them to say goodbye to.

"You're one lucky man, Rooster," Natasha noted that you were the only non-Navy personnel there. "You're getting a hug before you leave," she added on at the confused faces of both of you.

"Oh!" You announced. "Here," you opened your arms and pulled the woman into a hug. She melted into your embrace and you held her just a little tighter. "Anyone else want a hug?" You asked the others, you ignored Bradley complaining that you were supposed to be there for him.

You hugged everyone, telling each of them to be careful and wishing them luck. You hugged them each like it was the last time you would see them. Not in a pessimistic way, in the way that if this was, in fact, the last hug they ever got, it would be a good one. "Thanks, y/n," Jake whispered to you as you hugged him last. You could hear the fear in his voice but you didn't comment on it.

"Ok, ok, let me say goodbye to my friend now, leave," Bradley shooed his friends away and you waved at them.

"You're selfish," you joked when you turned back to him.

"Can you blame me?" Bradley asked and you shook your head in amusement at him. "Come here," Bradley gently pulled you into another hug and you pressed your face into his neck.

"You come back to me, do you understand?" You questioned, your voice shaky. "I don't care what happens, if you're picked or not, you come back to me," you pleaded and Bradley wanted to promise, wanted to tell you that he would but he couldn't.

"I'l try, I'll try my hardest," he told you, the only promise he could make. Bradley pulled away when someone called for him and started to walk away.

You waved goodbye to Bradley as he walked away, he was walking backwards until he couldn't. Your smile was bittersweet and you stood by yourself. You could only stand there and hope that you would see the man you were in love with again.

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You were there at the dock when Bradley came back from the mission. You texted him where you were and what you were wearing, there were some people scattered around. It was a happier feeling then when they left, but you were worried. Bradley told you all he could, how he was picked and his plane went down. But he swore he was fine and that's what you wanted to believe.

"Y/n!" You heard Bradley's voice and started walking towards him. You were in his arms faster than you could process and you felt your tears running down your face.

"You made it back," was all you could say as you hugged him, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

"I did," he assured you and pulled away enough to see your face. You stared him down as you watched his eyes roam your face. You sucked in a breath and surged forward, your lips brushed over his for a moment before he fully kissed you. You melted into it, your arms pulling him closer as he pulled you in by the hips. You could vaguely hear the others cheering but you heard Jake loud and clear.

"Fucking finally!" Jake cheered and you laughed against Bradley's lips before pulling away. He chased your lips as pulled backward and you smiled at him. His eyes were still closed and he was continuously leaning in for another kiss, one that you indulged him in.

"I love you," you mumbled against his lips, breathless from the kisses. "I have for a while," you added as he gave you a love filled look.

"I love you, so much," he told you, his eye shining at you. "I have been since you tapped me out," he admitted and you laughed.

"Yo, lovebirds! You coming to the Hard Deck?" Jake called over and Bradley gently pulled you to his side.

"Nope, I've gotta take my girl to bed," he announced as you covered your face from embarrassment.

"That's a hell of a welcome home," Jake laughed as he saw your embarrassed look.

"Have fun at the Hard Deck!" You called as Bradley walked off with you tucked under his arm.

"Have fun in bed!" Natasha teased you.

➽──────────────❥

        "Has anyone seen my shield?" John Walker strolled into the Watchtowers Living Quarters with his hands at his side, perplexed whilst the rest of the unorthodox team unwinded separately.

        He stopped at the foot of the sofa that Yelena Belova was sprawled across with a bowl of popcorn tucked under her armpit. Hands on his hips, she looked to him and he expressed impatience.

        "That tin taco?" A cheek full of mushed popcorn, Yelena snorted and fed her guinea pig a piece of red pepper she had prepared on the side, "No—I haven't seen your shield, Walker. You should take care of that thing. Or, throw it in the garbage disposal."

"Agreed. It's a heap of junk." Ava added along to Yelena.

"OK. Thank you for the unsolicited advice." Walker sneered and turned on his heel to find Bob to see if he had located his shield. As he turned, Yelena snapped her forefinger and thumb together in a Eureka! moment.

"Yes. I have seen it!" Yelena proclaimed and Walker ushered her to complete her thought, "Miss Fixer Upper has it."

Of course. Walker swore under his breath. Of course, you had taken it.

The Watchtowers esteemed colleague that wasn't apart of the New Avengers, but essential to the team. Their handywoman. You had been recruited by Valentina after a number of occasions where the team would come back from their missions with their items that were key in their protection, crumpled up like a piece of paper. That, or, Bucky Barnes arm needed reworked after temporarily disarmed by his opponent.

You were a kind little thing. Worked hard until your fingers had peeled many layers, sleepless nights sat with your miniature spotlight zoned into one of the New Avengers equipment that had to be fixed by that morning. Everybody sung your praises — hell — even John Walker liked you even when you had taken it upon yourself to remove his shield from his personal area and fix it.

The elevator dinged to the level you were on, John grimaced at the decor Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had curated for the Watchtower. It was an eyesore leading up to your workshop at the backend of the hall.

He didn't even knock as he burst through the door, making you jump the height of yourself in your seat, hands flying to your chest — your eyes magnified through the magnifying headset you were wearing.

"Oh—John!" You huffed as his eyes went to the very thing he had been ransacking his room for.

        It was propped up against a stand, the exterior faced you, the metal still tattered and warped but it seemed as if you had managed to pry it back into a circular shape again. There was something metaphorical about his second shield not fracturing at the seams when up against The Sentry, John Walker didn't want to deep dive into that therapy session. But, it made him upset. You fixing a problem that didn't need to be fixed.

        Two strides and he had snatched it off of the stand upon your worktop. You reached for it, your equipment clattering as you stood, "No, no, no! The paint hasn't dried yet!"

        He felt the wetness of the paint smudge beneath his fingers and to prove a point with his jaw tightened, John stared at you before his hands bent it back into the taco shape it had originally been prior to your non-consensual repairing. John was just adding flare to the dramatic stroke, wedging the shield back onto his forearm.

        "Ever heard of, if it's not broke, don't fix it?" He seethed without reason.

        You mulled over your answer, "I mean—It, it kind of was broken, John. I was doing you a favour. You know how many pliers I went through to bend it back into shape?"

        "Don't touch my stuff again."

        He slammed the door, shutting you off in your little cubbyhole and leaving you utterly gobsmacked at his behaviour. No. You wouldn't stand being spoken to like that. Having had your fair share of quips when attempting to help these supposed heroes and their reckless need to destroy their possessions, John had yet to be added to that list.

        There was an obvious knowledge of his bitter attitude, the rest of his team made shallow remarks at his expense, but you hadn't been one to dogpile onto that. He was sweet on you in particular moments, holding the door open for you, catching you at the elevator before your days work began — hair frazzled and eyes heavy — whilst he took the boxes of supplies from your arms and helped you to your workshop.

John had even invited you out for a friendly drink that you politely declined as you looked back at the mountain of work Valentina had left in her wake.

He was — no — had, been having an exceedingly hard time in regard to his personal life, not that you meddled too deeply but you wanted to do something nice for him. A surprise for his birthday which had been circled in red on your Bricky Gervais calendar that he had gifted you for Secret Santa after he thought you were an architect.

Even then, the calendar was in reference to construction workers.

Nevertheless, you pushed yourself out of your seat, magnifying glasses still in position which made it hard to identify how close things were, but you had worn them enough to figure it out. John had made it to the end of the corridor when you swung the door back open, your feet stormed across the marbled floor; hand drawn back before you launched your attack.

The pencil in your hand hit his forehead with the softest of smacks and paint smeared fingers rubbed the red mark that began to flourish.

The air grew thick with silence. The kind that had you suddenly regretting your childish actions against a serum enhanced vigilante.

“Don’t speak to me like that again.” You feigned confident pride, arms folded over your beating heart whilst John bent at the waist to pick your pencil up.

Dwarfed in his hand, John stepped into your space, his lips retained a humoured smirk from the absurdity of the situation. You counted your blessings that a man like John Walker had a softened spot in his heart for you. Pencil gifted back to you, he turned on his heel without another word; the elevator dinged at your level and he stepped in.

As the doors slid across to connect, John looked down at the paint smeared shield, his eyes narrowed at some chicken scratch that rounded with the curve of the shield:

You’ll never walk-er alone :)

His head rolled back and he sighed.

Now he felt like an asshole.

That continued through the night. It was a rarity, but John had a day-off from pummelling said enemies into the concrete with his fists. After his divorce, there wasn’t much of anything on his list to do when he had a gap in his crammed schedule thanks to Valentina. Fuck, he hated that woman after the Captain America comment.

He went grocery shopping for himself, a few extra items added to the basket to make a batch of Cactus Juice for himself and anyone else who took a fancy to it. Once returned, he packed his small section — compared to Alexei’s — of perishables in the fridge and returned to his room. John didn’t want to spend time with anyone in the group; and the feeling was mutual.

Fingers slotted between each other on the slow rise and fall of his stomach, John had laid for hours and stared up at the ceiling like he was doing time in solitary confinement. He eventually snapped out of it, after thinking about the downfall of his marriage. . . And his failure toward his son and Lemar Hoskins.

Eyes shifted to the corner where he kept his shield propped up as if it were a trophy. A tragic one, but still a prized possession. His eyesight had dwindled, even with the serum, but he could still see the bespoke white writing you had etched into his shield. Close to it were the smeared fingerprint evidence of John’s premature anger inflicted upon you. He had hoped you didn’t take it too personally, Walker was trying to work on that flaw, he really was.

John liked you. A lot, if he thought about it too hard. He had wondered for a long enough time if he only liked you because you weren’t launching vituperative insults in his direction. And, when you did insult him, John seemed to like it? He wasn’t sure. Things were complicated and he harboured guilt for looking at you in a certain light when he was finalising his divorce with Olivia.

Still. He had to make things right.

Knowing your ability to work overtime, John shifted off of his bed and pulled a white tee over his head to protect his modesty. Although — obnoxiously — he did think you may have thanked him for a shirtless moment. He worked hard for his lean physique.

Door opened, the blonde male almost body slammed you who had been on the other side carefully protecting the small flame lit from the pink candle atop of a sloppy red velvet cupcake you had made. Your alarm was voiced into a squeal, your shoulders quick to deflate once you had noticed that the flame had been blown out by the swift movements of John.

“Fuck sake, John.” You mumbled, “That was the last of the lighter fluid.”

John stared at you, “What are you doing?”

“It’s your birthday, duh?” Finger pointed to the clock that had struck twelve to signify the roll into the next day, which coincided with John’s birthday. You turned back to him and whispered, “Happy Birthday. You already spoilt your present from me.”

That was his birthday present?

“Your present to me, was to fix my own shield?” He sounded more ungrateful than he meant to. Actually, his tone was in disbelief that you were stood at his bedroom door in Hulk slippers and a large tee that read: Take a shower, I just did you dirty. You looked silly.

He really liked it. And you.

“Don’t make it sound like such a terrible idea. Bob said it was a good idea for someone that nobody knew what to get.” You waved your free hand in the air to defend your own honour and John just listened.

From the way your eyes shone from the warm glow from the lamp on his bedside table, the slope of your nose and down to your lips that were moving at a million miles per hour as you talked the ear off of him about his tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, resulting in him spoiling his own birthday gift; physically and figuratively.

Man, he was down bad.

He nodded along to your vexed words, taking the hit as he stepped closer to you, his hand unmistakably smoothed over the small of your back, head dipped as he reigned you in. His apology formed in the action of pressing his lips against yours — words muffled and soon snuffed out.

So, you hadn’t expected that type of response. Eyes wide as your lips warmed against John’s, your breasts pressed into him as he practically inhaled you in the corridor. Sure, there was an inkling of a crush on the Big Bad Wolf of the New Avengers. You hadn’t really tapped into it much aside from small acts of service that John didn’t seem to reciprocate. It was your love language after all, maybe it didn’t stretch to his.

To add to that, you didn’t want to be branded the other woman so to speak. It was a grey area when it came to a person in the finalisations of a divorce, and with this new group of heroes heavily saturating every front page of New York newspapers, you couldn’t imagine the guttural punch it would cause for his ex-wife to see him prancing around with another woman. If he liked you, that was.

But, you weren’t in the public eye. You were stood in a dark corridor, wrapped up in the troubled John Walker. And, you took your chances.

His hand came to yours, where you were tightly grasping the cupcake made especially for him. John’s fingertips plucked it from you and tossed it to the side which earned a pull back from you and he chased your lips.

“I worked really hard on that.” You warned at the discarded cupcake that spread it’s cake matter across the flooring.

John watched you, “It made a thud when it hit the floor. It would’ve broken my teeth.”

“I know. It was intentional after your little outburst in my Workshop, Walker.” You heard the grumble in his chest before he returned his reaction in the form of more kisses.

Hands smoothed to the meat of your thighs, John lifted you up with ease and turned to lead you both into the bedroom with a kick of his heel to shut his door. The cupcake long forgotten as he showed you how much he appreciated your efforts on fixing his shield that had dwindled in the shadow of his own ugly behaviour.

bonus:

        "Honey—?" You lifted your head to the call from your fiancé. Feet up on your desk, you had been admiring the way the new jewel on your ring finger caught the sunset that dipped below the horizon. John stumbled from the bedroom, hair in all directions from yanking his original attire off and back into his U.S. Agent gear.

        Oh. Absolutely not.

        "Have you seen my shield?" He asked through panted breaths.

        You blinked at him innocently, the corners of your mouth pulled downward into a frown as you shook your head.

        "Why? Do you need it?"

        He gawped at you. Look at him! Of course he needed it! "What—Yes, baby. I need my shield, please. Have you seen it? The guys are waiting on me" John begged before he dipped back into the bedroom, the scene in disarray as he clawed into every corner to try locate it.

        You slowly stood from your chair and rounded the table, your sweet time was taken to meet him in the bedroom. Shoulder rested against the doorframe, you folded your arms as you watched your fiancé dissolve into a flared panic with profanities leaving his mouth.

        The thing was, it was your birthday. And, John Walker had gotten on his knees in front of you and promised that the third birthday spent in a relationship with you — now newly engaged — would not be spent alone whilst he sped off to gallivant with his Thunderbolts, no, New Avengers esteemed co-workers. 

        As observant as ever, you had overheard Bucky Barnes speak about a minor incident they would have to step into the day prior, and, well, you took that opportunity to misplace John Walker's slightly out of shape shield, the old writing of yours faded but still present on the curve.

        John turned to you, frantic, "Honey, we are talking about the greater good here." His muscular back turned on you.

        "Greater good?" He halted his movements, his posture straightening when he took a deep inhale — eyes closed as he connected the dots. You scoffed, "I am your fiancé, I am the greatest good you are ever gonna get."

        Blue eyes met yours. Stern and telling that he was cemented in his decision. You stood your ground, expression stoic, making sure to have your ring finger exposed enough to remind John Walker who he was devoted to.

It lasted all of forty seconds at most. Then you deflated like a balloon, arms to your side and surrendering to his face.

“Fine. It’s where you never look.” You admitted. You watched as the cogs turned in John’s head before he sprinted down your shared hallway and into the laundry basket brimmed with fresh clothes that needed to be folded; the idea of your birthday dinner a distant memory.

He came back, folded shield in hand and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips that followed with an ‘I love you’. Or, more along the lines of: I love you, I might die at the hands of my enemies or my co-workers. The lines are blurred on that, but I love you. And, then, you blinked and he had gone whilst the dust settled amidst the sudden chaos.

You sighed and retreated to your bedroom.

John isn’t sure why you're working together.

The Thunderbolts had been assigned to break into take a look inside this weapon manufacturing plant and get to the bottom of all the shady stuff they've gotten into. Yelena said you should go in pairs. John figured he could go in alone, but she was insistent. She wanted him to go in with you.

John doesn't dislike you or anything. He respects you as much as he respects anyone else in the group. The seven of you have this weird unspoken bond after everything that happened with Valentina and the Void.

You and John just don’t talk very much. He isn't sure why. There's something about you … he doesn't know what it is. He just doesn't see you two becoming very close.

Not for a lack of trying on your part.

"John," you say quietly. "How much longer do you think we have to wait?"

"I don’t know. We’ll see when Bucky says the next level is all clear for us to check it out," he responds, adjusting his earpiece and never taking his eye off the hallway.

Obviously you knew you were waiting for the word from Bucky. You just wanted to break the silence.

The two of you have been waiting for instructions from your friends for probably 15 minutes and you’ve hardly spoken. No one’s even on this floor, so it's not like you're at risk of someone hearing you.

"Hey, do you ever think about getting a new shield?" you ask, gesturing to his shield. It's been a while since the Sentry folded it, and it's a bit funny looking, but John still continues to use it.

He thinks about it, and then finally turns to look at you. "Um... no, not really. It works enough for now," he says with a shrug.

"Yeah, I guess if it still works then you don't really have to replace it."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

John feels a bit awkward. He knows you're trying to start a conversation, but it keeps fizzling out. You're nice, though, so he tries to get it going again.

"I mean, maybe I'll get a new shield eventually. It did work better before."

"Have you tried to … like, unfolding it?"

He slowly nods and smiles a little. "Yeah. Yeah, I tried to. I didn't tell anyone because I … couldn’t do it."

"Really?" you ask him, trying to keep from laughing at the idea of John frantically trying to pull the shield back into shape. "I'm surprised. I would've thought with the serum and everything..."

"Yeah, well I guess the serum is no match for the Sentry." As he talks, he picks the shield back up and lazily pretends to fight with it.

You laugh softly and John looks away, smiling too and trying to ignore the way his heart flutters a little.

You really are the sweetheart of the New Avengers. That's sort of widely understood to be true. You're tough, but kind. You always seem like you love just being a part of it all. You, (and also Alexei), are like the beating heart of the team.

Maybe that's why John always felt like you and him wouldn't get along. The way he sees it, you're so naturally good, why would you want to be friends with him?

But you do. And he doesn't get why.

"Well, I kinda wish I'd been given the choice to take that serum," you tell him with a smile. "I know we've all got our own strengths or whatever, but you and Bucky and Alexei can help in a way the rest of us just can't."

John looks at you. Like actually looks at you and sees. You don't look sad or anything, you just look like you're really thinking about it and all the possibilities. What your life would be like. What you could do with less physical limitations.

"I mean, I get that," John tells you softly. "I willingly took the serum back when… you know, back in the day." He tries to ignore all the memories that are rushing back to him at once. Memories of the Captain America shield and the title and the press and the Flagsmashers and Lemar…

"Well I think it would be awesome. I know you said one time that it's pretty painful at first, but I think it'd be worth it. I'd be able to help so many more people if I had it. And I really could've used that in the past, you know? Like there was this one time-"

You continue talking, and it hits him.

Lemar.

Oh.

A small smile spreads across his lips. That's what it is.

You talk about the super soldier serum the same way Lemar did. With a lot of hope in your voice. Focused on how much more good you'd do if it had been made available to you.

But it's not just that one thing, it's also the look in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on before. The way you smile. The way nothing ever seems to get to you. The way you always tease John, but defend him when you feel like the rest of the team is going too far with it. The way you always stop for anyone on the street who wants to talk to you, and how you always talk up your teammates while you're at it. You remind him so much of Lemar.

For a second it's like looking at a ghost.

You smile back at John. You're not quite sure what's going on with him, but you keep telling the story you were telling anyway.

The two of you go back and forth for about 10 more minutes before Bucky’s voice comes crackling over the comms.

“Get out of there.”

That sure isn't what either of you had expected (or wanted) to hear from him.

"Bucky, what about the-"

"Don’t worry about any of that now, abort mission, get out of there," Bucky cuts in, interrupting you.

Then it's silent again.

John looks at you again. You start to stand and he scrambles to his feet to follow.

"Okay get behind me," he says, pulling on his shield.

"John, come on, I’m-"

"Get behind me. Please." It's not a demand. He's begging you to let him protect you.

You're so caught off guard by the word "please" actually coming out of John Walker's mouth that you just nod. You prepare to watch out for threats from behind.

You quickly move to get out of the plant and rejoin your teammates. John is in front, more careful to shield you than himself. He spins his head around every time he hears a noise, convinced someone is trying to sneak up on you.

He knows that eventually you might start to question why he's acting more paranoid than ever before. If you were to tell him later that he shouldn't worry and that you can handle yourself, he’d just agree. Because it's true. He knows that. But he can't help it.

Obviously something went wrong on the other end with the rest of the team. Any other time, he wouldn’t be so worried about this. That’s why he likes going solo: he only has to worry about himself.

But no, Yelena partnered him up with you. Now, no matter what you could ever tell him, he feels like he's solely responsible for the both of you... and he's starting to realize that he really cares about you.

And of course you both get to safety. John wasn't about to let things get out of control. He couldn't. He can't. He failed Lemar. He’s not failing you. He can't do that again.

No one really understood what changed within Walker that day, but the difference was noticeable for anyone paying even a little attention.

Whatever he's snacking on, he offers you a little. If he's watching something, he asks if you want to watch with him. If you're watching something, he'll ask little questions from across the room until you ask him to join you.

Everyone's starting to tease him about "trying too hard", like a teenage boy who wants to get a pretty girl’s attention. Maybe he is. He doesn't really care. He feels bad that he didn't give you a chance before, and he's trying to make up for it now. He wants you to see that he cares. He wants you to see that he values this friendship as much as you do, no matter how new it might be, and no matter what direction it may end up going in…

And you do see. What the two of you are starting to have is pretty special.