ty/rian

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

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

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

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

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

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

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

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

Nothing.

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

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

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

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

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

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

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

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

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

But this?

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

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

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

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

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

“Fine.”

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

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

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

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

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

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

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

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

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

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

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

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

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

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

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

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

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

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

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

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

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

That should concern him more than it does.

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

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

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

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

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

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

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

Sam stares.

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

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

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

He likes when you seek him out now.

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

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

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

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

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

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

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

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

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

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

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

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

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

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

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

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

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

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

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

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

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

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

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

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

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

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

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

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

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

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

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

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

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

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

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

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

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

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

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

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

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

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

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

You fall asleep first.

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

He should leave then.

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

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

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

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

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

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

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

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

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

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

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

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

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

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

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

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.

Finally, rough and quiet:

“Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles violently.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

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

“I do feel safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steps back slightly then, expression tight.

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

The thought hits you like physical pain.

“No.”

Bucky goes still.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes search your face carefully.

“Doll…”

“I mean it.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because suddenly everything makes sense.

The gentleness.

The devotion.

The way he always comes when you need him.

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

Because loving Bucky feels terrifyingly inevitable.

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

Bucky looks stunned.

Actually stunned.

Like the words physically knocked the air from him.

“You don’t gotta say that because—”

“I’m not.”

You step closer carefully.

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

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

Something in him breaks open then.

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

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

Your breath catches.

“No.”

“You ask for me when you’re hurting.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“You trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly like that means everything.

Because it does.

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

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

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

Years of longing pour into it.

You clutch his shirt instinctively.

Bucky makes a soft wrecked sound against your mouth.

And then—

Because apparently neither of you can be normal people—

He murmurs against your lips:

“You anxious right now?”

You burst into startled laughter.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god.”

“You want me to lay on you or not?”

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

“Only if you kiss me again after.”

Bucky smiles then.

Real and warm and breathtaking.

“Deal.”

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

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

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

soft!dom!bucky who figured the next gift he'd give you would be something a little smaller. he doesn't want to overwhelm you, or make you think you're not capable by accepting his help. so, he figured a bouquet (that cost way more than bucky will ever tell you) and takeout from your favorite restaurant would be a good start, dropping them by your apartment after your shift from hell. actually, he thinks it's the bare minimum in a relationship, but he can tell you're not used to receiving things just for the hell of it, and he wants you to get used to it. so. starting small is necessary. you were still a little hesitant to take the flowers, but bucky could see the way your eyes lit up at the beautiful arrangement, the way you stumbled through expressing your gratitude as though you were trying not to show how touched you were at the gesture.

soft!dom!bucky who makes it a point to buy you a new bouquet every sunday. it's always a different arrangement with vibrant colors and calming scents, and always comes with a little note, each one different than the last. to my princess, just for being you, or you deserve things as beautiful as you are, or you've made me the happiest man alive. and all of the notes end with from, your daddy<3. and bucky absolutely preens when he steps into your apartment one day and finds himself in your bedroom, only to see the cork board on one of your walls with all of his notes pinned to it.

soft!dom!bucky who always pays when you go out to eat. and, this is pretty normal with all of the dates you've been on with any of your past partners, but it's the location of the dates that gets you. the restaurants get more and more expensive as time goes on, and you have to fight not to gawk at the prices of the entree's alone. the first time you went to a higher-end restaurant, you started with a single glass of wine and scoured the menu for any dish that cost less than fifty dollars, only to find none. bucky saw your deliberation, and he caught on quickly as to why you seemed stressed, causing him to place down his own menu and reach over the table to grab your hand and tell you to order whatever you want, princess. you like steak, right? let's get that. when you quietly fought him on it (the steak was fucking 65 dollars??), bucky insisted that he doesn't care about the price. he wants to treat his princess to a nice evening and this place has the best food in town.

soft!dom!bucky who refuses to call maintenance or talk to the landlord about any issues his place has. he's pretty handy and can fix most broken things on his own, so he always opts to work on a project himself. this also applies to you. the hinges on your cupboards are loose? baby, why are you calling maintenance when you know I have a toolbox? ac went out again? princess, hang up the phone and show me where it is. the first time he fixed something for you, you offered to pay him for the 'inconvenience', to which bucky looked absolutely offended, claiming that helping you isn't an inconvenience, princess, I'm your boyfriend, of course I'm going to help you.

soft!dom!bucky who always offers to drive you anywhere you need to go. he doesn't trust public transportation and he has a perfectly good vehicle, so why would he let you take the bus? especially since he knows you'll be safe, away from prying eyes and people sitting uncomfortably close to you. you tried offering him gas money a few times, but he always turns it down immediately with princess, it's only a 10 minute drive, I'm not losing that much gas, or driving you places isn't a chore, I just love spending time with you.

soft!dom!bucky who eventually starts ramping up the generosity. as time goes on, you're less hesitant to accept his smaller gifts and gestures, which bucky absolutely loves. it feels like serotonin is being pumped directly into his veins when you stop appearing guilty every time you take his gifts or let him buy your groceries for the week. it also helps that you give him a kiss afterward, a little thank you for treating me even though I don't really believe I deserve it.

soft!dom!bucky who nearly gets an instant erection the first time you ask for something. granted, it's just a blanket from your local farmer's market, but still. you're asking for something! he pauses for just a second too long, relishing in the fact that you're taking that step, but you interpret his silence as rejection, so your smile immediately falls. you start assuring him that it's okay, I'll just buy it! it's fine, I just thought - interrupted by him taking out his wallet and shoving too much money into the stall-owner's hands as he says you absolutely will not be buying it, I've got it. and he has to recite his grandma's old apple pie recipe to will away his hard on any time you look up at him with those doe eyes and timidly ask for the painting hanging in one of the stalls or a new cup of coffee after you've finished the one he bought you when you first arrived. he does, but insists you drink water to offset the jitters he knows you'll get if you don't hydrate.

soft!dom!bucky who swears nothing will ever compare to the feeling he gets when you send him a link to an apparel website with a screenshot of the new blouse you've been eyeing but have been hesitant to purchase because of the price. you offer to pay for shipping, but bucky ignores that text and simply sends you a screenshot of the confirmation email he received and lets you know that it'll be at yours in a few days. he loves that you're coming around to letting him treat you, that you've stopped apologizing for needing or wanting anything from him. he'll spoil you rotten any day of the week, and he's so happy that you're starting to love it too.

From the first moment Natasha saw her new personal trainer, she was already dripping for them. 

Y/N was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top super soldier. They were a trans man, and the combination of testosterone and super soldier serum had made them into a god, an asset who even rivaled Captain America in terms of strength, size, combat skills, and agility. 

The agency wanted to keep them out of active combat, saving them as their most valuable asset, a secret only to be revealed in the most desperate times of war. Fortunately, the world was calm enough right now that the military and other, less skilled agents were perfectly capable of maintaining peace, so, in the mean time, Y/N was assigned to be a personal trainer to a struggling avenger. 

Natasha Romanoff, the formidable Black Widow, was coming off a serious knee injury. She was lucky to even be walking, but thanks to her genetic modifications from the Red Room, she healed up faster than most. After just eight months of recovery, she was cleared to get back to training, under the condition it was with a professional who would work with her slowly and ease her back into a routine. 

When she entered the gym on the first day of training, she was expecting some sorry, wimpy agent who was likely weaker than her and would bore her to death, but when a man the size of a titan approached her and said, "Agent Romanoff? I'm Agent Y/N Y/L/N, your personal trainer," she knew boredom wouldn't be a problem. Horniness would be.

Natasha had always gone for bigger guys, guys who could overpower her in bed, guys who made her feel small, but Y/N was in a complete league of their own. They were at least a foot and a half taller than her, and their upper arms alone were the size of her head. They were so muscular and toned, her clit throbbed as her mind treacherously conjured an image of that hard body pressing against her soft, curvy one. 

As their first training session went on, Natasha's heart beat even harder for them. Of course, she loved their size, but their personality is what really got her. They were serious about her workout, but they were also kind. They pushed her to be her best while acknowledging her injury, ensuring the exercises they had her do weren't hurting her. They got her water and put the weights plates back when she was done using machines. They were a dream come true. Beefy and sweet.

Before Natasha learned Y/N was her personal trainer, she thought she would dread the training sessions, but now, she looked forward to them. She had even gone so far as to ask her doctor if they could be upped from twice a week to three times, which he happily approved.

Natasha, of course, loved spending time with Y/N, but she also loved the way they took more notice of her as they spent more time together, which was the primary reason she requested more training sessions. In the past two weeks specifically, she had caught them looking. And she wanted their eyes on her constantly. 

The first time she noticed their gaze was when they were re-stacking plates while she took a swig from her water bottle. The bottle was buried somewhere in her gym bag, so, naturally, she leaned over to dig around in it to find the bottle. Being a super spy and assassin, she was especially attentive, and it was easy for her to know when someone's eyes were on her. She felt Y/N's gaze on her ass in the tight leggings she was wearing, and she had to suppress a shiver. They were beginning to want her, too.

The second time was when they were doing post-workout stretches. Y/N was sitting on a mat across from her, directing her to lean forward and try to touch her toe while her leg was outstretched. She was wearing only a sports bra on her top half, and in this position, Y/N had a perfect view of her cleavage. They clearly took advantage of the compromising angle, unashamedly staring for a good couple seconds before directing her to release the stretch and reluctantly pulling their eyes away with a wink that made her throb. 

Once those moments had passed and Natasha knew for certain she had their attention, that's when the teasing began. 

When Y/N was showing her how to do a new exercise she would pretend to be confused. She would ask them to come behind her and guide her through the proper form in a hands-on manner. They never protested, and when she deliberately leaned back, pressing her ass against their front, absolutely butchering the form of the exercise, they never pulled away. Sometimes, they'd press their hips forward in return, letting her feel their hardening cock. 

And Natasha didn't just tease them in the gym. Once they progressed from communicating through email to communicating through text, Natasha didn't hold back at all.

More often than not, she'd text them a couple photos of herself in different gym outfits, asking which one they liked best. The concept was innocuous enough, but the photos were far from it. They'd be at angles that highlighted her assets and curves, she'd make pouty, needy facial expressions, and sometimes, if she was feeling really risky, she'd sneak a nude in there, too. A shot of her bare breasts or the curve of her bare ass, dismissed under the excuse of "Omg, ignore that last pic! I meant to save it to my private folder, not send it to you!"

And as for Y/N? They enjoyed every second of this. They loved that without even trying, they had reduced the Black Widow to a desperate, needy thing. Today, though, they had finally hit their breaking point when it came to the teasing. 

Natasha was doing what she always did. Pretending she forgot the proper form of an exercise and having Y/N come behind her and walk her through it. She was wearing short booty shorts that did nothing to hide her thick ass, so Y/N expected to feel her behind brush lightly against their length, but instead, they felt her hand grope it. 

The weight was so light to them that they didn't even notice she had let go and they were the one completely holding it now. Her hands were cupping their cock. She'd been needy and teasing before, but never this brazen. Y/N knew they couldn't let her keep being a brat, and it was time to do something about it. 

Y/N notched the bar on its handles, not even bothering to remove the plates and put them back in their rightful places. They grabbed Natasha's hand, pulling her towards the locker room as she giggled seductively.

Once they were inside, Y/N wasn't playing any games. The gym and locker room were almost completely empty this time of day, but they still dragged her to the most secluded corner before shoving her to her knees without a word. 

Natasha let out an involuntary moan as they forced her into submission. She was finally getting what she craved. She maintained eye contact with Y/N, looking as obedient as ever as they spoke, "You're hungry today, huh?"

She watched as their huge hands went down to the tie on the waistband of their sweatpants, slowly, torturously undoing it as they slid them down along with their boxers. Natasha nodded as their cock sprung out, biting her lip at the sight of it, half-hard and as huge as she expected it to be. The super soldier serum had overridden biology, allowing Y/N's phalloplasty to get hard without a rod or a pump. 

Y/N stroked their cock a few times, getting it harder before lightly slapping it on Natasha's face, evoking a gasp from her. They brought their cock to her lips, rubbing it along them before beginning to force it into her mouth. "Since you're so hungry for me today, I'm giving you something to choke on. Be grateful."

Natasha whimpered as she obediently opened her mouth, allowing Y/N to push their cock deep into her throat. Some people went slow, easing Natasha into sucking them, but not Y/N. She immediately did her best to take them into her throat, but couldn't help but gag. She could tell Y/N got off on it, though, since she felt their cock throb as the vibrations from her gag hit their cock. 

Once Y/N was hilted inside her mouth, to her surprise, they didn't move. They just stared down at Natasha, mouth stuffed full of their cock, struggling to breathe through her nose. When she began to pull away due to lack of oxygen, Y/N grabbed her hair, keeping her head in place as they continued to stand there motionless.

Y/N was testing Natasha. Trying to see how much she could take. Only when her face began to turn a deep red did they pull out of her mouth, finally, mercifully allowing her to breathe. Natasha gasped when they released her, coughing, breath sputtering. She was ready for them to do the same thing over again, but instead, she felt their big hand come under her chin, gently tilting her head up to make eye contact with them.

"Good girl," Y/N whispered, their thumb running lovingly across her bottom lip. She had proven herself to them as a woman who could take more of them than most could. Y/N took their cock in their other hand, pressing it to her face again, but not pushing it into her mouth like before. A low, commanding demand left their lips, "Suck it right, babygirl. Show me how good you can be."

Natasha didn't need any more encouragement. She reached out, her small hand wrapping around the base of their cock as she opened her mouth, guiding it in. She began by sucking and licking the tip, her soft, warm tongue dipping into their slit, earning a low, deep groan from them. 

Her hand stroked up and down their shaft as she continued to lavish attention on the tip, trying to figure out which spots they were most sensitive in. Though Y/N wasn't being as forceful as they were before, they were still the one in charge, and soon enough, they weren't just satisfied with tip play. They gripped her hair once more, and gently began to push their hips forward, signaling that they wanted her to take them deeper.

Natasha complied immediately, relaxing her throat and letting them push deeper. They weren't all the way in her throat yet, only about halfway. With the new length she was given, she began to bob her head, pulling back so she was sucking the tip again, and then going down again, taking half of their massive shaft into her mouth. 

She sensually licked the underside of their cock as she went down, hearing a thud as they leaned their head back in pleasure, bumping it against the lockers. Natasha then pulled off their cock for a moment, leaning in to press kisses along the underside as she made her way to their balls. Once she did, she lavished attention on them, taking them in her mouth and sucking lightly as her hand continued to stroke their cock. Y/N was a stoic guy, but as soon as their balls were in her mouth, they let out a deep, low groan of "Fuuuuuuuck."

She then felt Y/N tugging at her hair again, guiding her mouth back to their cock. Natasha let them take the pace, and once again, they pushed their cock as deep in her throat as it could go. they didn't hold her there this time, they simply mumbled, "Throat me, baby. Take it all."

Natasha nodded while letting out a needy whimper, leaning forward to take their cock as deep as it could go. She gagged once again, pulling back this time so she could breathe before taking them in her throat again. She went on like that, rhythmically throating them as they began to tremble and find their voice, their moans growing to be louder than her sucking sounds. 

Y/N's hands then pulled her forward once more, burying themselves in her throat and holding her there for a couple seconds. She expected them to cum then, but, to her surprise, they pulled her off their cock with a gasp instead. they stared down at her, breathing heavily, taking in the sight of her, disheveled from worshipping their cock. 

They leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips, then mumbling against them, "You've got such a pretty mouth, babygirl. But when I cum, I want it to be inside that sweet pussy."

Natasha let out an involuntary moan at the mental image that provoked, her body following Y/N's whims as they grabbed her arm, making her stand up and rotating her so that her back was to them. They weren't gentle or tender in tugging down her booty shorts and panties, their hand immediately going out to deliver a sharp smack on her ass, followed by the dark command of, "Bend over, Natasha. Be a good girl for me."

Natasha immediately complied, whimpering out a submissive, "Yes, sir," before bending forward, bracing her hands on the lockers in front of her. She looked back at them, her already soaked pussy throbbing at the dark, hungry look in their eyes.

Without any more preamble, Y/N slid forward, burying their cock deep inside Natasha's cunt with one fast thrust, earning a loud wail of their name from her. She couldn't bear to be quiet anymore, not when they were stretching her out so good. Shame be damned, she couldn't even bring herself to care if people heard them. She was simply lost in them.

Y/N was quick to set a fast pace, their huge hands gripping her curvy waist as they began to thrust hard. "Fuck, Natasha… you're so tight," they groaned, giving her ass another rough smack.

"Fuck! Harder!" she wailed, pushing back to meet their thrusts, the pain spreading across her ass from their spank making her clench hard around them. She loved the pain, loved feeling so completely controlled by Y/N.

Y/N let out a low, dark laugh at her plea, leaning down close to her ear, still relentlessly thrusting as they whispered, "Yeah, babygirl? You like getting your tight pussy pounded and your pretty ass smacked?" 

Their condescending, teasing tone caused Natasha to wail out in pleasure again, her hips now frantically pushing back to try and pull them as deep inside of her as possible. She looked back at them, tears of sheer need welling up in her eyes as she nodded frantically, "Yes, sir! I love it! I love having you use me!"

Y/N growled at her needy, desperate confirmation, their huge hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise as they pushed Natasha down more, her back arching more, allowing them to hit an even deeper spot. "Good girl, Natasha. You're my toy. All mine for the using."

The combination of their words and the new angle caused Natasha to let out a high pitched wail of their name, followed by a stream of needy gibberish. Y/N loved this. She was completely gone for them, lost in a dizzy haze of need. Her mind was mush, the only thing there now was the need to be filled and fucked by them. As they fucked her, they reached a hand around, gently rubbing her clit as they continued to steadily thrust.

The added stimulation pulled a low, submissive whine from Natasha's throat, followed by more gibberish. Y/N pulled their hand away as she continued to babble, Natasha whining in protest before they spoke, "Use your words, sweet girl. Think, then speak. Tell me what you need."

Natasha thought their request was near impossible, considering her cunt was currently still getting wrecked by their thick cock, but every second their fingers were away from her throbbing clit was torture. She took a couple seconds to align her mouth and her body before whimpering, "I… I need to cum, sir. I need it so badly."

As she formulated her words, Y/N's hand drifted back to her clit before she could even realize it, continuing to slowly, torturously circle it. they leaned back, angling their hips so they could thrust as deep as possible, mumbling, "There we go, good girl. I promise you'll get to cum, sweetheart, but I get to first, okay? You're my toy, I get to use you first."

Natasha just nodded, whimpering in protest at the idea of her orgasm being delayed even for another second, but the innate need to be submissive overrode it, so she just whimpered, "Y-yes, sir. Just take what you need from me."

And Y/N did just that. Both hands went back to her hips now, holding her in place as they mercilessly fucked her, using her pussy like it was a toy. They were grunting and growling, which made Natasha's cunt clench over and over, enhancing the sensations for them. Once they felt the friction becoming too much, they groaned, "Here it comes, love. Be a good girl and take it."

Y/N then pushed inside her one last time, slamming their cock as deep as it could possibly go. They gripped her ass to steady themselves as they finally came, sticky, clear liquid dripping from the tip of their cock and splattering inside her. Natasha whimpered, mumbling repeatedly, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

They weren't going to leave her hanging, though, and within seconds, they reached down once more, their fingers finding her clit and rubbing it enough to actually make her cum this time. They whispered, "You took my load so well, babygirl. So well. Now it's your turn okay?"

Natasha nodded, whimpering out a desperate, "please" as they continued to slowly slide in and out of her as they rubbed her clit. Y/N then removed their free had from her hip, lifting it up so it was hovering above her ass. they leaned in once more, directing her, "I'm gonna give you one more spank, okay, love? When I do, I want you to cum all over my cock. Can you do that for me, Nat?"

Natasha whimpered out a needy, "yes," and waited impatiently for their hand to come down. Y/N could have dragged it out, could have torture her even more, but they saw the way she was shaking, the way she truly couldn't handle any more. As one hand frigged her clit, the other came down hard on her ass, earning a shameless, high-pitched scream from her as she finally came.

Natasha moaned loudly, trembling as wave after wave of her orgasm passed through her. Y/N, who was still buried deep inside her, could feel the rhythmic, relieved clenching of her cunt. They continued to rock her through it, gently rubbing her clit and delivering slow, deep thrusts as she came down from her high. Once they felt her breathing even out, they finally pulled away, gently spinning her around to face them.

Even though they were so much taller, Natasha reached up, wrapping her arms around their shoulders and giving them a hug. She just wanted to feel close to them in this moment, just wanted to be held by the man who had given her the best fucking of her life.

She tilted her head up, gazing into their dark, intense eyes, speaking softly, playfully, "That was a great workout, agent. I think it should be a regular addition to our routine."

Y/N chuckled, their hands going down to her reddened ass, pulling her closer and simultaneously squeezing her. "I agree. It would keep us both in peak physical condition. Maybe it has to be a couple times a week."

Natasha shivered at the thought of getting this treatment on the regular, but the throb of her cunt at their words was undeniable. She finally pulled away from them, looking at the time, realizing she had avengers meetings to get to. 

She pulled her booty shorts back on, innocently asking the question she always did at the end of their workouts. "Am I dismissed for the day, Agent Y/L/N?"

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

—————————

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

Now he was getting ready for prom. 

Tony knocked twice before pushing open the door. “I hear there’s a fashion emergency in here. I’m contractually obligated as your father to either help or mock you. Possibly both.”

“Dad.” Alexander - God, when had he gotten so tall? - stood in front of his mirror, tie hanging loose around his neck, hair that familiar shade of dark brown falling across his forehead in a way that made your heart clench. He looked so much like Tony it was almost unfair. Same sharp jawline, same expressive brown eyes, same tendency to furrow his brow when concentrating. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Tony said, stepping into the room and immediately zeroing in on the problem. “Ah. The tie. Classic. You know, I wore a tie exactly once at your age, and it was to a disciplinary hearing at boarding school. Different context, same level of anxiety.”

“I can’t get it right,” he admitted, frustration evident in his voice. “It keeps coming out lopsided.”

“That’s because you’re doing it backwards. Here.” Tony moved behind him, reaching around to take the tie. “The wide end should be longer. Like this. You know, when I was your age, I didn’t even go to prom. I was too busy building my first circuit board in the garage. Your mother, however -” he caught your eye as you appeared in the doorway, “- she went to prom and looked absolutely devastating, or so I’ve been told. I’ve seen the pictures. The hair alone was a crime against the eighties.”

“It was not,” you protested, leaning against the doorframe, already feeling the telltale prickle behind your eyes. Your baby. Your baby in a suit, getting ready for prom. 

“Mom.” Alexander’s face softened when he saw you, and you saw the little boy he’d been flickering beneath the young man he was becoming. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” you lied, voice thick. “I just have something in my eye. Both eyes. Simultaneously.”

Tony glanced at you over your son, and something passed between you - that wordless communication that came from nearly two decades together. He was feeling it too, you could tell, even if he’d rather die than admit it outright. 

“There,” Tony said, finishing the Windsor knot with a flourish. “Perfect. You look good, kid. Really good. Like a young, more emotionally stable version of me.”

Alexander turned to face the mirror, adjusting the tie slightly, and your breath caught. He did look good. Heartbreakingly handsome in his charcoal suit, white shirt crisp, shoes polished. When had this happened? When had your little boy - the one who used to toddle after Tony in the workshop, the one who’d cried on his first day of kindergarten, the one who’d lost his first tooth eating an apple in this very room - when had he become this?

“So,” Tony said, sitting on the edge of the bed with studied casualness. “First prom. Big night. You nervous?”

“A little,” Alexander admitted. 

“Good. means you care. Now, I’m legally required to give you some fatherly advice here, so bear with me.” Tony leaned back on his hands. “First: be yourself. I know that sounds like something from a greeting card, but it’s true. You’re a great kid - smart, funny, kind. Don’t try to be someone you’re not to impress anyone.”

“Even Emma?” He asked, and you caught the slight blush on his cheeks. 

“Especially Emma,” Tony said. “Who, by the way, seems like a genuinely nice girl. Smart. Good taste in movies. Laughed at my jokes when she was here last week, which shows excellent judgment.”

“Tony,” you warned. 

“What? I’m being sincere!” He turned back to Alexander. “Second: treat her with respect. Open doors, listen when she talks, don’t be glued to your phone. Basic human decency, but you’d be surprised how many people forget that.”

"I know, Dad."

"I know you know. I'm saying it anyway because that's what dads do. We repeat obvious things and pretend it's wisdom." Tony stood, moving to adjust Alexander’s collar even though it didn't need adjusting. "Third: have fun. That's the whole point. Dance, even if you think you look stupid. Take pictures. Eat the terrible catering. This is one of those nights you'll remember, so actually be present for it, okay?"

Alexander nodded, and you saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Yeah, well." Tony cleared his throat, looking away. "Don't make it weird."

________________________________________________________________

You all migrated to the hallway, where the light was better for photos - not that you'd started taking them yet, but you would. Oh, you absolutely would. Your phone was already in your hand, camera app open.

"Okay," you said, voice wavering slightly. "Let me look at you."

Alexander turned to face you, and that was it. The tears you'd been holding back spilled over, and you pressed your hand to your mouth.

"Mom, come on…"

"I'm sorry," you managed, laughing through the tears. "I'm sorry, I just - you're so grown up. You're so handsome. When did this happen?"

"Somewhere between the terrible twos and the terrible teens," Tony supplied, but his voice was rougher than usual. "It's been a gradual process. We were there for most of it."

You moved forward, reaching up to cup your son’s face in your hands. He was taller than you now, had been for two years, but in that moment, you saw every version of him you'd ever known. The infant who'd kept you up all night. The toddler who'd insisted on wearing his Iron Man costume for six months straight. The little boy who'd scraped his knee and come running to you for a band-aid and a kiss. The middle-schooler navigating friendship drama. The teenager teaching himself guitar in his room.

"I am so proud of you," you said softly. "Not just tonight, but every day. You are kind and smart and funny and good, and I'm so lucky to be your mom."

"Mom..." His eyes were suspiciously bright now too.

"Let her finish," Tony said quietly. "She's been working on this speech all week."

You shot your husband a look, but he wasn't wrong. "What I'm trying to say is - tonight, just be yourself. Emma is lucky to be going with you. And if you need anything, anything, you call us. Okay?"

"Okay," Alexander said, hugging you tight. You held on maybe a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the scent of his cologne - when had he started wearing cologne? - and committing this moment to memory.

When you finally pulled back, Tony stepped forward. For a moment, father and son just looked at each other, and you saw so much pass between them. Pride. Love. Understanding.

"You've got this," Tony said simply. Then, because he was Tony, he added, "And if anyone gives you trouble, just tell them your dad is Iron Man. That usually shuts people up pretty quickly."

"Dad, I'm not going to -"

"I'm kidding. Mostly." Tony pulled Alexander into a brief, tight hug, clapping him on the back. When they separated, you could have sworn you saw Tony's eyes glisten. "Have a great time, kid. You deserve it."

The doorbell rang - Emma, right on time - and suddenly everything was a flurry of activity. Corsages and boutonnieres, photos on the stairs, photos by the door, photos in front of the fireplace. Emma looked beautiful in a deep blue dress that made her eyes sparkle, and the way your son, Alexander looked at her - like she'd hung the moon - made your heart swell.

More advice, more photos, more reminders about curfew and checking in. And then, somehow, they were heading out the door, your son, Alexander's hand at the small of Emma's back, both of them laughing about something.

________________________________________________________________

You and Tony stood in the doorway, watching as your son opened the car door for Emma - the Audi you and Tony had given him for his seventeenth birthday, after much debate about responsibility and safety features. The evening sun cast everything in golden light, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend.

Alexander looked back, catching your eye. He smiled - that smile that was all Tony, confident and warm - and waved.

You waved back, Tony's arm coming around your waist.

The car pulled out of the driveway, taillights disappearing down the street, and suddenly the house felt very, very quiet.

"Well," Tony said after a long moment. "That happened."

You turned into him, pressing your face against his chest, and let yourself cry properly. His arms came around you immediately, one hand stroking your hair.

"I know," he murmured. "I know, honey."

"He's so grown up," you said, voice muffled against his shirt. "When did that happen? I swear he was just learning to walk yesterday."

"Time is a cruel mistress," Tony agreed. "Also, I may have teared up a little back there. Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

You laughed wetly, pulling back to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and you reached up to cup his cheek. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good." He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Come on. Let's go sit down before I have a full emotional breakdown. I'm not equipped for this level of feeling. I'm an engineer, not a therapist."

________________________________________________________________

The living room was a shrine to your family's history. Photos covered every available surface: the mantle, the side tables, the walls. Your wedding day, Tony in his tux looking simultaneously terrified and elated. You, pregnant and glowing, Tony's hand on your belly. The hospital, both of you exhausted and amazed, holding your newborn son. First birthday, cake smashed everywhere. First day of school, tiny backpack almost bigger than he was. Every milestone, every moment, captured and displayed.

You curled up on the couch, Tony beside you, his arm around your shoulders. For a while, neither of you spoke, just sat in the comfortable silence that came from years of knowing each other.

"Remember when we brought him home from the hospital?" you said finally. "And you were convinced you were going to break him?"

Tony huffed a laugh. "I'd built weapons systems and arc reactors, but a seven-pound human? Terrifying. I made JARVIS monitor his breathing for the first month."

"I know. I heard you asking for updates every hour."

"He was so small," Tony said, wonder still evident in his voice after all these years. "And so loud. How did something so small make so much noise?"

"Lung capacity," you said sagely. "He got that from you. You're also very loud."

"I'm expressive. There's a difference." Tony reached for one of the photo albums on the coffee table, flipping it open. "Oh God, look at this one."

It was Alexander at two, covered head to toe in motor oil, standing in Tony's workshop with the biggest smile on his face. Tony was beside him, equally filthy, both of them looking absolutely delighted with themselves.

"You let him play with engine parts," you said, shaking your head. "He was two."

"They were clean engine parts. Mostly. And he loved it. Look at that face." Tony's voice softened. "He used to toddle down to the workshop and just sit there, watching me work. Didn't even need to do anything, just wanted to be there."

"He idolized you," you said quietly. "Still does."

"Yeah, well. The feeling's mutual." Tony turned the page. "Oh, here's first day of kindergarten. You cried for an hour after we dropped him off."

"You cried too!"

"I had something in my eye. Dust. The workshop is very dusty."

"Tony, we were in the car."

"Dusty car."

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder as you continued flipping through the album. First lost tooth. First bike ride without training wheels. First science fair - he'd won, naturally, with a project about arc reactor technology that Tony had helped him with. Little League, even though Alexander had been terrible at baseball and quit after one season. School plays. Birthday parties. Holidays.

A whole life, documented in photographs.

"He was such a sweet baby," you murmured, touching a photo of Alexander at six months, all chubby cheeks and gummy smiles. "So happy. Always laughing."

"Still is," Tony said. "We did good, didn't we? I mean, he's not perfect - he leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and his room looks like a tornado hit it - but he's a good kid. Really good."

"We did really good," you agreed. Your hand drifted to your stomach, almost unconsciously. "Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever miss it? The baby years?"

Tony was quiet for a moment, considering. "Yes and no," he said finally. "I don't miss the sleep deprivation or the explosive diapers or the time he threw up on my favorite shirt. But the rest of it? The first words, the first steps, the way he used to fall asleep on my chest? Yeah. I miss that."

You turned to look at him, really look at him. At forty-two, Tony was somehow even more handsome than he'd been at twenty-five. A little grey at the temples, laugh lines around his eyes, but still unmistakably him. Still the man you'd fallen in love with all those years ago.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, reading your expression.

"I'm thinking," you said slowly, "that our son is almost grown. In a year, he'll be off to college. And this house is going to feel very empty."

Tony's eyes searched yours, and you saw the moment understanding dawned. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I don't know. What do you think I'm saying?"

"I think," Tony said carefully, "that you're suggesting we might want to expand our family. Again."

Your heart was pounding now. "Would that be crazy? We're in our forties. We have a teenager. We're supposed to be done with the baby phase."

"Since when do we do what we're supposed to do?" Tony shifted to face you fully, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "If you want another baby - if you want ten more babies - then we'll make it happen. I'm not ready for this chapter to be over either."

"Really?"

"Really." His thumb stroked across your cheekbone. "I love our life. I love our son. But I also love the idea of doing it all again. Of having more little humans running around, causing chaos, keeping us up at night. Of watching you be pregnant again, which, for the record, you were incredibly sexy while doing."

"Tony…"

"I'm serious. There's something about you carrying my child that just -" He broke off, shaking his head. "Point is, if you want this, I want this. We're a team. We've always been a team."

You felt tears prick your eyes again, but these were different. Happy tears. Hopeful tears.

"I want this," you whispered. "I want another baby. Maybe more than one."

"Then let's make a baby," Tony said, and the heat in his eyes made your breath catch. "Or, you know, try really, really hard. Multiple times. For science."

"For science," you echoed, and then you were kissing him, pouring seventeen years of love and partnership and trust into it.

________________________________________________________________

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Tony rested his forehead against yours.

"Bedroom?" he murmured. "I mean, we could do this right here on the couch, but we're not twenty-five anymore, and my back would never forgive me."

You laughed, standing and taking his hand. "Bedroom."

The walk down the hallway felt charged with anticipation. This wasn't just sex - though God knew the chemistry between you had never faded. This was a decision. A choice to start creating a new life, to expand your family, to start a whole new chapter.

Tony's hand was warm in yours, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. When you reached the bedroom, he pulled you inside and closed the door, leaning back against it to look at you.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi yourself."

"Just so we're clear - you want to do this? Tonight? No pressure, we can wait, we can plan -"

You crossed to him, placing your finger over his lips. "Tony. I love you. I want this. I want you. Right now."

His eyes darkened. "Well, when you put it like that..."

________________________________________________________________

Tony's hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth found yours again. This kiss was different from the one in the living room - deeper, more urgent, laced with intent. You melted into him, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly in the way you knew he loved.

He groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, lifting you slightly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, and he carried you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, hovering over you, his eyes roaming your face like he was memorizing every detail. "How did I get so lucky?"

"Charm and persistence," you said breathlessly. "And really good hair."

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. "My hair is pretty great." His fingers found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to trace patterns on your skin. "Though I have to say, I'm much more interested in what's under here."

"Then maybe you should do something about it."

"Bossy. I like it." Tony sat back on his heels, pulling your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. His gaze raked over you appreciatively, taking in the lacy bra you wore - one of his favorites, you knew. "Did you plan this?"

"Maybe," you admitted. "I might have had an inkling about how tonight would end."

"Devious. Also hot." His hands skimmed up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the lace. "You know what I'm thinking?"

"What?"

"I'm thinking that we're about to make a baby. Maybe more than one. And that's incredibly hot. Like, unreasonably hot. Is it weird that I find that hot?"

You laughed, reaching up to pull him down for another kiss. "Not weird. Sweet, actually."

"Sweet. Great. That's exactly the vibe I was going for during seduction." But he was smiling against your mouth, his hands working the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. "Though I'd make a joke about my swimmers being Olympic-level athletes, but that might kill the mood."

"Definitely would kill the mood."

"Noted." The bra came free, and Tony tossed it aside, his gaze reverent as he looked at you. "Seventeen years, and you still take my breath away."

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice. "Tony..."

"I mean it." His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arched into the touch. "Every time feels like the first time. Every time, I can't believe you're mine."

"Always," you breathed. "Always yours."

He lowered his head, taking one nipple into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation. His tongue swirled, teeth grazing gently, and your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging.

"Off," you managed. "This needs to come off."

Tony released you long enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing the arc reactor embedded in his chest - that constant reminder of who he was, what he'd survived. You reached up to trace the edge of it, feeling the slight warmth, the faint hum of energy.

"Still sexy?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice that rarely showed.

"Always," you said firmly. "Every part of you."

His expression softened, and he kissed you again, slower this time, more tender. His hands worked your pants open, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear, leaving you bare beneath him.

"Your turn," you said, tugging at his belt.

"Impatient."

"Very."

Tony made quick work of his remaining clothes, and then he was settling between your thighs, his weight familiar and welcome. You could feel him, hard and ready, and your body responded instinctively, heat pooling low in your belly.

"Last chance to back out," he murmured, though his hips were already rocking against yours, creating delicious friction. "We could just do this for fun. No pressure."

"Tony." You cupped his face, making him look at you. "I want this. I want us. I want to make a baby with you."

Something fierce and possessive flashed in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then." He reached between you, positioning himself, and then he was pushing inside, slow and steady, and you both groaned at the sensation.

"God," Tony breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "Every time. Every time it's like this."

You knew what he meant. The connection between you wasn't just physical - it was emotional, spiritual, a joining of souls as much as bodies. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he obliged, setting a rhythm that was both familiar and thrilling.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice rough. "God, you feel amazing. So perfect. So mine."

"Yours," you agreed, your nails dragging down his back. "Always yours."

His pace increased, each thrust deliberate and deep, angling to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands roamed his body - the broad expanse of his shoulders, the muscles of his back, the curve of his ass - relearning every inch of him.

"Touch yourself," Tony said, his voice strained. "Want to feel you come around me."

You slipped a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you cry out. Tony's eyes were locked on yours, dark with desire and love and something deeper.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged. "Let me see you. Let me feel you."

The tension was building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Tony's thrusts became more erratic, his breathing harsh, and you knew he was close too.

"Tony," you gasped. "I'm…"

"I know. Me too. Come for me, sweetheart. Come with me."

Your orgasm hit like a wave, pleasure crashing through you, and you felt Tony follow a moment later, his body going rigid as he spilled inside you. He groaned your name, his face buried in your neck, and you held him through it, your own body still trembling with aftershocks.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just lay tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.

"So," Tony said eventually, his voice muffled against your skin. "Think it worked?"

You laughed breathlessly. "I don't know. Might need to try again. You know, to be sure."

He lifted his head, grinning. "I like the way you think. Give me like... ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I'm not twenty-five anymore."

"Take your time," you said, running your fingers through his hair. "We have all night."

"All night," he agreed, rolling to the side and pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. "And tomorrow. And the next day. I'm very committed to this project."

"Of course you are. You're Tony Stark. You don't do anything halfway."

"Damn right." His hand splayed across your stomach, possessive and tender. "Can't wait to see you pregnant again. You're going to be so beautiful."

"I'm going to be huge and cranky and craving weird food combinations."

"I know. It's going to be great." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "I love you. So much. Thank you for this. For our son, for our life, for wanting more with me."

Your throat tightened with emotion. "I love you too. Always have, always will."

You lay there in comfortable silence, Tony's fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, your hand over his on your stomach. Outside, the sun had fully set, stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky.

"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?" you asked softly.

"Don't know. Don't care. As long as they're healthy." Tony paused. "Though if it's a girl, I'm in trouble. I'm already wrapped around your finger. Add a daughter to the mix? I'll be completely hopeless."

You smiled, imagining it - a little girl with Tony's eyes and your smile, or maybe your eyes and Tony's smile. A little girl who would absolutely have her father wrapped around her finger from day one.

"We'll find out in a few weeks," you said.

"Can't wait." Tony's hand tightened on your stomach. "Our family's about to get bigger."

"Yeah," you agreed, happiness blooming warm in your chest. "It is."

________________________________________________________________

True to his word, Tony made love to you twice more that night - once slow and tender, once fast and urgent against the shower wall. By the time you finally collapsed into bed, thoroughly exhausted and completely satisfied, it was past midnight.

You were drifting off, Tony's arm heavy across your waist, when you heard the front door open. Alexander, home from prom.

"Should we go check on him?" you murmured sleepily.

"In a minute," Tony said. "Let him have a moment. Besides, I'm comfortable."

You smiled, snuggling deeper into his embrace. A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on your door.

"Mom? Dad? You awake?"

"Come in," Tony called.

Alexander peeked his head in, still in his suit, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed. He was grinning from ear to ear.

"How was it?" you asked, sitting up.

"Amazing," he said. "Like, really amazing. Emma and I had the best time. We danced, and the food was terrible like you said, Dad, but we didn't care. And we talked for like an hour in the car after. She's... she's really great."

"I'm so glad, sweetheart," you said, your heart full.

"Yeah, me too." Alexander hesitated. "Thanks. For everything. The advice, the support, just... everything. You guys are pretty cool. For parents."

"High praise," Tony said dryly, but you could hear the emotion in his voice. "We try."

"Okay, well. I'm going to bed. Just wanted to let you know I was home." Alexander started to leave, then paused. "Love you guys."

"Love you too," you both said in unison.

The door closed, and you looked at Tony, tears in your eyes again.

"We really did good," you whispered.

"Yeah," Tony agreed, pulling you back down beside him. "We really did. And we're about to do it all over again."

You placed your hand over his on your stomach, imagining the life that might already be growing there. A new adventure. A new chapter.

"I can't wait," you said.

"Me neither," Tony murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Me neither."

________________________________________________________________

Epilogue

Nine months later, you gave birth to twin girls - Ava and Mia - who came into the world screaming and perfect. Tony cried when he held them for the first time, and Alexander, now a big brother twice over, was instantly smitten.

True to Tony's prediction, the girls had him wrapped around their little fingers from day one. And Alexander? He was the best big brother imaginable, protective and loving and patient.

Your family was complete. Chaotic and loud and absolutely perfect.

And every night, when you and Tony collapsed into bed exhausted from chasing toddlers and helping with homework and just generally keeping tiny humans alive, you'd look at each other and smile.

Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.

And then, there’s the bedroom.

Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.

Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.

You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.

Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.

Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.

He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.

You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.

Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.

“Bucky, what the fuck?”

Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”

"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"

“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”

You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.

“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.

He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.

You both stare at it, wide-eyed.

“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.

Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”

You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”

“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.

“Think he’ll call back?”

“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.

“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”

He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.

“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.

The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.

“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”

The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?

Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.

“She feels so good around my cock.”

The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…

You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.

Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.

His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.

“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.

You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.

And oh, he does.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”

You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.

It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.

Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.

When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”

He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”

“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”

His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.

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