imaginingmanyfandoms fic rec library

Steve was sitting in his house all alone. The space was normally filled by you after school. It felt odd being alone after having someone around all the time. You weren’t picking up your phone, not even an answer from your mom or dad. Were you really that ill?

Or..

He swallowed, leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together so tightly his fingers turned an angry shade of red.

Or you were mad at him.

Steve stared at the coffee table like it had the answer written in the wood. He’d spent the last hour convincing himself it was nothing. That you were just tired, or stressed, or maybe you really were sick and Jonathan was just being his usual weird self as he retold your explanation to him. 

He remembered the library. How you’d been chatting about anything, everything like you both normally did. But something had changed near the end of the conversation. The light in your eyes had dimmed, the smile on your face tense and clearly forced.

The conversation was normal to Steve.

You’d said something about how boring Hawkins felt lately.

Steve had agreed, scoffed with a little huff of humor. Things had slowed down, especially after everything with the Upside Down. Everything with Dart, the tunnels, Will.. Steve had joked once that life had been flipped upside down. The joke didn’t land very well.

"Yeah," he’d said. "I don’t know. It wasn’t always like this." It wasn’t. He thought about a time when the two of you weren’t friends. How he didn’t realize that he felt a nagging sense of loneliness every second of every day. How his home felt empty with his parents always gone. How the passenger seat of his car was barely worn.

"What changed?" you asked curiously, a slight tilt to your head.

The answer came quickly to Steve. "Nancy."

Nancy was the one who dragged him into all of this. He wouldn’t have met you without Nancy. He hardly knew your name before Nancy. Nancy had given him a gift she didn’t even know she was presenting. She gave him the gift of you. Your company, your compassion, your humor.

"Oh."

"I mean--not, like, now, you know," he’d added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. He supposed it did sound a bit odd. He didn’t want you to think that he was thinking about Nancy. Steve didn’t think about Nancy anymore. Just you. "Just.. I don’t know. It was.. different. When it was her."

It was different when she was always around. A different feeling. It was nice, of course. Nancy was lovely, a truly good hearted girl. The first girl he could say he ever loved. But you? You gave Steve butterflies in a way that Nancy couldn’t have ever given him. It was different when it was her. Because it was you now.

Steve just didn’t think the words mattered that much. Not when the truth was sitting right in front of him. You were sitting right in front of him.

But now you weren’t.

Now the couch was empty, the air was quiet, and Steve couldn’t stop replaying the library conversation like it was a tape he could rewind and fix if he listened hard enough.

He kept hearing your "oh." Not loud. Not dramatic. Just.. small. Like something in you folded in on itself.

Steve hadn’t noticed in the moment. Not really. He’d been too focused on keeping the conversation going, too focused on making you laugh, too focused on the way you looked at him like he was worth your time. But once he was alone, once the house was too big and too still, every detail felt louder.

Steve’s stomach twisted.

He leaned back on the couch, exhaling hard through his nose. He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging down his cheeks.

His mom would tell him he was overreacting. His dad would tell him to stop acting like a girl. Tommy would laugh. Carol would tell everyone at school by Monday. So that left one person. One person who always knew more than she let on.

Steve sat up again, already reaching for his phone before he could talk himself out of it. Because calling Nancy felt.. wrong. Not because he hated her. Not because he was angry. He wasn’t. It just felt like digging up something he’d already buried.

But Steve needed an answer more than he needed pride. And Nancy Wheeler was always amazing at helping find answers.

"Hello?"

"Hey.. Nance."

Nancy had paused before continuing. "Steve?"

"I think something’s wrong. Not-Not like.. monster-Will-Upside-Down-stuff wrong. I think I did something wrong. I-I don’t know."

"What do you mean I don’t know?" Nancy replied curiously, twirling the cord around her finger. "If you did something wrong, wouldn’t you know?"

Steve sighed, the cord of his own phone stretching as he sat down on the arm of his couch. "Well.. it’s to do with.. y’know," Nancy hummed as Steve continued, "and we were in the library. Chatting, like normal. And then I said something."

"You said something," Nancy repeated, a little hint of hesitancy in her tone.

"Yes," Steve confirmed. "She asked me what changed my life, kind of. And I said you."

Nancy was silent for a moment. Steve knew she didn’t hang up because he could hear her breathing over the phone. Then: "Did you seriously say me?"

"What else was I supposed to tell her!" Steve groaned, the tone in her voice telling him that he was deadly wrong. "Was I supposed to tell her that-that meeting her was the thing that changed my life? That I didn’t know how good life was gonna get with her in it? I only said you because you introduced us!"

She shifted the phone to the other ear, the sound of her clothes ruffling over the phone. "Well that was a stupid thing to say, Steve! She probably thinks you’re still hung up on me!"

"What?" Steve jolted, alarmed at her words. "Do-Do you really think that she thinks that?"

"Well, what else would she be thinking?" Nancy shot back like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If a boy told me that another girl changed his life, I’d probably think that he was head over heels for her, too."

Steve froze. The words hit him like a slap. It was sharp in a way that made him feel ridiculous for not seeing it before. "She thinks I’m still hung up on you," he said quietly, mostly to himself. His voice cracked a little at the end, and he pinched the bridge of his nose like that might help him focus. "God, I’m such an idiot."

Nancy sighed softly on the other end, not unkindly. "You’re not an idiot, Steve. You just have this.. habit of saying what sounds right, not what you actually mean."

"Yeah, well," Steve muttered, "what I meant was that she changed everything. You just—catalyst-ed it, or whatever word Jonathan would use."

Nancy let out a small laugh, just enough to ease the air between them. "Catalyst-ed it? You’ve been hanging around those kids too much."

"Maybe," Steve admitted. His hand found the back of his neck again, rubbing slow circles into the skin like it could keep him grounded. "So what do I do? She’s not picking up. I called twice. I don’t wanna seem—"

"Desperate?" Nancy offered.

"Yeah." He grimaced. "That."

Nancy was quiet for a moment. "Let me talk to Jonathan. See what he knows. I’ll get back to you, okay?"

All Steve could do was trust that Nancy did have it. "Okay," he sighed. "Yeah. Just—fix it. Please."

"I will." Nancy hung up the phone, leaving Steve to groan to himself as he ran a hand down over his face.

Steve wasn’t dumb, but right now, he felt like the dumbest person on the planet.

Nancy had brought all of you over to her house. It was a subtle way of putting you and Steve together to see how you reacted. It wasn’t good. You’d been tense around him, clearly unnatural in the way you spoke and the way your body reacted when he got within five feet of you.

The group had conversed for an hour or so, planning just in case the Mind Flayer ever decided to come back to torment Hawkins. Just in case the worst would happen again. A needed conversation and a good way to do this experiment.

You’d grabbed your things quickly after it was obvious there wasn’t much left to discuss. Homework, you’d lied. Yeah, right.

"Go after her," Nancy hissed into Steve’s ear, watching as you made your way out the front door. "Never let a girl walk out the door."

Steve watched the door swing shut behind you, the echo of it thudding in his chest more than in his ears. For a second, his feet stayed planted on Nancy’s living room rug, like they’d been nailed down.

"Go," Nancy hissed again, fingers digging into his arm. "Steve."

He didn’t think, because thinking was what had gotten him here in the first place. Overthinking, under-saying, choosing the wrong words. He just moved, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair as he shoved past the door and out into the cold.

"Hey—hey!" Steve called, voice cracking embarrassingly on the second hey.

You stopped, shoulders stiffening like you’d seen a ghost. You didn’t turn around right away. When you did, your face was blank in that way that hurt worse than anger ever could.

"What?" you asked. It was polite, soft, and so very not you.

Steve slowed as he reached you, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing, how lately you’d been flinching from that closeness like it burned.

"I—" He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Can we talk? Like. Actually talk. Not library-talk or group-talk or.. whatever this is."

You hesitated, eyes flicking back toward the house like you were considering making a run for it. Then you sighed, shoulders slumping just a little. "Fine. Say what you need to say."

"In the library. When I said.. when I said Nancy."

Your jaw tightened instantly. You looked away, staring down the quiet street like it had suddenly become very interesting. "You don’t have to explain yourself, Steve."

"No, I do," he said quickly. "Because that’s the problem. I didn’t explain. I just.. said the first thing that came to mind and assumed you’d know what I meant. You didn’t, and that’s not fair. That’s never been fair."

You folded your arms across your chest in a defensive manner. But, you looked curious, and that was a good thing. "What did you mean, then?"

Steve took a breath. Then another. He forced himself not to fill the silence with rambling, even though every instinct screamed to do exactly that. "I didn’t mean that I’m still in love with Nancy," he said, steady but quiet. "I’m not. I haven’t been. Not for a long time."

Your eyes flicked back to him despite yourself.

"I said her because she was.. context," he continued. "She’s how I met you. She’s how my life started changing. But you’re the part that matters."

You shook your head slightly, like you didn’t quite believe what you were hearing. "Steve, you literally said it was different when it was her."

"I know," he said, wincing. "And that’s the worst part, because I meant it was different in a bad way. I just—God, I say things backwards sometimes."

A weak smile tugged at your mouth despite everything, and Steve clung to it like a lifeline. More good signs were exactly what he needed to keep talking right now.

"It was different with Nancy because I was lonely and didn’t even know it," he said. "And then you showed up and suddenly I wasn’t anymore. Suddenly my house wasn’t quiet. Suddenly I had someone who wanted to sit on my couch and talk about dumb stuff and make fun of my movies and—" He stopped himself, breath hitching. "You changed my life. Not her."

You stared at him, eyes shiny in a way that made his stomach drop. "Then why didn’t you just say that?"

Because I’m scared, he thought. Because saying that out loud feels like handing you something you could drop. It’s like handing you my heart hoping it doesn’t shatter.

Instead, he said, "Because I didn’t think I was allowed to."

Your brows knit together. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," Steve said softly, stepping closer before he could chicken out, "that every time I start to think you might feel the same way I do, I remember that I’m Steve Harrington. The guy who messes things up. The guy who says the wrong thing. The guy who always ends up being the dick. And I don’t want to be the reason you look at me differently."

Letting out a shaky breath, you said, "Steve, I already look at you differently."

That stopped him cold. "You do?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

You nodded once, then finally dropped your arms, the tension fading from your posture. "I thought I was.. a placeholder. Like you liked having someone around, but that you were still—" You swallowed. "That I was just filling the space Nancy used to take up."

"No," Steve said immediately, horror flooding his face. "No. God, no. You’re not filling anything. You’re the reason that space exists at all."

The laugh that came from you was a little wet and broken as you pressed the heel of your hand under your eye. "You’re really bad at this, you know that?"

"I know," he said, a crooked smile breaking through his nerves. "But I’m trying."

You looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. Then you stepped forward and, tentatively, rested your forehead against his chest. Steve froze for exactly half a second before his arms came up around you, slow and careful like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

"I thought you didn’t want me," you murmured.

Steve tightened his hold just a bit. "I’ve wanted you since the first day you sat on my couch like you belonged there."

You smiled against his jacket.

"Next time," you said softly, "just say what you mean. Or just ask me on a date like a normal person."

He pressed his chin gently to the top of your head, placing a hint of a kiss there. He was a gentleman, after all, and you never kiss a girl before the first date. "Yeah," he agreed. "I think I finally learned that lesson."

taglist from part one:

@hello-nah817 @watercolorskyy @4ria790 @teaandiphone @thecolorpearl05 @vcosette @notplutos @mel164 @degeneratedweeb @jungkookisthetypeto @stydiaforeverbitchezz @cutecur7ygirl @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @swirledyouintoallmypoems @strawberrylov-er @janiescissorhand @akumatizedmuffin @somethingsfishy23 @winx333-blog @louisbelongstome28 @emmaaagiii-blog @emmyrietveld0 @celynjones-blog @emeloyy @itmekelpy @urmommyandrea @ethereallyastral @keeryverse @hersongglitter @louisbelongstome28 @rxeae @wtfisastiles @napisjmz @c0rpsecinnamon @fallautum @justiceforfoxface @nosebeers @theoraekenslover @maryjaneeeee @awiewie @casually-simping

but you keep licking all over his dick with your hot tongue, finding that sweet spot that you know drives him insane until he's letting out a moan. rubbing the tip with the bumpy underside of your tongue until his hips are jutting upwards. lapping up every drop of precum, humming at the salty sweet taste.

"c'mon, baby. do your work. you've still got lots to do." you giggle, an annoying, teasing lilt to your voice. you can see the conflict on your boyfriend's face. he wants to give in so badly, but his deadline's looming over his head.

so you make it harder for him to say no by enveloping the whole tip of his cock in your warm, wet mouth. the pleasure is delicious against his cock and steve loves it, no matter how irritated he is with your schemes and your horrible timing. you're pushing more and more of him in your mouth, gulping him down, letting him hit the back of your throat. you're fighting back a gag as you take it, let him feel your throat spasm around him.

until he can't hold back the moans anymore, he's gripping into your hair and keeping your nose pressed against the curls at the base of his cock, thrusting in and out. but you pull yourself off of his whole length, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

"didn't you say you've got work to do? you need to focus, stevie."

"but baby, i-"

"focus, or i'll stop."

he's groaning, forces himself to pick up a pen. he continues to read the messy scrawl in front of him, attempts to mark it, but the words are all jumbling up in his head when you're sucking his dick like that. you've got your mouth on the top half now, slobbering messily all over him. your saliva coating his whole dick and dripping down unto his heavy, fat, balls. you have two hands at the base, winding and pumping in sync with your slutty mouth, using the dripping spit as lubrication. you sound absolutely sinful around his dick, choking and humming and moaning at the feeling of his cock in your throat. you love it, he knows you do, and the fact that you enjoy blowing him so much always turns him on even more.

he's tried to read the sentence a million times to no avail before he's throwing his hands up and dropping the pen unto his desk. cupping your face to pull you off of his dick.

"baby, just get up here. please."

"but i thought you had wo-"

"shut up, angel. i can't play your games right now. i need you so fucking bad."

he doesn't even have the patience to move you two to the couch three feet away, or to pull your panties off properly, he's simply pushing them over to the side and manhandling you unto his fat cock. it's all wet from your spit, so he's lining himself up with your entrance and immediately slamming himself in to the hilt, with no warning. he's so big, but the burn is so delicious. he lets you sit still while you adjust to the stretch, taking your lips into his, breathing heavily and moaning into your mouth. licking at your tongue until you're both sloppy and wet, hands in each other's hair.

you squeeze your pussy around him and he's moaning loudly, "ride me, baby."

he doesn't need to tell you twice before your bracing your feet into his desk chair, hands on his strong shoulders. you're lifting yourself up to the tip, watching his dick appear as you pull off, and then slamming yourself back down till it's completely buried inside of you. steve moans at the sight of your cute clit right above where you two are interconnected, and brings a thumb down to press and rub at the sensitive bud.

you start riding him up and down, coating his cock with your sticky mess, dripping down and soaking the fabric of the chair. steve lifts your top up so he can watch and bite and grope at your breasts as they bounce into his face. he's gripping almost painfully at your hips, enough to leave bruises.

"steve," you cry, still riding him with fervour. "feels so good, baby. love your fat dick."

"yeah, angel, i know. you take it so fucking well." he moans.

and when you roll your hips into his until his tip is rubbing and abusing your gspot, your moaning so loudly and your face looks so fucked out and in pleasure that steve has to bite his hand to stop cumming. you're starting to pant in short bursts now, mewling and crying, and he knows that you're close.

"c'mon baby, know you wanna cum for me." he says, pushing upwards into you, meeting your thrusts so the pressure against your gspot increases and drives you mad. he rubs at your clit again and you're hissing and moaning at the stimulation. he loves when you're fucking and it gets all quiet like this as you chase your orgasm, the pleasure becoming eye rolling.

and with a few more thrusts you're crying out his name, begging him not to stop. you're blinded with the onset of your orgasm, thrashing as it overwhelms you. steve's cumming too, balls squeezing against his body and dick twitching as he empties himself into your waiting pussy. grunting and moaning as he cums hard, holding you up when the orgasm causes you to flop into him.

"fuck, that was so good." you whisper into his shoulder when you've come down from your high, his softening cock still inside of you, plugging up his cum.

"so good, sweetheart. you did so good." he replies, cupping your face to pepper kisses all over your cheeks.

"well, i guess you've got papers to grade now, stevie. should i get up?"

you're pretending to get up off of him, but he's laughing and pulling you back down, cuddling you into him with a "shut up" and a sigh.

"let me take care of you first. the papers can wait another five minutes or so."

but it isn't five minutes, and he knew that when he said it. and later, he gets absolutely no sleep trying to finish marking those damn papers.

───────────── ♡ ─────────────

“Keep staring like that and Rooster's gonna catch fire.”

Bob whips around to find Jake watching him with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m not staring,” Bob mutters.

Natasha glances over her shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring all morning, Floyd.”

“Why don't you just ask Rooster to switch seats?” Reuben asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t—I’m not—why would I—”

“Your boarding pass, please, sir,” the flight attendant cuts in.

Bob hands his ticket over with a tight-lipped smile, trying not to combust as the rest of his squad smother their giggles behind him. The flight attendant points him down the aisle, saying something about on the right, and he steps through after Natasha—the others trailing close behind.

And he can’t help it. The second he steps into the aisle, his eyes search for you—but they find Bradley first, his head sticking up above the rows of seats. He glances up and spots the group, a bright smile breaking across his face as he nudges the person beside him. You, obviously.

Then your head pops up over the seats and your smile knocks the air right out of Bob’s lungs. You wave frantically, eyes sparkling even under the bleak airplane lighting. He almost trips over his own feet as he shuffles down the aisle—and behind him, Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Watch your step, Floyd,” he says, voice smug. “I knew you were falling for her, but I didn’t think literally.”

Bob shoots him a flat look over his shoulder, biting back what he really wants to say when he spots a little kid within earshot. “Cut it out.”

Jake raises both hands in surrender—but the look on his face says he’s going to do anything but cut it out.

After an awkward shuffle past a family trying to wrestle their toddler into a seatbelt, Natasha announces that she’s found everyone’s seats. She quickly tosses her backpack into the overhead locker and claims the window seat. Mickey and Reuben stash their bags and slide into two of the four middle seats, Javy following suit. Then Bob drops into the seat beside Natasha—which means, to his dismay, Jake is directly across the aisle.

By the time everyone is settled—belts clipped and phones on airplane mode—the plane is almost full. There are people chatting excitedly, parents yelling at kids to sit still, and flight attendants walking the aisles in preparation for takeoff. Natasha already has her neck pillow wrapped around her shoulders, her head tilted against the window, eyes shut and looking perfectly content. Until—

Mickey leans forward, raising his voice above the chatter. “Did you guys know the last eruption of—”

“No,” Natasha snaps, eyes flying open.

Mickey hesitates, but continues anyway. “—Mauna Loa was in—”

“No!” she says again, leaning across Bob now. “I swear to all the Gods, Garcia. If you don’t shut the hell up for the next six hours, I’m going to find an active volcano to throw you in the second we land. Got it?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dare laugh—not when Natasha’s in a mood like this.

“Okay, damn.” Mickey raises both hands. “Sue me for trying to get in the vacation spirit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and flops back in her seat. “It’s not a vacation.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah—right. So why do I have my vacation sandals on, then?”

Bob’s almost positive Natasha would have leapt across the aisle and strangled Mickey if it weren’t for the captain’s announcement crackling through the overhead speakers. Her jaw ticks, dark eyes narrowed across the aisle at where Mickey is now sinking back in his seat. The others are giggling like idiots, holding their hands over their mouths as the captain talks about takeoff and then instructs the cabin crew to start the life jacket demonstration.

Bob tries to pay attention. He really does. But he can hear your quiet laughter, and he can hear your muttered voice telling Bradley to cut it out. Whatever it is. You’re only five rows back—yeah, he counted—and he knows the sound of your voice better than he knows his own.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he knows just a little too much about you and not nearly enough about himself. Not enough to understand why he feels like this. Not enough to convince himself you could possibly feel the same way. Not enough to ask you out instead of pining over youlike some pathetic loser.

Yeah. He’s doomed.

When Bob finally blinks and returns to his own body, takeoff is over. The plane is cutting through the clouds, still ascending, and Natasha is back to leaning against the window with her eyes closed.

And it’s at this very moment that Bob regrets not packing his headphones.

“So.” Jake leans toward the aisle, grinning. “You and Blink, huh?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, Hangman. Just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then why would I have to drop it?”

Bob gives him a look. “I said drop it.”

“And I’m just asking what it is I’m being told to drop,” Jake presses.

Bob sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you even care?”

Jake’s grin sharpens. “Care about what?”

“Oh my God,” Bob mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Jake chuckles, shifting as much as he can in the narrow seat to face Bob. “Look, I swear I’m not just trying to be a dick. I see the way you look at her—we all do. And if you weren’t so stuck in your head about it, you’d see that she’s just as into you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not about to admit anything, and he sure as hell isn’t about to let Jake’s ridiculous idea get any traction.

Because you’re not into him. He knows that for a fact.

Jake rolls his eyes. “And since you refuse to believe me, and since you’re too chickenshit to ask her out, I figured this vacation might be a good chance to prove it.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mumbles, eyes still shut.

Bob ignores her. “Prove what?”

“That she’s into you,” Jake says, exasperated.

Bob frowns. “Prove it how?”

Jake settles back in his seat, smirking. “Oh, you know… a little proximity, a little orchestration, a few strategic interventions.”

“Strategic interventions?” Bob echoes.

Jake just grins.

“Like—” Bob’s brows pull tighter. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

Before Bob can get another word out, Jake is on his feet. Bob’s eyes snap up to the little seatbelt sign overhead—no longer lit, which means passengers are free to move around the cabin. He fumbles with his own belt and pushes halfway out of his chair, craning his neck over the back of the seat to see where Jake’s headed.

Bob’s stomach drops when Jake stops beside you and Bradley—but when he shifts a little higher, he sees you’ve got your headphones on and your eyes shut.

Jake leans over you, muttering something to Bradley.

Bradley frowns, his face twisting into something between disbelief and irritation. He shakes his head.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he murmurs something else, pointing a finger toward Bob.

Bradley glances at Bob—still frowning, but now with a hint of confusion.

“Bobby,” Jake calls, waving him over.

Bob sinks back into his seat, exhaling hard. What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

With a deep breath, he pushes the belt clip off his lap and stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward where Jake is standing with a very convincing look of concern on his face.

“Come on, Rooster,” Jake says. “Do you really want to be the reason Bob goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Bob’s looks at Jake, eyes wide. “The reason I what?”

“I told you he’s not allergic to peaches,” Bradley says.

Bob frowns. “I’m not allergic to—”

“Oh, hey guys.” You slip your headphones off, blinking up at Jake and Bob. “What are you doing back here?”

“Bob’s severely allergic to peaches,” Jake says quickly, “and the guy in front of him just opened a peach cup.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Do you need to swap—”

“But the thing is,” Jake cuts in, leaning closer to you, “he gets super sick if he’s sitting in an aisle seat—which is why I was asking Rooster, here, to be a gentleman and swap seats.”

Silence.

Your brows pull together. Jake looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at Bob. Bob can’t stop looking at you.

Then Bradley looks at you and—it clicks.

“Okay, fine,” he says, unclipping his belt. “Only because Bob dying would be a really shit start to the holiday.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as Bradley slides out of his seat and into the aisle—and Jake looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Bob can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin as everyone makes the awkward shuffle to give him space to squeeze in beside you.

His heart stutters when you look up at him with that soft little smile. The one you give him every morning from behind your coffee mug. The one you wear with a nod on the tarmac right before you climb into your jet. The one that’s been showing up in his dreams more than he cares to admit.

With a steadying breath—laced with your intoxicating perfume—he drops into Bradley’s seat. His arm brushes yours, his knee bumps your thigh, and when he glances over and finds you right there… God. He’s lightheaded.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Jake says with a grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just up ahead if you need anything. Don’t be too loud, and keep your hands to yourself.” He pauses, smile sharpening. “I’m looking at you, Bobby.”

Bob can feel his whole face burning as he stares back at Jake, lips pressed into a thin line. He can’t start cursing him out in the middle of the plane. And he definitely can’t say what he really wants to say with you sitting right between them, rolling your eyes and laughing.

Laughing like you don’t notice the way his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Like you don’t see the smirk Bradley gives him now, finally in on Jake’s stupid scheme.

Like you don’t catch the little wink Jake shoots over his shoulder before he walks back to his seat with Bradley in tow—both already arguing about which one of them is mommy and which is daddy.

Bob shifts carefully in his seat, trying not to jostle you too much as he finds his belt and clips it—but your thigh stays pressed to his anyway. And when he finally settles, you turn toward him with that same warm smile, cheeks faintly pink.

“I didn’t know you were allergic to peaches,” you say, voice soft enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the plane.

Bob feels his pulse trip over itself. “I’m—I, uh… only found out recently. Really recently.”

Your lips twitch like you’re trying not to laugh. “That’s rough. Peaches are delicious.”

“They’re dangerous,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, eyes flicking to the peachy colour of your lip balm.

You nudge him with your elbow—not hard, just enough to send a spark up his arm. “Good thing you’re sitting with me then.”

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

Then something shifts—so subtle he almost misses it. You adjust in your seat, turning your knees a little more toward him, your shoulder brushing his. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, warm and sweet, and it takes everything in him not to lean into it.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods—too fast. “Yep. Great. Perfectly fine.”

Your smile softens, brows pulling together just slightly. “Jake didn’t bully you into this, did he?”

Bob almost laughs. Almost. “A little. But I figured sitting with you was better than Fanboy and his Hawai’i facts.”

“And the peaches,” you add, eyes sparkling.

Bob chuckles. “And the peaches.”

The next hour slips by in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silence. At some point, the plane dips slightly through a pocket of turbulence, and your shoulder knocks gently into his. You mumble a quiet apology, but you don’t pull away.

If anything—you gravitate closer.

Bob swears he stops breathing when your head softly rests against his shoulder, your hair brushing his jaw when you shift to get comfortable. You let out a soft sigh, warm through the cotton of his shirt, and Bob has never been more aware of another human being in his life.

He tries to focus on the in-flight map glowing on the screen in front of him. He tries to remember how to sit normally, breathe normally, exist normally. But then his eyes drop to where your fingers rest, just barely brushing his armrest, and he wonders if you even notice how close you are. How close he is.

Then a shadow passes over him. Slowly. And his gaze flicks up to find Bradley.

He’s grinning like an idiot, pausing just long enough to catch Bob’s eye and wink—slow, smug, deeply unhelpful. Bob glares, as much as a man with a sleeping passenger on his shoulder can glare, but Bradley just suppresses a laugh and keeps walking toward the bathrooms.

Eventually—even with his racing heart—Bob starts to relax. The warmth of you curled against him, the quiet hum of the engines, the dimmed cabin lights... it all blurs together. His chin dips, his breathing evens, and without meaning to, he drifts off too.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps like that—your cheek tucked against his shoulder, his head resting lightly against yours—but it’s the soft chime of the speakers that yanks him back to consciousness.

“Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for descent.”

Bob blinks awake, disoriented, momentarily unsure where he is. And then you shift against him, lifting your head with a groggy little noise that hits him square in the chest.

“Oh—sorry,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Bob sits up straighter, heat flooding his cheeks. “No, no—you’re fine. Totally fine.”

You smile, still sleepy, still warm. “You’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just smiles—face burning, heart racing—and glances down at his lap, wondering if you could possibly hear the pounding of his heart over the hum of the plane engines.

By the time the plane lands, Bob is almost sure he’s sweat through his shirt. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides as he shuffles out behind you, eyes fixed on the back of your head and definitely not on the way your butt looks in the soft, slinky lounge pants you’d worn for the flight.

After the chaos of disembarking and baggage claim—which ended in tears after Mickey accidentally knocked a little boy over while yanking his suitcase off the conveyor belt—the whole team heads out to the taxi rank. Bradley and Reuben are already complaining about how hungry they are, Jake is unbuttoning his shirt because he’s too hot, and Natasha is about five seconds away from getting her own Netflix special about how she went from naval aviator to homicidal murderer.

The team splits into two cabs, and for the first time all day, everything actually goes quiet. For the first time there are thirty minutes of blissful, air-conditioned silence—no trivia, no yelling, no crying children—just the low rumble of traffic and the faint rush of waves as the coast gets closer.

And when the resort finally comes into view, even Mickey stops trying to make small talk with the driver.

It’s huge and bright and tropical, with balconies stacked around every level and palm trees swaying over the massive pool that stretches right along the beachfront. There are clusters of lounge chairs tucked beneath striped umbrellas and shade sails, and two bars anchored at each end of the sprawling pool deck.

It’s paradise.

“Goddamn,” Javy mutters. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says as she marches toward the lobby doors, “and it’s going to be a whole lot nicer when I’m lying on a lounge chair with a drink in my hand at least twenty feet away from you idiots.”

The sliding doors whoosh open, and the rush of cool air feels like a blessing. The lobby is enormous—open ceilings, carved wooden beams, tropical flowers arranged in towering vases, and the steady trickle of a waterfall somewhere off to the right. There are people everywhere. Families wrangling kids and suitcases, couples in matching outfits, honeymooners draped over each other like they’re allergic to personal space.

And somehow the Dagger Squad still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

Jake stops dead in the doorway, sunglasses still perched low on his nose. “Now this,” he says, beaming, “is what I call a vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mutters—for what must be the tenth time today.

“Does this place have a lounge?” Mickey asks, stepping in front of Jake. “Like, a member’s lounge or VIP lounge? I feel like this place should have a lounge. Someone ask about a lounge.”

Reuben elbows him. “Mick, enough about the lounge or I’m shoving your head in that fountain.”

Bob hangs back a step, letting you move ahead of him in the line for the check-in desk. Your bag bumps against your hip when you shift, and Bob has to pretend he’s studying a carved tiki statue so he doesn’t keep staring at you like some sex-starved lunatic.

But then Jake leans around him and whispers, “Is this your plan? Just stand really close and stare at her all vacation?”

Bob’s entire spine locks up.

“Seresin,” he warns under his breath.

Jake smirks. “Just saying, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

Before Bob can snap back, the front desk clerk waves everyone forward with a too-wide smile—her eyes flicking up and down the group like she can’t decide which one she wants to eat first.

“Welcome! Are we all checking in this afternoon?”

Natasha steps forward with the confirmation email pulled up. “Yep. Five rooms under Mitchell, but one checked in yesterday.”

The clerk taps a few keys and scans her computer screen. “That’s right. Captain Mitchell arrived yesterday evening. Is this the rest of the party?”

Natasha nods.

“You’re all Navy, right?” the clerk asks, brows lifting. “Like... pilots?”

Mickey groans. “Here we go.”

Jake steps forward, flashing his most charming smile. “Yes ma’am. And as the most decorated pilot in the group—”

Natasha actually barks out a laugh.

You snort behind your hand.

Bob rolls his eyes.

But the clerk doesn’t notice the chaos—she’s too busy tapping away on her computer. “Alright, I’ve got your room assignments right here…”

Bob’s pulse jumps.

Jake leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes sparkling.

Natasha crosses her arms like she’s preparing for war.

Mickey mutters something about hoping for ocean views.

And you glance back at Bob with a soft little smile—completely unaware that he’s seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“Alright.” The clerk lays four sets of keycards on the counter. “You’ve got three twin rooms and one king.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

Bob’s stomach drops.

“Room 301, Seresin and Machado. Room 302, Bradshaw and Fitch.”

Jake looks at Bob, then at you, then back at the clerk.

“Room 303, Garcia and...”

The clerk squints at her screen. Bob’s heart skips. Jake looks like he’s about to explode.

“...and Floyd,” she says finally.

Bob lets out a soft exhale—part relief, part disappointment—and he can almost swear he sees your shoulders sag, just a little.

“What?” Jake snaps. “That’s ridiculous! We’re wasting a king bed on the two girls?”

The clerk’s eyes widen as she slowly pushes the keycards across the counter.

Natasha turns to Jake, lips curling into a smirk. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Jake sputters. “That’s—no. Hold on. You can’t just—what does that mean?”

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she shoots you a cheeky wink and snatches two of the keycards off the counter.

The clerk clears her throat, gesturing toward the elevators. “Your rooms are all on the third floor. Elevators just to the left.”

The rest of the group grab their keycards as Natasha starts tugging you toward the elevators. Jake trudges close behind, muttering something about injustice, and Bradley, Javy, and Reuben crowd in last. Bob lingers for a second, tucking his keycard into his pocket and watching the elevator doors ease shut.

Mickey nudges him. “You good, buddy?”

Bob flinches slightly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Cool,” Mickey says, stepping forward to aggressively mash the elevator button. “Because I’m showering first. And if this ocean view isn’t pristine, I’m writing an email.”

Bob huffs half a laugh through his nose. “Sure.”

The second elevator dings and they both file in. Mickey keeps rambling—something about how he expects to see dolphins every morning and can’t wait to drink out of a coconut—but Bob’s not listening.

He’s thinking about you. Again. As usual.

But for some reason, right now, right here, he can’t make himself stop. Normally he can shove it down, tell himself it’s an unrealistic fantasy, remind himself you’re just his friend, his squadmate. Someone he cares about, sure, but not someone he gets to have.

Except… every time he tries to tell himself that, he sees your smile. Soft, pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right there beside him.

And God. It hits him in the chest. Every damn time.

Could Jake be right? Could you really feel the same way about him?

Surely not. Right? You’ve never asked him out. And sure, you flirt sometimes, but the whole squad does. It’s practically part of the job description at this point. And maybe you try to sit next to him whenever you’re at The Hard Deck, but that’s only because you get along so well. Right?

Jake’s not right. He can’t be.

The ding of the elevator yanks Bob out of his thoughts, and the doors slide open onto the third floor. The hallway is warm and bright, lined with framed watercolour paintings of hibiscus flowers, plush little sofas tucked between every second door, and the faint smell of sunscreen drifting from someone’s open door.

“Look, Mick,” Reuben calls, already one foot in his room, “here’s your lounge.”

He points at one of the small sofas, and Bradley snorts before they both disappear inside. Mickey just rolls his eyes and continues down the hall until he stops at room 303.

He swipes the key and shoves the door open with a grin. “Home sweet home.”

Across the hall, behind room 304’s door, Bob hears your voice. Your laughter—light, familiar, stupidly gorgeous.

And with a soft exhale that feels more dramatic than it should, he turns and steps into his room.

Not your room.

Not this time.

But the ache in his chest says he’s already imagining the next time Jake meddles.

And—God help him—he might just be on board with it.

After settling in, showering, spending twenty minutes doom-scrolling and another ten on the balcony looking for dolphins, Bob and Mickey finally make their way down to the hotel restaurant. It’s almost seven p.m., and Mav has organised for the whole group to meet for dinner to go over work-related requirements before the Dagger Squad are unleashed on Oʻahu.

Almost everyone is already there by the time they walk in—everyone but you and Natasha.

“Ooh, shrimp,” Mickey says immediately, rushing up to the table with zero hesitation and snatching the biggest prawn off the platter sitting in the centre.

Maverick stands, brows raised. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mav,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of shrimp.

Bob gives a short nod. “Captain.”

“Bob,” Maverick says, amused, before taking his seat again.

Mickey pulls out the chair beside Reuben, and Bob grabs the next one along—leaving two empty seats between him and Bradley. Jake catches Bob’s eye from across the table with a knowing smirk, wiggling his eyebrows like he orchestrated this exact seating plan. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll sit when you get here.

And as if the universe is working off Jake’s script, Maverick stands again.

“Ladies. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Bob twists in his seat to look—and that’s when he forgets how to breathe entirely.

He didn't expect you to change—and even if he had, he would’ve pictured shorts or something soft and easy like your flight pants—but you… you’re wearing a sundress. Light, floaty, soft in a way that belongs to somewhere warm and ocean-bright like Oʻahu. Not that you don’t look gorgeous in your service khakis or your flight suit—you do, painfully so—but this is different. There’s something about the way the fabric moves when you walk, catching the light each time you step closer, that knocks every coherent thought straight out of Bob’s head.

He tries to school his expression into something normal, something friendly and casual, but his pulse is thundering and his palms are suddenly warm. All he can think about is the press of your head against his shoulder on the plane and how he can still feel it, like a phantom touch.

Natasha takes the seat beside Bradley without hesitation, and you slide into the last empty chair beside Bob. So close he can smell your sunscreen. So close that the air shifts when you sit—warm and sweet and dizzying in a way he’s not prepared for.

Bob swallows, mouth dry.

He is so, so screwed.

“Yum, shrimp,” Natasha says, leaning across the table to stab one with her fork while Mickey glares.

You glance at Bob as you pull your chair in, sliding your napkin onto your lap with a small smile that makes his heart knock dangerously against his ribs. He’s just about to open his mouth to ask how your room is when a waiter appears beside him, carrying another elaborate food platter.

“The fruit platter,” he announces, angling it toward the table.

You gasp. “Oh! No, I’m so sorry—could you actually put that down the other end? He’s allergic to peaches.”

The waiter freezes, eyes wide. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as every pair of eyes at the table snap toward him. “No worries,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

The waiter circles around and sets the platter down in front of Jake and Bradley, who are trying—very unsuccessfully—to hold back their laughter, hands clamped over their mouths, faces turning red, shoulders shaking.

As soon as he leaves, Maverick turns to Bob. “You’re not—”

“It’s new,” Bob blurts. “I—uh—just found out.”

Maverick frowns. Jake wheezes. Mickey eats another prawn.

“Right,” Mav says slowly. “Well—you should really update your medical records.”

Bob nods, once, tight. “Yeah. Will do.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet while Jake and Bradley finally manage to choke down their laughter—then Maverick clears his throat and launches into logistics. He talks through the week ahead—tomorrow free, Pearl Harbor the day after, two more free days, then the gala on Friday night after an early-morning rehearsal. Simple enough. Easy to follow.

But Bob hears almost none of it.

He nods when everyone else nods, laughs when the table laughs, eats when food is served without really tasting a thing. Because you’re beside him—close enough that your knee brushes his under the table every now and then, close enough that he can smell the floral hotel soap still clinging to your skin, close enough that he keeps catching your hand almost resting over his on the table. Like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Mickey keeps reaching for shrimp. Natasha keeps stealing them. Jake keeps watching Bob like a man waiting for fireworks. And every time you lean in to speak to Javy or Maverick across from you, the sleeve of your sundress slides a little down your shoulder and Bob forgets what language is.

By the time dessert comes out, he’s ruined.

Fully, hopelessly gone.

And when Mav finally calls it a night, the sky outside is dark, the pool lights glow turquoise, and the night air feels thick and lazy, like everyone is finally ready to crash.

Chairs scrape, napkins drop, and everyone slowly stands and starts filing out of the restaurant. Maverick peels off first, heading for the block of lifts at the far end of the building that go all the way up to the top floor—to his fancy executive suite.

The rest of the squad drifts toward the main elevators—laughing, yawning, nudging shoulders. And you end up next to Bob, because of course you do. Close enough that your arm brushes his when the hallway narrows, close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He tries to focus on Mickey’s running monologue about whether the pool bar has frozen margaritas or only blended ones, but all he can think about is the faint smell of coconut shampoo every time you turn your head.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and everyone squeezes in. You step in beside him, shoulder pressed to his as the doors slide closed. Jake catches Bob’s eye over your head and winks, like an absolute menace.

Bob pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Three floors pass in seconds—but it feels like hours, with the back of your hand brushing his, his fingers itching to lace with yours, every inch of air between you charged and too warm for such a small space.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, everyone spills out, still chatting lazily as they wander down the hallway toward their rooms—301, 302, 303, 304 all in one neat cluster.

You stop at your door with Natasha, turning to Bob with that gentle smile again.

“Night, Bob.”

He swallows. “Night.”

Mickey claps him on the back. “Come on, roomie. I’m exhausted.”

Bob follows him into room 303, but not before glancing once more at you disappearing behind your door across the hall—heart pounding like he’s eighteen and in love for the first damn time.

He exhales, long and helpless.

Maybe he should do something about it.

About you.

Maybe he should talk to Jake.

-

Jake is already sprawled across a sun lounge when Bob finally walks out onto the pool deck late morning. Clustered around him are five more lounges, each reserved with a single item on them as if that’s legally binding. One has a pair of sunglasses—even though Jake already has aviators perched low on his nose—the next has a hat, then a shirt, and the last two each have a single flip-flop.

“Morning, Bobby,” Jake grins, all lazy confidence and oiled skin.

Bob sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

He drops onto the lounge with the hat, picks it up, and tosses it at Jake. Then he scrubs both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground—jaw tight, chest aching.

“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head. “I’m in.”

Jake arches a brow. “In?”

Bob swallows. “Help me. With… her.”

Jake’s grin spreads slow and wolfish—like the sun rising just to witness chaos.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and swinging his legs off the side of the lounge to face Bob properly.

“Alright, Phase One: Plane Buddy. Complete success. Shoulder contact achieved. Mutual napping? Unplanned bonus.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Please don’t call it phases—”

“Phase Two,” Jake continues, ignoring him completely. “Proximity. Sun, water, bare shoulders. Classic vacation bonding. She sits there—” he points to the empty lounge on Bob’s other side, “—you offer sunscreen for her back, she does yours, feelings ignite, boom.”

“This isn’t a mission brief, this is—”

“Everything is a mission brief if you do it right.”

Bob just stares at him—horrified, defeated, wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake.

Then footsteps thump against the deck boards behind them, and Bradley appears wearing swim trunks and a hideous Hawaiian shirt hanging wide open like he owns the entire island.

“What mission brief?” he asks, dropping his towel onto one of the flip-flop lounges.

“Operation Hawaiian Heat,” Jake says.

Bob almost chokes. “We are not calling it that.”

Jake turns back to him. “Okay. Fine. The other option is Operation Unblue Bob’s Balls.”

Bradley snorts. “I like that one better.”

Jake gestures at him triumphantly. “See? Rooster gets it.”

Bob lays back onto his lounge and throws an arm dramatically over his face. “What have I done?”

“You’ve come to the right man, that’s what,” Jake says, far too proud.

Bradley drops onto his sun lounge, kicks his slides off, and sprawls out with a contented sigh.

“Now.” Jake leans in. “Phase Two—”

Bradley turns his head. “There are phases?”

“Obviously,” Jake says, like Bradley just asked whether water was wet. “Bob’s going to make a move today.”

Bradley sits up, suddenly invested. “Finally. I was this close to drafting you a script.”

Bob’s ears burn. “I’m not making a move. I just—I asked for help.”

“Which implies intent,” Bradley says.

“And opportunity,” Jake adds.

Bob sinks lower in his lounge, face in his hands. This was a mistake. A huge, life-altering mistake.

Jake claps his hands once, decisive. “Now we just need Blink down here. We keep her close. Swim together, flirty eye contact, sunscreen situation if we can engineer it—”

Bradley nods. “Water proximity works. Pools lower personal-space boundaries by at least forty percent.”

“That’s not real data,” Bob mutters.

“It is now,” Bradley replies.

Jake gasps suddenly, like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “Oh! And when Phoenix eventually emerges from the underworld, we—”

“Morning!”

Bob freezes at the sound of your voice.

“Hey, Blink,” Bradley greets, too quick and too casual to be anything but suspicious. “How’s Nix?”

You drop your towel onto the lounge beside Bob, and Jake’s grin sharpens.

“Miserable, but alive,” you reply. “Housekeeping dropped off, like, a litre of Pedialyte, but she won’t drink it until she’s sure she can at least keep water down.”

Bradley winces. “Damn. Is she alright on her own?”

“Insisted on it, actually,” you say. “Said she doesn’t want anyone to see her this weak.”

Then you rest a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and his entire body goes rigid.

“How’s Fanboy?”

Bob clears his throat. “He’s good—I mean, not good—alive. He’s alive. But still really sick.”

His cheeks burn—and Bradley snorts. Loudly. But before anyone can question it, he pushes off the lounge, takes four long strides across the deck, and dives straight into the pool.

You blink after him. “That was weird.”

“When has Rooster ever been normal?” Jake says quickly. “Anyway—what were you saying about Phoenix?”

You eye him suspiciously. “Nothing. Bob was saying Mick is still really unwell.”

Jake raises both brows. “And Natasha?”

You frown. “Like I said two minutes ago—still sick.”

Jake hums, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk. “Do you think it was something they ate?”

“Nat reckons the shrimp,” you reply. “They were the only ones who ate it.”

Bob sits up straighter, as if suddenly unsure how to hold himself with you around. “So, it shouldn’t last too long—they'll be better by tomorrow, right?” he asks.

You shrug—and then you do something that has Jake biting his knuckles and Bob ready to explode. Figuratively. Literally. All of the above.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tug them off in one smooth motion, then pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the lounge beside you. Sunlight catches on your swimsuit—soft and pale blue—and whatever words Bob had left in his brain evaporate instantly.

His breath stops. Full system shutdown.

He tries to look away, he really does, but his eyes drag back helplessly, like gravity has been recalibrated to you. His pulse kicks up hard enough he’s convinced Bradley can hear it underwater. And Jake definitely notices—he chokes on a laugh, clamps a hand over his mouth, and shoots Bob the smuggest look a human has ever produced.

Bob’s fingers curl around the edge of his sun lounge, knuckles white. Every rational thought he’s ever had abandons ship. The only thing left is the shape of your smile, the sun on your skin, the faint scent of sunscreen drifting with the breeze as you shake out your hair.

You don’t seem to notice the devastation you’ve just caused. You just drop your flip flops on top of your towel and push your sunglasses up your nose—casual, effortless, lethal.

Bob’s mouth is dry. His heartbeat is loud. And if he wasn’t already in over his head, he is now—irrevocably.

“Anyway,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m gonna go for a swim.” Then you tilt your head toward Bob, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You should come, Floyd. You look hot.”

You don’t wait for an answer. You just flash him a smile—warm, easy, devastating—and walk toward the pool, the sun catching on the sheen of sunscreen coating your skin until it makes him dizzy. You slip into the water with a clean, graceful dive that sends a ripple across the surface and a full emotional crisis through Bob’s nervous system.

“Go!” Jake hisses, slapping Bob’s leg.

Bob startles. “What—now?”

Jake’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “She literally just asked you. Invited you. By name. While wearing that swimsuit. And I’m sitting right here—do you hear the words coming out of my mouth? Go!”

Bob hesitates, palms flattening uselessly against his thighs. “I—uh, I don’t know. I should probably—”

Jake grabs the sides of Bob’s lounge and shakes it once. “Robert. Floyd. Get. In. The Pool.”

Bob exhales in a rush, defeated. “Fine.”

He sits up—reluctantly, slowly, like a man walking to his own execution.

“Take your shirt off!” Jake hisses.

Bob frowns. “No. Absolutely not. I’m pale. I’ll burn in, like, five minutes.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “Do you want to be sun-safe or get laid, Bob?!”

“That’s not—those aren’t the only options—”

“Right now they are!”

Bob glares at him, then at the pool, then at you—floating on your back, sun in your hair, laughing as Bradley splashes you.

Jake gives him one last shove. “Shirt. Off. Go.”

And Bob, red-faced and mortified and completely hopeless, reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He inhales once—deep, resigned—then tugs it over his head in one quick, graceless movement before he can chicken out. His glasses get a little crooked in the process, his hair sticks up, and his entire torso goes pink the second sunlight hits it.

“Dear God, he’s adorable,” Jake mutters, like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

Bob pointedly ignores him. He folds his shirt—mostly to have something to do with his hands—and sets it on the lounge beside him. His ears are burning. His chest is burning. His soul is burning. He’s already regretting every life choice that has led him to this exact moment.

And then—he feels it.

A flicker of attention. The weight of someone’s stare. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He glances toward the pool, and—

You’re watching him.

Not accidentally. Not confused. Not casually.

You’re watching him—with your elbows resting on the edge of the pool, water beading on your shoulders, chin tilted just slightly as your eyes track down his chest and back up again.

Your lips part—not much, just enough—and Bob’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

The second your gaze snaps up to meet his, you blink fast and pretend you weren’t staring, pushing off the wall and turning onto your back like you’re suddenly very invested in the wispy white clouds floating through the sky.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “She was eating you alive.”

“Shut up,” Bob hisses—but his voice comes out thin, breathless, like all the air has left his lungs.

He swallows hard, palms slick, pulse pounding, eyes drifting back to where you’re pretending not to look at him—except you absolutely are. Out of the corner of your eye, subtle and warm and curious. Your lips even quirk a little when his gaze catches yours, and then you turn away with pink cheeks like nothing even happened.

Jake nudges Bob hard with his foot. “Get. In. The. Pool.”

Bob exhales like a man marching toward certain doom and pushes himself to his feet. The sun feels too hot, the water too bright, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to sit back down—but he forces himself forward anyway.

He steps in slowly, careful, lowering himself until the water settles warm around his chest. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s amazed it doesn’t disturb the surface.

You turn at the sound of movement, brushing wet hair from your cheek.

And then you smile at him.

Not the casual, breezy smile you give everyone. Not the professional squadmate smile. Something softer. Something that hits him sharp behind the ribs, like you’re seeing a part of him he doesn’t know how to hide.

“Hey,” you say, drifting closer.

Bob clears his throat. “Hi.”

Your eyes slide from his face down to his chest, not even trying to be subtle this time. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this—”

“Wet?” he offers—quick, nervous.

You snort softly. “I was going to say undressed.”

Then you turn your head, suddenly very interested in something across the deck—but Bob catches the colour rising in your cheeks, and he knows the sun has nothing to do with it.

A quiet beat stretches between you. Nothing but the gentle lap of water against tile, the distant crash of waves, the low murmur of O’ahu slowly waking up around you.

“Sleep well?” he asks suddenly—because he has no idea what else to say, only that he has to say something.

You turn back to him. “Not really. Nat was up most of the night. You?”

He shrugs. “Same. Fanboy wouldn’t stop groaning.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and Bob feels the sound settle somewhere beneath his skin, warm and dangerous. “Maybe we should swap—”

A dramatic splash cuts you off, both of you flinching as water sprays everywhere.

When Bob opens his eyes again, he can’t see—his glasses are spattered with droplets, the world reduced to blur and colour—but he can feel you. Warm. Close. Too close. You laugh softly, and he feels the exhale of your breath brush his lips.

“Oh no,” you say. “You’re blind.”

Before he can even think to move, he feels the ghost of your fingertips at his temples, gently as you slide his glasses off. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking as it registers just how close you are. And when he blinks, uselessly trying to coax focus from his lousy vision, all he can really see is—

You.

Everything beyond you dissolves into colour and light—the blue of the pool, the pale stretch of sky, movement without detail—but you stay sharp. Close. So close he can see every tiny detail he’s never let himself linger on—the dark line of your lashes, the curve of your lip. You’re right there, within reach, water slicking over your shoulders as you float nearer without even meaning to.

Bob’s breath stutters.

Without his glasses, there’s nothing to hide behind. No distance. No buffer. Just you and the water nudging him forward, your bodies close enough that he can feel the heat of you through the pool, the faint brush of your knee against his thigh sending a spark straight through him.

You tilt your head, studying him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—and the way your eyes trace over his face, down his chest, back up again makes something low and dangerous coil in his gut. The water laps between you, slow and lazy, but Bob feels wound tight, every nerve lit up, every thought stripped down to how close you are and how impossible it is to pretend he isn’t thinking about it.

About you.

Your skin. How it would feel against his. How your lips would taste if he just leaned in.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And then—

Jake surfaces. “Whew! That’s refreshing!”

Bob startles and steps back.

You shoot Jake an unimpressed look. “Really, Seresin?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, lips curling into a smirk. “Did I interrupt something?”

You don’t answer—you just shake your head and start wading toward the edge of the pool, Bob's glasses still in your hand.

Jake watches you go for exactly half a second before turning back to Bob. “Easy there, Casanova. This is a family resort.”

Bob squints at him, mostly just trying to see him clearly. “What do you mean? Wasn’t getting close the—”

“Close, yes,” Jake cuts in under his breath. “But you don’t give it away. You keep the tension high. You let it build.” He pauses, his smirk sharpening, and drops his voice lower. “You have to make her want it. Make her beg for it.”

And God—that absolutely does it.

Because Bob’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, fills in the blank immediately. You—closer than you should be. Looking at him like you were a second ago. But this time? You’re lower. Even closer. That softness in your eyes sharpening into something else entirely. And his body reacts before he can shut the thought down—fast, unmistakable, and deeply inconvenient.

Bob sucks in a sharp breath.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs space. Distance. A wall. A lifeguard whistle—something—because if he stays here another second, Jake’s going to notice, and that will be a whole new level of humiliation.

Without another word, he turns and wades toward the shallow end, heart hammering, every nerve lit up for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming.

“Are you guys hungry?” you call from the deck.

Bob glances over his shoulder and squints to see you using your shirt to clean his glasses—and he has no idea why, but somehow that makes his situation even worse.

“Yes!” Bradley replies, way too eager. “I’m starving.”

“Can you get a fruit platter?” Jake asks, voice smug.

Bob refuses to turn around.

“But no peaches!” Bradley calls.

“Of course—no peaches,” you say.

Bradley and Jake both do a terrible job of suppressing their laughter, but Bob still doesn’t turn around. He just takes a deep breath and keeps wading through the water, willing his body to cooperate, until—

“Bobby!” you shout. “C’mere!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he turns and starts toward the edge of the pool.

He puts his hands out to keep from running straight into the wall, palms finding the warm tile as he leans in. For a second, it’s all blurred shapes and colour—and then you’re there, crouched beside the pool, skin still glistening with tiny droplets of water, that damn swimsuit wet now and clinging sinfully to your body.

“Here,” you says softly, holding his glasses out.

He takes them and slides them on, blinking a few times as the world sharpens again.

“You hungry?” you ask, smiling now.

He clears his throat. “A little.”

“Good.” You straighten, and Bob’s thoughts immediately pivot back into deeply unhelpful territory as he looks up at you from this angle. “I’m going to order some breakfast.”

He nods. “I’ll—uh, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You tilt your head, still smiling but curious now, brows furrowing just slightly—but you don’t press. After a beat, you simply nod and turn away, heading toward the bar where one of the resort’s waitstaff greets you enthusiastically.

Bob continues wading toward the shallow end of the pool, deliberately keeping his distance from Jake and Bradley while trying to think of anything—anything at all—that isn’t you. He watches a gecko scale the trunk of a palm tree, tipping his head back until it disappears into the fronds above. Then he shifts his gaze skyward and starts counting birds as they fly over the surfboard hut on the beach.

By the time he hears you call out that the food has arrived, his situation is finally under control and he can climb out of the pool with most of his dignity intact.

Reuben and Javy have joined the group now, everyone clustered around the lounge chairs with two huge platters of food set out on the low tables between them. Bradley and Reuben have dragged a couple of loungers closer to make a loose circle, and in the middle of it all, there’s you—smiling and waving Bob over as he pads across the deck.

“I made sure there are no peaches,” you say as he steps closer.

Jake drops his chin to his chest and snorts, like he just can’t get enough of this ridiculous joke.

Bob nods, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

There’re a few minutes of blissful quiet while everyone stuffs their faces with fruit and pastries. Bradley and Reuben fight over the last pain au chocolat, Jake whinges about the lack of protein, and Bob does everything he can not to watch you like the total creep he’s become since landing in Hawai’i.

The moment stretches—comfortable, lazy—until Javy finally breaks it.

“So,” he says, glancing around the group, “we’re going out tonight, right?”

Reuben looks up, chocolate smeared across his top lip. “What about Phoenix and Fanboy?”

Jake scoffs. “Just because they decided to eat bad prawns and get sick doesn’t mean they get to ruin my vacation.”

“I feel obliged to say it since Nat isn’t here,” you mutter, “it’s technically not a vacation.”

“Yeah, we’ve got that visit to Pearl Harbor tomorrow,” Bob adds. “Mav won’t be happy if we’re all hungover.”

Jake smirks. “So we invite Mav. He can’t be mad if he’s hungover too.”

Reuben snorts. “Mav is a highly decorated captain who’s about to receive a very serious, very formal Navy commendation. He’s not going to—” He stops, tilting his head. “Actually, no. You’re right. He’ll definitely come out.”

Bradley chuckles. “Yeah, he will.”

“So—what?” you ask. We just ditch Mickey and Nat?”

Jake’s smirk sharpens. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh, God,” Javy mutters. “He’s been thinking.”

Bradley snorts, but Jake ignores him completely.

“We’re only assuming it was the prawns, right?” he says, voice light and full of faux innocence. “But it could be a virus. Or something contagious.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Bob’s pulse kicks harder.

“So,” Jake says slowly, his eyes sliding toward Bob, “I think it’d make sense to quarantine the sick.”

Bob’s stomach twists.

You frown, still oblivious. “How?”

“I don’t think—” Bob starts.

But Bradley cuts in. “I agree. We don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

“I don’t know if the resort will have any free rooms,” Javy adds, equally oblivious.

Jake rolls his eyes. “We don’t need another room.”

There’s a beat of silence.

All Bob can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—you laugh.

“Oh my God,” you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “There is no way you’re getting Nat to share a bed with Fanboy. She barely tolerates being in the same state as him.”

Jake grins. “I never said anything about Phoenix and Fanboy sharing a bed.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Then who—”

Your eyes land on Bob, and the question dies on your tongue.

There’s a split second of nothing—nothing but static. Bob’s heart slams so hard he’s pretty sure everyone can hear it. His spine locks, breath catching in his chest as heat rushes up his neck so fast it makes his ears burn.

You go still beside him. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just quiet. Processing.

Jake’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Get it now?”

Bradley makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Reuben abruptly becomes very interested in the breakfast platter, and Javy presses his lips together so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bob stares straight ahead, brain completely blank except for the deafening thud of his pulse. Share a bed. With you. Overnight. Multiple nights—maybe. The thought hits him low and heavy and immediate, and he has to brace his hands against his knees just to stay upright.

“That’s—” you start, then stop, glancing at Bob. “I mean… yeah. I guess it makes sense?”

Bob doesn’t dare meet your eyes. If he does, he might combust—or worse—so instead he watches Reuben pick a handful of grapes off the fruit platter like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, softly.

Bob’s breath catches.

“Great.” Jake claps his hands together. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Bob opens his mouth. Then closes it. His brows knit as he tries to remember how words work. His heart is still racing, his face is definitely on fire, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close you’re sitting—close enough that if he shifted even an inch, your knees would touch.

You lean forward just slightly, like you’re trying to catch his attention.

He doesn’t look. Not directly, at least.

“Unless you’re not okay with it?” you ask.

Bob shakes his head way too fast. “No. I—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He is absolutely not fine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Bob makes a valiant attempt to remember how breathing works as he tries to relax on his sun lounge beneath the shade sail—but every time you catch his eye, his lungs promptly forget their job. He feels hot. Too hot. In a way that has nothing to do with the balmy weather and everything to do with the way sunlight glints off your skin when you climb out of the pool, water tracing slow paths down your arms and back.

And so, relaxing proves impossible.

After lunch, Jake announces that it’s time to check on the casualties—and break the news of the new room allocations—dragging both Bradley and Javy inside with him. They’re gone for almost an hour. Long enough for Reuben to glance nervously toward the hotel lobby and seriously suggest alerting security.

But eventually, they reappear. All three of them looking a little… shaken.

Apparently, Natasha had put up a fight—an impressive one—before eventually, finally, surrendering. But not before making one thing abundantly clear. This arrangement is for you. Only you. Not the boys. Not Jake’s logic. Just you.

And when Javy relays that information with a glint of fear in his eyes, you laugh—bright and sweet and completely unaware of the effect it has—and Bob’s head spins so hard he has to shut his eyes.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night—let alone the rest of the trip.

After a few more hours of lying in the shade, pretending not to watch you, and doing everything in his power to ignore Jake’s running commentary, Bob finally decides to head back up to his room to get ready for the night. For whatever circus he’s signed up for by giving Jake even the smallest amount of control over his love life.

Bradley calls after him to be back in the lobby no later than six, and Jake adds something smug about making sure the room situation is handled—as if Bob has ever once been in charge of what Natasha Trace does.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his skin is still warm from the sun—burnt, probably, thanks to Jake—and his head is so full of your laughter he feels like he might faint. He drags his keycard through the reader for room 303, pushes the door open—

And freezes.

Natasha’s suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, and both twin beds are occupied.

Mickey is curled up on his side, scrolling through his phone with a washcloth pressed to his forehead, and Natasha is sitting on the other bed, hugging the—hopefully—empty wastebin to her chest.

“Hey,” Bob says, taking a hesitant step inside. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha glares at him. “Great.”

Mickey doesn’t reply—he just groans and curls up tighter.

Bob winces. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters. “You can get out before I throw up again.”

“We got housekeeping to move your stuff already,” Mickey mumbles.

“Oh.” Bob glances at the small entryway table, at the keycard for room 304 waiting there. For him. “Thanks.”

He picks it up and sets his card for room 303 in its place.

“And for the record,” Natasha says, eyes still narrowed. “I know what this is about. Bagman isn’t subtle. But I’m too sick to argue, and like I said—I’m doing this for her.” She lifts a hand and points a finger at him. “So don’t screw it up.”

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Screw what up?

“Okay,” he says quickly—obediently, because Natasha Trace is terrifying at the best of times.

She nods once, slowly, before her eyes slip shut and her chin dips to her chest. Bob watches for a few seconds as she breathes through another wave of nausea, feeling totally useless and hating it. But he knows Nat. And he knows better than anyone that all she wants right now is to be left alone.

“Hey, Bobby,” Mickey says, his voice theatrically weak. “If I don’t make it, don’t let Rooster hit on the girl at the coffee shop back home, okay? I know he thinks she’s cute, but I called dibs and that counts even if I’m dead.”

Natasha sighs into the wastebin. “The only way you’re dying on this trip is when I kill you for being so fucking annoying.”

Mickey frowns. “Hey. You didn’t hear me complaining when you were hogging the toilet. You don’t think that was annoying?”

“I was throwing up!” Natasha snaps.

Mickey’s eyes widen. “So was I!”

“Well,” Bob cuts in, already retreating a step toward the door. “I’m gonna just—you know. I have to get ready, so… I’m gonna go.” He opens the door. “Let me know if you need anything, and—uh—don’t kill each other.”

Then he slips out and lets the door click shut behind him before either of them can protest.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he turns slowly and walks across the hall to room 304. He tries to act normal. Tries to stop his hands from shaking as he swipes the keycard through the reader. Tries not to let his knees buckle as he takes that first step over the threshold.

But it’s hard. Harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.

The smell hits him immediately—sunscreen, fresh linen, and you. That warm, sweet scent that haunts his dreams and makes him dizzy every time you pass by too close.

With unsteady steps, he moves further inside and lets the door fall shut behind him. His suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, the bed is perfectly made, and fresh soaps sit on a little tray beside the bathroom sink.

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat as his gaze snaps between the bathroom and the bed.

Oh, God.

There’s no door.

No door separating the bathroom from the rest of the suite.

Just two frosted glass partitions—one in front of the toilet, the other shielding the showerhead. But at the right angle? God. At the right angle, you could see everything.

Bob drags in a slow, shaky breath, willing his nervous system to stand down. He’s not in the middle of a dogfight—he’s in a hotel room. In Hawaiʻi. On what could be considered a vacation. This is not the time for fight-or-flight to kick in.

With trembling hands, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels it farther into the room. Your suitcase is laying open on the floor beside the bed, clothes half-spilled like you’d only just started unpacking, so he steers himself to the opposite side before dropping his own case down flat.

He has to shower before you get here. He has to.

Because the thought of you walking into this room while he’s naked—with no real barrier, no real privacy—doesn’t make Bob nervous.

It makes him unreasonably horny. Dangerously so.

And he has absolutely no desire to find out just how hard—literally—it would be for him to control himself.

He rummages through his case until he finds an acceptable shirt and pair of shorts, then jumps up, grabs a towel from the heated rack beside the bathtub, and tosses it over the shower partition.

The water heats in no time, and Bob’s hands are still trembling as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his swim trunks. He takes his glasses off last, setting them carefully on the edge of the sink before stepping under the spray and trying—with every ounce of focus he has—to think of anything but you.

He scrubs himself quickly, movements brisk and efficient, ignoring the almost painful state of his arousal as the imaginary clock in his head counts down to your arrival.

But his imagination, unhelpful as ever, drifts anyway.

What if you walked in right now?

What if you saw him—saw everything?

What if, instead of shock or embarrassment, you just laughed softly and stripped out of that damn blue swimsuit and—

Bob’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door.

His heart slams, and he looks down—at his hand curled tight around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s just me!” you call out quickly. “I’m not looking, I swear! I just went to check on Fanboy and saw Nat had already swapped rooms.”

Bob squeezes his eyes shut again, every muscle in his body locking as he stands frozen beneath the spray. He wants to answer—he really does—but he’s not sure anything there’s anything he could say right now that would come out sounding even remotely normal.

“I’m just going to watch some TV,” you add, your footsteps echoing softly through the room. “Take your time.”

And Bob has no choice—because it takes an embarrassingly long time for his situation to go down when he can still hear your soft laughter from the bedroom.

Eventually, though, his blood reroutes and his muscles finally relax. He turns the water off, half-dries himself behind the partition, and wraps the fluffy white towel around his hips—heart thumping wickedly as he steps out of the bathroom.

He clears his throat. “I’m—uh. I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”

Your head snaps toward him—and your eyes go wide.

You swallow hard, making no effort to hide it as your gaze drifts down—over his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and lower still—until it catches on the towel sitting low on his hips and stays there.

Bob flushes instantly, his whole body going hot under your gaze. But he doesn’t get it. You saw him in the pool earlier—more of him, technically. He’s exactly as naked now as he was then, maybe even less so. The towel is at least a little longer than his swim trunks are.

And yet—

Here you are. Silent and staring at him like you can’t decide how to feel.

He clears his throat again.

You blink, eyes jumping back up to his face. “Sorry,” you murmur, cheeks pink. “I just—uh. You know. I’ve never really…” Your words trail off, and as if you can’t help yourself, your eyes dip again—quick, guilty, unmistakable.

Then you shake your head and scramble off the bed.

“Sorry. I’m gonna—um—yeah. Shower.”

You brush past him in a rush, close enough that he can feel the heat of you on his skin. Close enough that he can feel the way you shiver when your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there—listening to your soft footsteps against the tiled floor, the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower turning on. Out of the very corner of his eye, he can see your silhouette behind the frosted glass. If he turned his head, he could probably see more. Your shoulder, your arm, your hip—right at the edge of the partition.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look.

Instead, he drops his gaze to where he left his clothes on the bed and curls his shaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

As soon as Bob is dressed, he banishes himself to the balcony—and stays there. He grips the railing and stares out at the ocean like it might save him. He counts every bird that lands on the same palm frond blocking half his view, tracks a couple walking barefoot along the shoreline, listens to the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the resort. He tells himself to breathe. To stand normally. To not look back.

And he doesn’t turn around until he hears a soft knock, followed by the slide of the glass door.

“Okay, Captain Chivalry—it’s safe now.”

When he finally sees you, standing just inside the door, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re wearing another flowy sundress, but this one has a structured bodice—almost like a corset. It hugs you perfectly, all clean lines and soft fabric, and somehow still looks like absolute sin despite the ivory colour and lace detailing that should suggest the exact opposite.

“You look—” he chokes, his voice already hoarse. “I mean, you—you…”

Nothing. Absolutely no thoughts. Just a catastrophic loop of wildly inappropriate ones.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m going to assume you’re trying for a compliment, so—thanks, Floyd.” Your cheeks go a little redder beneath your blush. “Now come on. It’s almost six.”

Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he follows you inside, his eyes shamelessly glued to where the hem of your dress brushes the backs of your thighs. He watches you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, fix a stray lock of hair in the mirror—and it’s only when you turn to him with a small, curious frown that he tears his gaze away and starts searching for his shoes.

The walk to the elevator is completely silent, aside from the thunder of Bob’s pulse in his own ears. Only when the doors slide shut do you finally turn to him again.

“Is it too weird?” you ask, so quickly he almost misses it.

He blinks, turning slowly toward you. “Is what weird?”

“Sharing a room,” you reply. “Specifically that room.”

Yes. But only because he can’t seem to keep his own thoughts under control.

“No,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I—I mean, I don’t think so. It’s a little… intimate—” he tries not to cringe at the word “—but I don’t think it’s weird.”

Your expression relaxes, your gaze softening.

“Okay, good.” You turn back to face the elevator doors. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bob shrugs. “It could be worse.”

Your head whips back toward him, eyes wide—indignant.

“Oh my God,” he rushes. “No, not you. I meant—Phoenix and Fanboy. I meant—”

Your brows rise slowly as you wait for him to find the right words—but his brain is fuzzy, his face is hot, and standing this close to you is doing him no favours, giving him an unfair vantage of your cleavage.

Then a soft ding cuts through the silence and the doors slide open.

You huff a short, quiet laugh through your nose, shake your head, and step out without another word.

Bob hesitates. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go out tonight. Maybe he, his foot, and his mouth—which it keeps getting stuck in—should just go back up to the room and hide in shame while the rest of the squad goes out. Maybe he could pass this embarrassment off as concern for his sick friends and avoid the night entirely.

Maybe—

“Floyd!” Reuben calls. “You waiting for an invitation?”

Bob blinks, waiting only one more undecided second before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the elevator.

The next half hour passes in a blur of streetlights and excited chatter. Thanks to the dwindling squad numbers, it only takes one maxi cab to get everyone from the resort to the first location of the night—scouted by Bradley, of course. It’s a bar on the beach, literally called The Beach Bar, with alfresco seating and a list of signature cocktails long enough to rival Jake’s dating history.

According to Bradley, Maverick and Penny have already arrived. Penny flew in this morning with Amelia after making the devastating decision to close The Hard Deck for the week—something the Dagger Squad would undoubtedly be complaining about if they weren’t in Waikiki with the bar owner herself.

“There they are!” Penny calls, a bright smile on her face as she pushes out of her seat.

Everyone crowds around to give her a hug while Maverick stays firmly seated, beer lifted to his lips.

Jake is the first to find a seat at the table—right beside Maverick—and before Bob can beeline for the opposite end, Jake grabs his arm and pulls him into the chair next to his.

“It’s part of the plan,” he hisses as Bradley takes the seat on Bob’s other side.

Bradley shoots Bob a knowing smile before picking up the drinks menu and flipping it open.

“How are Fanboy and Phoenix?” Maverick asks once everyone’s seated.

Bob glances across the table—at where you’re sitting, between Penny and Javy. The furthest spot from him.

“Not great,” Reuben replies. “Nix was green the last time I saw her.”

Penny sighs. “Poor thing.”

Maverick’s brows pull together, concerned. “Do you think they’ll make tomorrow’s visit to base?”

“Doubt it,” Bradley mutters.

The conversation blurs into background noise—voices overlapping, topics changing—but Bob barely hears it. He hums and nods when he has to, but he’s not listening. Not really. Not at all. He’s too busy watching you.

As always.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t realise Jake has ordered him a drink until a tall glass of something brown, with a wedge of lemon, is set on the table in front of him.

“On the hard stuff tonight, hey, Floyd?” Javy says with a smirk, nodding toward the drink.

Bob blinks, then glances down. “I—uh—yeah, I guess.”

He doesn’t drink often—and very rarely drinks to get drunk—but he’s pretty sure Jake ordered him a Long Island Iced Tea.

Great.

Maverick chuckles. “Didn’t think you’d be the one I’d have to warn about being hungover tomorrow, Bob.”

Bob’s lips press into a forced, fake smile while the rest of the table shares a laugh. Even you. But he doesn’t get to enjoy your smile right now—he’s too busy shooting daggers at the smug man sitting beside him.

“Alright,” Jake says, lifting his own drink. “A toast—to our fearless leader, our formidable captain, and the generosity of the U.S. Navy for this all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawai’i.”

“Hear, hear!” Reuben cheers, raising his beer.

Maverick rolls his eyes as the whole table stands and lifts their drinks, laughing. And even Bob can’t help but crack a small smile when the rim of your glass clinks against his.

The night wears on in surprisingly calm fashion. Everyone drinks. Everyone eats. Everyone laughs. There’s easy conversation and a warm atmosphere that settles in around the table. Bob makes it through two terrible drinks before he beats Jake to ordering and finally gets a glass of something non-alcoholic that doesn’t make his throat burn.

But even then—even with a glass of orange juice in front of him—something about the way your eyes darken whenever they meet his makes him feel just a little drunk.

A little reckless, maybe.

By nine p.m., Maverick is on his third embarrassing story about baby Bradley, Penny is crying with laughter, and Reuben is recording it because he knows Mickey would be devastated to miss out.

“And that is why Rooster is banned from every Chuck E. Cheese in the state of California,” Maverick snorts, lifting his drink.

Javy leans halfway across the table, grinning. “Every Chuck E. Cheese in California? Still?”

Maverick nods. “Still.”

“I was eleven!” Bradley exclaims. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, buddy,” you giggle. “That definitely doesn’t sound like an accident. You were an evil little kid.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts his beer to his lips and drains it.

After a few more minutes of laughter—and Bradley sulking—Jake claps his hands together and sits up straighter.

“Alright, team,” he says. “I think it’s time we move on.”

Maverick’s brows lift. “Move on?”

Jake nods. “I found this great little bar with live music—it’s only about a block away.”

“What about tomorrow?” Penny asks, arching a brow.

Bradley shrugs. “What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t want six hungover pilots showing up to Pearl Harbor,” Maverick says, his brows drawing together.

Reuben scoffs. “Come on, Mav. At best you’ll get five—Bob never gets drunk!”

Maverick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Payback. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Penny stifles a laugh behind a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Jake says, smirking, “if you come with us, you can make sure we don’t drink too much.”

At that, Penny snorts, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, still smiling. “I just—sorry, but did you really just ask Maverick to come out with you and be the responsible one?”

“Hey.” Maverick shoots her an indignant look. “I can be responsible. I’m their captain.”

Penny doesn’t respond—she just keeps giggling like this is the best joke she’s heard in years.

“You know what,” Maverick says, pushing out of his chair. “I’ll rise to the challenge. I’ll be the babysitter. Let’s do this.”

There’s a chorus of cheers and laughter as chairs scrape back and everyone stands. Penny is still laughing as people pay their bills and wander out to the front of the bar—and that’s where she bids Maverick goodnight, says her farewells to the rest, and climbs into a cab to get back to Amelia at the hotel.

Jake then tells Bradley the name of the next bar and motions for him to lead the way—with a wink he’s not even trying to hide. Bradley nods, grinning like the unsubtle fool he is, and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the front of the group and striking up a conversation about something Bob can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Jake whispers, falling into step beside Bob. “Phase Three.”

Bob sighs. “Great.”

“This is where it gets a little counterintuitive,” Jake says. “But stay with me. You’ve done great so far—well. Mostly. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

Bob grimaces.

“But now,” Jake continues, “you need to pull back.”

Bob looks at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” Jake adds quickly. “Enough that she notices. Up until now, you’ve been attentive. Safe. Available.” He glances ahead, toward you. “Now you introduce a little… mystery.”

He emphasises the last word with a flourish of his hand, like he’s unveiling a magic trick.

“What have I done?” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jake ignores him. “You’ve got to become temporarily unavailable.”

Bob’s eyes go wide.

“Not emotionally—don’t freak out,” Jake adds. “Just... visually.”

“Visually?” Bob echoes.

“Nothing dramatic. Five minutes. Smile. Eye contact. A compliment.” Jake shrugs. “You don’t even have to mean it.”

Bob frowns. “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Flirt, Bob. I’m telling you to flirt with another woman.”

“What?” Bob’s eyes go wide again. “No way. I—I can’t. I mean, I just—”

“I know, I know—this makes you uncomfortable.” Jake claps a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But that’s where the growth happens.”

Bob shrugs him off.

“How is flirting with someone else supposed to help?”

“It’s scarcity, Floyd. Very basic economics.” Jake lowers his voice. “Right now she thinks she’s got you figured out. We just need to… shake the snow globe. You know?”

Bob stares at him. “No. Actually, I have no idea what you’re—”

“We’re here!” Bradley calls from the front of the group. “Get your IDs out, sexy people. You especially, Floyd—those glasses do nothing for your baby face.”

Bob lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Buck up, Bobby!” Jake grins. “Your night is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Everyone funnels into the bar without too much fuss—the security guard checking IDs even though he can clearly tell no one is underage. The place is already humming, with live music booming above the chatter and a heavy air thick with salt and sweat and something citrusy from the bar. It’s darker than the last place, lit mostly by strings of lights and the low glow of neon along the back wall.

Bob hangs back out of instinct, letting everyone else surge ahead, but Jake’s hand at his elbow steers him forward before he can fully commit to disappearing.

The bar stretches along the back wall, polished wood crowded with elbows and condensation rings. People shout their orders over the music—beer, cocktails, something pink with fruit floating in it—and Bob finds himself wedged between Bradley and Jake, staring at the chalkboard menu like it might offer him spiritual guidance.

He doesn’t look at you first—even though he wants to.

He can feel where you are, though. Somewhere just to his right. Close enough that when he finally turns his head, he catches the tail end of your glance. Your eyes flick away immediately—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—but it still sends a small, unsteady jolt through him. Like being caught mid-thought.

But before he can linger on it for too long, Jake nudges his side. Hard.

“Six o’clock. Blonde. She’s looking this way,” he says, eyes trained across the bar. “Not sure if she wants me or you—” he smirks. “I know which I’d put my money on—but I’ll give you this one.”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Gee, thanks.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Bob stumbles through the crowd, half-dragged by Jake, until he finds himself at the other end of the bar, right beside the blonde—he’s assuming—Jake had been referring to. And then Jake is gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. But Bob can still feel his gaze from wherever he’s hiding.

Bob clears his throat, turning stiffly toward the blonde.

“Uh—hey,” he says, immediately hating how unsure it sounds.

She turns to face him, smile widening. “Hi.”

Now he’s supposed to say something else. Something smooth. Something intentional. Something Jake would say that’d have any woman scribbling her number on a napkin.

He clears his throat. Again. “I—I’m Bob.”

“Marci,” she says, holding out her hand.

Bob shakes it. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

Okay. Now what?

Bob knows he shouldn’t—he knows it’s too soon, that it could very well blow up Jake’s stupid plan—but he does it anyway. He looks for you.

And you’re still there.

Standing between Bradley and Reuben. Your eyes catch his, just for a second, before drifting away—as if they never really meant to land on him at all. Your posture is relaxed, your expression unreadable, but there’s something uneasy in the set of your mouth. Something he can’t quite figure out.

“So,” Marci says, patient, expectant.

Bob’s eyes snap back to her, and he tries to focus.

What would Hangman do?

God. He never thought he’d be seriously asking himself that question.

“I like your—uh—shoes,” he offers, and immediately regrets it. They’re just shoes. Normal shoes. Why would he compliment her shoes?

She laughs anyway. “Thanks.”

He nods, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Yeah. They—um. They suit you.”

This is going so much worse than he thought. And he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

But the worst part—the worst part—is that he can feel himself pulling away from you to do this. Turning his body, angling his shoulders, pretending to be temporarily unavailable like Jake told him to. It feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He risks another glance across the bar.

You’re looking now.

Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just… looking. Your brows faintly knit, head tilted, like you’re watching something you didn’t expect and aren’t sure how to categorise.

Something in Bob’s chest gives a small, panicked lurch.

He laughs, turning back to the blonde. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t usually my thing.”

Marci hums, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob glances across the bar, searching for something—anything, any excuse—when a frantic hand gesture catches his eye. Jake. Of course. His eyes are wide, expression stern, a sharp finger pointed straight at Bob as he mouths something Bob absolutely cannot make out.

But he can gauge the general vibe.

Try harder.

So, with a deep breath, Bob forces his shoulders to relax and asks Marci if she’s here on vacation—which works. Her face lights up, and she launches into the story of why she’s here. Why she and her friends decided they needed a girls’ trip because one of them found out her boyfriend had not one, but two other girlfriends.

Then it’s something about work. Something about her boss, who only has it out for her because she has naturally thick hair and he’s going bald. Then it’s her family. Her cat. A friend who moved to Canada who, like, totally regrets it because it’s so cold up there.

Bob nods in all the right places, hums when it feels expected, and lets the sound of her voice wash over him without really catching on to anything specific.

He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just easier this way.

He takes a slow sip of his drink—barely tasting it—and tries to settle into the role Jake’s assigned him. Tries to look relaxed. Tries to angle his body the way he’s supposed to, shoulders turned just enough to sell the illusion.

Temporarily unavailable.

The phrase echoes through his head, absurd and heavy all at once.

And every few minutes, he lets his gaze drift. Not fully—just enough to check. To confirm.

You’re still at the bar, but you’re not where you were before. You’ve shifted closer to Reuben now, your bodies angled together as he leans in to hear you over the music. Your head dips when you laugh at something he says, hair falling forward, obscuring your face for a second.

Bob’s chest tightens.

This is working, right? This is the point. This is what’s supposed to happen.

He tells himself that. Repeats it. Loops it in his mind like a mantra—the only thing keeping him grounded—and tries not to catalogue every tiny move you make, every glance you don’t send his way. But it’s hard. Because he wants to be the one you’re laughing with. Leaning into. Looking at with that concentrated little frown between your brows.

Marci laughs at something—and he realises suddenly, belatedly, that it must have been a joke. He smiles back, a reflex more than a choice.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It’s loud in here.”

She doesn’t seem bothered. He’s not even sure she heard him, because she just keeps talking—easy, unoffended—like this is exactly the kind of interaction she expected when she walked into a bar like this.

Bob wonders—briefly, unfairly—if this is how it always goes for people like Jake. If it really can be this easy. Just standing here, nodding along, letting someone talk while the rest takes care of itself. No second-guessing every word, no constant awareness of where everyone else in the room is standing.

Because Marci doesn’t seem to need anything from him beyond that. She’s talking, filling the space easily, smiling when it suits her, perfectly content with half his attention—or less, really. It’s easy. Effortless. And the unsettling part is how little of him it actually requires.

For a moment, Bob feels strangely hollow. Lost in his thoughts, stuck on the idea that maybe this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and he’s just been doing it all wrong.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder—solid and familiar—and Jake appears, a charming smile already stretched across his face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need my friend for a minute. Do you mind?”

Marci’s cheeks flush. “Oh. No, not at all. Take your time.”

Okay. Maybe it’s just Jake. Maybe it really is this easy for him.

With a wink and a nod—a very cowboy nod—Jake turns away and steers Bob a few steps from Marci. Further from the band, where he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“I think it worked a little too well,” he says.

Bob frowns. “What?”

Jake tips his head toward the bar. Toward you.

“She asked Payback to take her home. She’s gone.”

Bob’s stomach drops. “She... she what?”

Jake doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Bob can feel his heart pounding, too fast, too loud, like it’s climbed up into his throat. There’s a tight, bitter ache behind his ribs—unfamiliar and immediate—and he swallows hard, like that might make it go away.

“Like, take her home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Or take her home?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Relax. She didn’t ask him to take her home like that. She’s probably just tired.” He pauses, then grins. “And jealous.”

Is that supposed to make Bob feel better? Because it doesn’t.

“I should—” Bob tries to step past Jake, but he blocks his path.

“Should what?”

“I should explain. I don’t want her to—”

“Explain what?” Jake asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were talking to a pretty girl in a bar and she couldn’t stand to watch. This was kind of the whole plan.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “Well, I don’t like the plan.”

Jake lets out a sharp sigh. “Come on, Floyd. Don’t chicken out now. I know Phase Three’s hard but I promise you’re gonna like Phase Four.”

Right now, Bob couldn’t care less about phase three or four or Jake’s entire stupid plan. All he cares about is you—where you are, what you’re thinking, who you’re with. He doesn’t care about jealousy or mystery or being temporarily unavailable.

Just you.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jake’s face and the door. “I won’t explain myself—but I’m going back to the hotel. I’m done tonight.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not going to blurt out some lame excuse and ruin everything?”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Yes. I promise. I’m just—I'm tired, okay?”

Jake doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Bob, studies him, as if he could stare hard enough to read his mind. Then, after what feels like a weirdly long time to be holding such intense eye contact, he steps out of Bob’s path.

“Fine. Be boring, go home.” His eyes move from Bob’s face to the bar behind him. “Mind if I comfort your friend?”

“Knock yourself out,” Bob mutters, brushing past Jake as he heads for the door.

Jake calls something behind him, but Bob doesn’t hear it—and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to get back to the hotel and see you, before his imagination starts showing him things he won’t be able to shake.

It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the Uber, fishing for his room card in his back pocket, that he realises he should’ve texted you—let you know he’s on his way back. He doesn’t want to frighten you. Or worse. You could be showering again, or changing, or walking around in your underwear—

God. He needs to stop before his brain goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t—before he pops a boner waiting for the damn elevator.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text:

Forgot to let you know I left the bar. Just got back to the resort.

But before he hits send, he hesitates. Is he trying too hard?

So he retypes as he steps into the lift:

I’ll be at the room in five.

He hesitates again. Should he elaborate?

He types again:

Decided to call it an early night and I’m just about back at the room. Hope that’s okay.

Hope that’s okay? Why wouldn’t it be? He doesn’t need your permission. It’s his room too.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the elevator, then deletes the text and tries again:

Just letting you know I’ll be back at the room in—

He glances up from his phone. Shit. He’s already here. Texting now would just be weird.

It’s fine—he’ll just knock. That’s a fair enough warning. Right?

He lifts his hand and raps on the door three times.

A beat passes. Then another. Nothing.

His brows draw together, his heart beating far too fast for this to mean nothing.

He knocks again. Waits.

Still nothing.

His stomach knots nervously, nausea crawling bitterly up the back of his throat.

Maybe you’re out on the balcony?

He exhales slowly, then slips his keycard from his back pocket and swipes it through the reader. The lock flashes green, then beeps and clicks. He turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “I forgot to text when I left the bar, but—”

The room is dark. Not a single light left on. Bob’s brows knit tighter as he lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. He treads lightly, quietly, squinting through the dark toward the bed in the middle of the room.

But it’s empty. Everything’s empty.

The bed, the bathroom, the balcony—the whole damn room is completely empty.

Fuck.

Bob squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a slow, steady breath, like that might be enough to force his thoughts back into order. Like he can shove it all back down if he just doesn’t think too hard.

But it doesn’t work.

The images come anyway—half-formed and unwelcome. Not clear enough to be real, but sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t want to picture it. Doesn’t want to give the thought any shape or weight. But his brain keeps circling the same awful question, over and over, until it feels burned into the backs of his eyelids.

What if Jake’s stupid phase three didn’t make you jealous—what if it just made you move on?

What if you saw him laughing with someone else and decided not to wait around for clarification. What if you didn’t owe him that. What if you assumed the worst because, frankly, he’d given you every reason to.

Bob shoves his glasses into his hair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He did this. He followed the plan. He pulled back. He looked away. And now the room is empty, and you’re not here, and the silence feels loud enough to accuse him of something.

Maybe you didn’t even mean it to happen like this. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe you just wanted to go home and sleep.

But the thought doesn’t settle. It won’t.

Because another part of him—the louder, more anxious part—keeps whispering that he waited too long. That he hesitated when it mattered. That he let someone else step into the space he should’ve been standing in all along. That Jake’s plan was never going to work because Bob was already too late.

And now he’s alone in a dark hotel room, trying not to imagine what he’s already decided he’s lost.

After a few minutes of standing in the dark, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, Bob fumbles for a light switch, flicking on the first one he can find. The overhead lights flicker to life instantly, bathing the empty room in a warm yellow glow that feels almost mocking in its normalcy.

He avoids his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe as he steps around the bed and flips open his suitcase. He picks out a pair of sleep shorts and one of his threadbare sleep shirts, throws them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers.

Every sound is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. He can hear the soft whistle of the breeze outside, the distant echo of voices from other rooms. Even the rustle of fabric is too sharp in his ears as he shrugs his shirt off.

Then his hands drop to his waistband, about to unbutton his shorts when he hears the door click—and freezes.

It barely takes you two steps to come into view, looking a little startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” You frown. “Sorry, I—uh—I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The tension drains out of him all at once, like someone pulled a plug. Bob can feel it in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his lungs finally remember how to exhale. You’re still wearing that sinful little sundress—hair still perfect, makeup unsmudged. Almost as if everything he’d imagined hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I’m sorry, I—I should have texted you, but I didn’t think. Just wanted to get out of that stuffy bar.”

You huff a quiet, humourless laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Looked like you were having a terrible time.”

Bob frowns. He might not be as good at reading women as Jake is, but he knows you—and he knows that was dripping with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

You shrug, but it’s stiff—too deliberate. “Nothing. Just… surprised you didn’t go home with your new friend.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “New friend?”

“The blonde,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “At the bar. Gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh—uh.” Bob hesitates. “She was just—we were just talking.”

“Just talking?” you repeat, brows lifting.

He nods automatically, then pauses. There’s something different in your expression now—darker, sharper. Focused on him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

“I could see you, Bob,” you say, folding your arms. “I could see her. She was into you.”

He blinks. “She was?”

Your mouth twists. “God. Really? Isn’t that the whole reason you went over there? So you could get laid?”

The words hit harder than he expects.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—no. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, heat creeping up his neck as he thinks of Jake—don’t explain, don’t chase. “I didn’t think she was interested… like that.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short scoff. “Wow. Okay.”

You step closer without meaning to—or maybe he steps back. He’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless now, your gaze dipping and catching before you drag it away again.

Something tight and confusing coils low in his stomach.

“You know, I used to think it was just me,” you say lightly—too lightly. “But at least now I know you’re clueless about all women.”

Then you turn on your heel, march toward the other side of the bed, snatch something out of your suitcase, and stomp into the bathroom.

Bob just stands there, stunned. His brain is still catching up—confusion tangling with relief, with something warmer and sharper that has no business showing up right now. His heart is still pounding, but not like before. Not panic. Something else.

“I’m changing,” you mutter.

Bob fumbles for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he turns toward the balcony. He doesn’t look back—no matter how much he wants to—he just slides the door open and steps out into the warm night.

He takes a deep breath, staring out at the quietly crashing waves, and for the first time since Jake started talking about plans and phases and being temporarily unavailable, a thought sneaks in—unwanted and reluctant, but impossible to ignore.

Oh.

Maybe it’s… working.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

Ignoring hospital rules and regulations, Dana and Robby ran the distance from the elevator to your room in the ICU. They stopped in the doorway, side by side, and took in the reality in front of them.

You were unconscious in the bed, your face bruised black and blue and swollen. There was a white bandage wrapped around your head and a ventilator tube down your throat, kept in place by tape over your mouth. The room, like you, was hauntingly quiet and still, except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and pump of the ventilator.

You weren't alone in the room however, Jack Abbot was sitting vigilantly at your bedside, his chair pulled right up next to the bed. He was leaning forward, his elbows perched on the bed and one hand covering his other one which was pressed against his mouth in a fist. His eyes were locked on your face and unconscious form and when he spoke, he didn't look away.

"I can't come in for my shift tonight." Jack's voice was low and thick, like something was caught in his throat.

"Jack…" Robby said, his voice heavy with sympathy.

"She was just trying to help someone." Jack's voice held an edge now, anger prickling under his skin. "She was being a good person and this was the thanks she got."

It had been a complete shock to the night shift crew when the paramedics had announced that the assault victim they had brought in through the ambulance bay was you. It seemed like the whole department rushed forward to help get you into Trauma 1 and start assessing you. Jack's body had moved on autopilot, pulling the gurney into Trauma 1 and transferring your unconscious body to the hospital gurney with the help of the other night shift staff, while his heart and mind reeled at the sight of your bruised and bloodied face.

You were in a c-collar to keep your head and neck stable, and Jack noted that your forearms and hands were bruised and scratched. Jack had enough lived experience to recognize that kind of wound pattern. Those were defensive wounds. Jack bit back unexpected bile that rose up his throat as one of the nurses cut away your clothing. Jack noticed the imprint of a boot on your shirt and he had to clench his teeth hard to keep his emotions in check.

Another staff stepped forward to suction blood from your mouth and throat, the paramedic who was bagging your oxygen stepping back to give room, while another resident prepped the equipment to intubate you and provide an airway. Jack barely heard the paramedics as they listed off the injuries - facial trauma, cracked ribs, blunt force trauma to your torso, suspected pneumothorax - and their assessment results - blood pressure 70/40 and unresponsive in the field - over the blood rushing through his ears.

Four hours ago you were smiling at him during shift change, the two of you speaking in quiet tones as Jack complimented your hair and confirmed your availability for your second date that coming weekend. Four hours ago he watched you walk away feeling lighter than he had in years, actually looking forward to the future. Four hours ago you were fine. Now you were lying on the gurney in front of him and Jack felt like all the air in his chest evaporated.

Lena, the night shift charge nurse, had thankfully taken notice of Jack's tunnel vision as he began examining you and probing your injuries, and she took charge to order half of the people crammed into the room out to make space to work. Jack ordered medications and tests in a daze as Ellis checked your chest, while Bridget, one of the nurses, took over squeezing the oxygen bag after the intubation was completed.

"What the fuck happened?" Ellis asked as she noted bruising to the skin covering your ribs.

"Bystander said she stepped in to stop a man who was hitting his girlfriend. The man turned on her instead and the girlfriend ran off. The guy got a few good blows in before the elderly convenience store owner across the street came out with his shotgun and scared the guy off." The paramedic explained.

"Yeah? And what was the bystander doing? Twiddling his thumbs while he watched?" Ellis shot back in anger as she prepped your chest for a chest tube to address the pneumothorax.

Before the paramedic could reply, the machines in the room began beeping rapidly as your stats started to fall. Jack's heart seized in panic as the number went dangerously low. Walsh, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, opened your eyes to flash her pen light over them.

"Her pupils are blown. She has a brain bleed, we need to get her upstairs to surgery now!" In a flurry of movement, the team got everything they needed mobilized and rushed you over to the elevator to bring you up to the OR floor. No one questioned Jack getting into the elevator with you but he was stopped by Walsh at the surgical wing doors.

"I got it from here." She said with a hand outstretched to physically stop Jack from going any further.

"Emery." Jack's voice wavered when he said her name, his eyes still fixed on your gurney as it was rolled down the hallway away from him. Walsh paused, not having heard Jack sound so scared in a long time. He'd put a lot into her name - please help her, please save her, don't let her die - and Walsh understood all of it. She'd known Jack a long time, she'd been there overseas when his leg had been blown off, she was the one who made sure he didn't bleed out and saved his life. For lack of a better term, she was one of his best friends.

"I've got her Jack." Without another word, she took off through the double doors to follow you down the hall to surgery. Jack stood there staring, completely frozen, for who knows how long. He wasn't actually sure how he got from the hallway to the waiting room, probably a nurse who took pity on him and guided him to a chair.

As much as he knew that he was needed downstairs, Jack wasn't in any state to be helping patients. He couldn't even feel his limbs. His mind just spun with images of you, the pretty smile you gave him over your shoulder has you'd left earlier in the evening and then of your face spattered with blood and swollen from the beating you took. Frustration and anger filled Jacks chest and he put his head in his hands.

He was going to be sick.

He was going to cry.

He was going to stand up and kick the waiting room chair across the room.

In the end Jack didn't do any of that. Instead he sat there, palms pressed against his eyes, and tried his best to breath.

Hours long brain and abdominal surgery later, Jack ended up where he was now, sitting next to your bedside in the ICU.

Dana moved slowly into the room and around to the opposite side of the bed. She carefully ran the back of her fingers over your purple tinted cheek, her other hand holding onto the crucifix around her neck in a habitual gesture of comfort. Robby came over to stand next to Jack and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Did they-" Robby's voice was strained and he coughed in an attempt to clear it. "Did they catch the man who did this?"

"I don't know. I've been here all night." Jack remained unmoving, not taking his eyes off you for even a moment.

"There are some cops downstairs talking to the victim of a hit and run. I'll ask them to look into it for us." Dana offered as she looked down at you, her face painted with a soft sorrow. She took one of your hands in both of hers and bent down to place a tender kiss on the back of your hand before she turned and left. Robby backed away until he was standing at the foot of the bed.

"I have to go back to the Pitt. The staff need help, they're all distraught over the news." Robby's hand squeezed the strap of his backpack. "Tell us if there are any changes."

"I'm not leaving until she wakes up." Jack finally turned his head and looked Robby in the eye. "I was serious about what I said. I'm not coming into work tonight. In fact, consider this conversation my official Leave of Absence request."

"Jack."

"Robby." Jack's tone left no room for argument. The two men paused for a moment, staring at each other as a silent conversation passed between them. Robby nodded once and left, and Jack knew that he hadn't escaped the uncomfortable conversation with Robby about what his words implied. In a normal situation, an attending would not be requesting time off to sit at his residents bedside. Robby could read between the lines and Jack would have to explain himself later.

But he didn't need to do that now. Right now, you were all that mattered.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Walsh stopped by to check on you after her shift ended, reminding Jack that the surgery went well and your stats were good, it was on you now to wake up. A somber Mel came by to drop off a coffee and a sandwich that Jack suspected was from Dana. Mel took note of your stats, asked Jack if he needed anything, and returned to the ED to update everyone. A few more doctors on the surgical and ICU teams came by to check on you throughout the day but for the most part it was you, Jack, and the beeping machines keeping each other company all day.

Jack was crazy about you. It took him a long time to admit it since the last time he felt this way was with his late wife. His feelings for you hadn't been instantaneous, it started off slowly, quietly, with conversations in the break room on the rare slow night, which became coffee exchanged at shift change on other days. Talking about the weather and plans for the weekend became deep and meaningful conversations about your dreams and aspirations, and your traumas and self-care. Snacks exchanged in between patients turned into Jack taking you out for breakfast after a long night shift. Those meals turned into time spent together on the weekends with you asking Jack to teach you some self-defense and the two of you exercising together.

Jack eventually got up the courage to ask you on a date and the two of you went to this small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that he knew of. In the secluded corner of the restaurant, you two shared a meal and intimate conversation, and Jack found himself laughing more than he had in years. He got you flowers, your favourite kind, and held your hand on the walk after dinner. When he dropped you off at home, he didn’t kiss you goodnight, but you did kissed his cheek in thanks and told him you were looking forward to seeing him again.

You brightened up Jack’s day, you made him feel more alive than he had felt in years. He hadn’t gone up to the roof in months. His therapist knew about you and had encouraged the relationship.

All he could think about now was the second date he had planned and the possibility that the two of you might never go on it. Jack tried to keep his mind from spiraling into a pit of despair, but he couldn’t help it. So many things had gone wrong in his life, first his father leaving and his mother passing, then his leg having to be amputated, and in more recent years, the death of his wife. Jack almost felt foolish, thinking he would be able to have something as lovely as you in his life. He knew it was early and he didn’t want to scare you off, but the truth was that he loved you and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell you yet.

As the day winded down closer to shift change, Jack was startled to his feet by the sound of you choking. Relief flooded through Jack's bones as your body fought the intubation tube, indicating you were awake and able to breath on your own. He slapped the call button before ducking out of the room to quickly grab a pair of gloves and come back in to help you.

"It's alright sweetheart." Jack said as he removed the tape from your mouth and helped to pull the intubation tube from your throat. "Try and cough." He instructed as he gently pulled. A few staff ran into the room to help and Jack smiled when you took a big gasp of air when they fully extubated you.

The nurses were quick to wipe the spit from your mouth and chin, and a surgical resident, Garcia, began asking you questions and attempting to shine a light in your eyes to gauge your pupil response. You groaned faintly at the uncomfortable crowding of your body, your eyes squeezed shut, and tried to weakly raise your arm to wave the staff away.

"Hey." Jack said sternly, the loud, commanding sound of his voice catching the attention of everyone in the room and halting their movement. He carefully pushed Garcia's hand away from your face and waved a hand sharply at the rest of the staff in a silent gesture to get them to back up too.

"She's been unconscious for over fifteen hours. Give her a minute."

"Jack," You murmured, your voice low and scratchy from the intubation tube. Jack immediately turned his full attention to you, bending down to be in your eye line.

"Hey." He said softly as he rested his hand carefully on your shoulder. With a considerable amount of effort, you were able to open your eyes and look at his calm, caring face. You licked your very dry lips and tried to speak again.

"C-" Your voice cracked and you groaned. Jack rubbed his thumb encouragingly over your shoulder and he nodded slowly for you to try again. "Can I have some water?" Jack glanced over his shoulder and made eye contact with a nurse who got the message and left the room.

"Garcia needs to do a cognitive and physical exam, okay?" Jack said to you in a gentle voice. You hummed your acknowledgement and Jack nodded at Garcia to go ahead. Jack stayed right by your side as Garcia checked your eyes, the feeling in your limbs, and asked you a few questions to test your memory. You passed all the tests with flying colours and was rewarded with some sips of water. Garcia's pager went off and she spoke to Jack as she walked out.

"That's the ED. I'll let them know she's awake." Soon the rest of the staff filtered out until it was just you and Jack again. He took up residence in the chair he'd been occupying for the past day and took your hand in his. You did your best to squeeze his hand and his mouth twitched with a smile.

"I tried to fight back." You said after a moment. Jack shifted to the edge of his seat, getting closer to you, and raised his free hand to cup your face. "I used everything you taught me but he hit me so hard I couldn't see." Tears welled up in your eyes and Jack knew it wasn't from the memory of the attack, but at the disappointment you felt in yourself.

"You did everything you could and you're alive. That's what matters." You swallowed past the lump in your throat at his words and you did your best to smile. Jack was doing a good job of keeping it together, of being your steady rock during this horrific ordeal, but you could see the whisper of fear in his eyes, just past the loving look. You noticed he was still wearing his scrubs.

"What time is it?"

"A little past 6pm. You were brought in last night."

"You've been here all day?" You asked, a hint of disbelief in your voice.

"Of course," Jack said quietly, his thumb rubbing tenderly across your cheek. "Where else would I be?" The feeling of love that inflated your chest was almost overwhelming. Jack had stayed here all day, and from his demeanor and body language, you assumed he planned to stay all night too.

You thought back to your first date, the way the confident and unshakeable Dr. Jack Abbot had almost seemed nervous when he picked you up at your apartment. The look of awe on his face when you opened the door was something you'd remember forever. The night had been perfect, and like a true gentleman he didn't kiss you goodnight because that would be too forward, so you snuck a quick kiss to his cheek because you couldn't stand the idea of finishing the night without being that close to him.

It occurred to you that if last night had ended differently, you would have never gotten the chance to really kiss him.

"Kiss me." You said. Jack hesitated for a moment and you tugged on his hand. "I'm alive." Jack took in a deep breath at your words, letting them wash over him. He pushed off the chair and leaned in, gently pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was delicate and comforting, and when Jack pulled away he didn't go very far, his face still hovering close to yours. His eyes moved minutely, soaking up every detail of your face. He looked at you so adoringly you almost cried.

"Thank you for staying." You whispered, not wanting to pop the intimate bubble around the two of you.

"Of course." He said, like it was an obvious thing he would do, that for him to have done anything else would have been ridiculous. There was no other place Jack was going to be except by your side. The love in your chest bloomed brighter and you smiled.

"Kiss me again."

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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"I'm busy Jack. Besides, this is the quiet zone, you can't be here." You said quietly in retort, tipping your head back to look at him as he stopped next to you, leaning casually against the edge of the table.

"I can't stop by to say hi?" He whispered back innocently, flashing you a dazzling smile, his slightly crooked teeth on display. You pressed your lips into a tight line, trying to not to be sucked in by his sweet words and pretty face.

"Just to say hi?" You asked back, raising your eyebrow. Jack shrugged as his eyes raked over you. You were wearing a short skirt and a university sweatshirt you'd stolen from Jack.

"Well...I did say I missed you." He said lowly, his words heavy with innuendo. You shook your head at him, almost in disbelief.

"Jack I can't leave, I have this whole stack of notes to get through." You gestured at the pile of notebooks and binders on the table in front of you. Jacks smile grew, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"We don't have to leave this room." Jack whispered as he slid along the edge of the desk to stand in front of you, nudging your wheeled chair back to make room for him.

You rolled your eyes again, scoffing at his boldness. Of course Jack would suggest such a thing. Sure, there were no windows in this study room and you could lock the door by propping a chair under the door handle, but your trysts with Jack had been exclusively reserved for your apartments and that one time in the backseat of his roommates car. The two of you didn't fuck in public places and certainly not in a packed library in the quiet zone.

Before you had a chance to argue that exact point, there was a sharp knock on the study room door. You nearly leapt out of your chair in surprise and panic at the noise, and Jack, thinking quickly on his feet, dropped to the ground and folded himself under the table. The door to the room started to open and you grabbed the edge of the table quickly to pull yourself flush against it. Jack narrowly avoided taking your knee to his face as he shifted awkwardly onto his butt.

The door opened to reveal one of the event staff in the signature red shirt. You did your best to look calm and collected like nothing was out of the ordinary and that you definitely weren't harbouring another student under the table. Thankfully there was a large panel under the table that served as the table legs which meant Jack was completely hidden from view.

The staff glanced around the room from the doorway before making eye contact with you. You gave your most normal smile and feigned ignorance.

"Hi. What's up?" You whispered, trying to not think about the way you could feel Jacks legs against your feet.

"I was passing by and heard voices." The staff replied.

"Oh, was I talking to myself again?" You said, the lie slipping past your lips easily. "Sorry, I do that sometimes when I'm studying. I hadn't realized I was doing it." The staff narrowed his eyes very slightly in annoyance.

"This is the quiet zone." He said sternly, like you hadn't known that and were just whispering for fun. You felt your own annoyance rise in your chest and normally you'd bite back but you didn't need to prove you were competent, you needed to get the staff to leave.

"I know," You replied carefully. "I'm really sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to myself. I'll keep it down."

"You'll keep it quiet." The staff corrected, throwing his weight around as an event staff member. Technically he could toss you out of the library if he was feeling like being a dick.

Under the table, Jack was doing his best to remain silent. He was sitting awkwardly, with one leg tucked under him and the other propped up so his knee was up by his head. Due to the height of the table, he had to keep his head bowed to avoid smacking it against the hard wood. But as the conversation dragged on a bit between you and the staff member, his neck ached and Jack lifted his head for some relief - and found your parted legs right in his eyeline.

Jack breath caught in his throat. Your knees were slightly open, giving Jack a beautiful view of your light blue panties, beckoning to him like a siren song. You were still talking to the staff, Jack faintly registered you apologizing again for the noise and the footsteps of the staff member turning to leave. Your bare legs were right there, just a few centimeters from his lips and Jack couldn't help leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your knee.

You jumped, a small noise of surprise squeaking out of your throat. The staff stopped in the doorway, the door mostly closed, and stuck his head back into the room to glare at you. Jack smiled under the table, delighted in your reaction, and moved his head between your thighs towards his desired destination. You felt the movement, the shell of Jacks ears brushing the insides of your thighs as he moved closer to the apex of your legs. You immediately clamped your thighs down around Jacks head, stopping him from moving any further.

"Paper cut." You whispered breathlessly to the staff member, raising your finger in explanation. It seemed to satisfy him and the staff left the room, closing the door quietly, but firmly, behind him. You pushed back from the table, releasing Jack from your hold in the process.

"Jack!" You hissed lowly, glaring down at your friend on his knees below you. Jack stared up at you from beneath his eyelashes, the corners of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

"I miss you baby," Jack hummed, his fingertips grazing the back of your calf, your skin breaking out into goosebumps as your breath caught in your chest. Jack licked his lips as his eyes fell to your clothed pussy again, his mouth parting in anticipation. You felt your face warm, your cheeks prickling with heat as you watched Jacks eyes darken with desire.

"Let me show you." Jack whispered, low and full of want. You found yourself nodding and Jack didn't hesitate a moment longer. He shifted onto his knees, reached forward and, with the help of you lifting your hips, slid your panties down your legs. He tucked them into his back pocket without looking away from your glistening folds. Jack coaxed you forward, your ass hanging precariously on the edge of your seat, and he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder.

Jack didn't waste time with teasing you, although he did love edging you on a regular day, but today he was far too impatient for that. He also didn't know when you'd be interrupted again. The moment he had a clear path, Jack leaned forward and buried his face eagerly between your legs.

You bit your lip hard to keep from making any noise but it was so difficult with how expertly Jack licked through your folds, his tongue dipping into your wet center with every pass. His mouth, tongue, and jaw worked in tandem to draw every thread of pleasure out of you, and you could feel the way Jack moaned softly into your center.

"Oh, god Jack," You whispered, your words barely audible as your head tipped back. It took you a long moment to regain your composure, all of your willpower going to keeping quiet.

Eventually you looked down at your friends face and saw Jacks eyes closed in ecstasy, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh as he ate you out enthusiastically. You slipped one hand into his beautiful auburn curls and made a fist with your other hand, biting down on it to keep quiet.

Jack licked and sucked, drawing you closer and closer to your orgasm with expert efficiency. He knew you too well, he knew what you liked and how to get you exactly what you needed. You saw stars when his lips wrapped around your clit, your hips jumping and rolling as your chased your pleasure. Jack got the hint and doubled down, rolling your clit with his tongue and sucking with his lips.

"F-fuck," You hissed. "Yes, so good Jack-" Your fingers tightened in his hair and Jack moaned lewdly against your clit at your praise, noise level be damned.

You came, your head back and your mouth open in a silent scream. Your hips thrust against Jacks face and he pushed his tongue inside you to drink down everything you gave him.

Coming down from your orgasm was hard, since Jack was still licking your folds calmly, clearly not intent on stopping. You whined low in your throat and tugged Jacks head back, forcing his face away from your pussy. Jack looked dazed, eyes half open and a delirious smile on his face as his mouth and chin glistened with your cum.

"One more?" Jack asked, his smile widening, completely pussy drunk.

"No, baby." You whispered, pushing away from him. Jack immediately pouted like a child and you rolled your eyes while smiling as you dropped your leg from his shoulder and leaned forward to kiss him. "Not here." Jack perked up instantly and you huffed out a quiet laugh.

"My place?" He asked softly. You nodded and Jack sprung to his feet, wiped his face, and started collecting your belongings for you. You shook your head at his eagerness, a smile making its way onto your face again. You pulled your skirt back into place and didn't even have to grab anything in the end, Jack carried it all for you.

Right as he made a dash for the door, you remembered something.

"Jack wait, my panties-" But Jack was already darting out of the room with his arms full of your stuff, leaving you momentarily stunned. "Jack!"

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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"Pope!" You yelled in surprise. Pope didn't stop, even when one of his brothers shouted at him from across the party. Your body reacted before you thought about it and you reached down, grabbing Pope's arm at the elbow as he drew his fist back up to hit the man again.

"Andrew." His name from your mouth and your hand on his arm stopped him in a heartbeat. He looked at you over his shoulder, frozen as he stayed crouched over the unconscious man, blood dripping from his knuckles. Your eyes were full of confusion and questions when he met your gaze before his eyes slid to the plastic cup in your other hand. He turned and slapped the drink out of your hand, spilling it all over the pool deck. Your mouth dropped open in disbelief and irritation as you looked down at the mess at your feet. You spun back around to Pope to question him about his behaviour but the words of protest died in your throat when Pope pulled his gun out from the waistband of his jeans as he stood and turned on the rest of the party.

"Get. Out!" Pope yelled, projecting his voice as he held the gun away from his body for everyone to see. The party goers didn't need to be told twice, the entire group fleeing the Cody compound in record time. The moment everyone started to run Pope turned on you and grabbed your upper arm, dragging you towards the driveway as you tried, and failed, to pull yourself out of his grasp.

"Andrew let go!" You yelled as you slapped feebly at his arm in an attempt to free yourself. As the last of the party goers bolted off the Cody property, Pope pulled you into the garage where you'd parked your car. He slammed his gun on the workbench with a heavy thud before grabbing you with both hands to haul your body over to your car.

"Andrew stop!"

"Go! You need to leave." Pope said, his lip curling as he said it. You continued to fight against him and his manhandling of you until he pushed you up against your car, leaving the two of you face to face.

"What are you doing? Why are you kicking me out?"

"I don't want you here." Pope stated, his voice low and rough. You stared at him completely dumbfounded.

"You want me to go? Why? Because I talked to that guy? You mad I talked to someone else? Maybe if you hadn't ignored me all night I wouldn't have found someone interested in spending time with me! Was him talking to me really worth beating him up?"

"He roofied your drink. He deserved it." Pope's voice was factual in the dangerous way he justified violence. The realization that Pope beat up that guy to save you was like a bucket of cold water over you and all the fight and anger in you fizzled out and died. Your body went slack at the new information, no longer pushing against Pope's hold on you.

"You saved me? Andrew…thank you." Your words were soft and full of appreciation and it seemed soothe the anger in Pope. His hands fell away from your body and the tightness in his shoulder relaxed as they dropped. You lifted your arms, intending on hugging him, but Pope pulled back before you could really touch him.

"You need to go." His voice was rough and strained. Pope turned away from you and stalked over to the work bench to grab a cloth to clean his hands and bloody knuckles while he pointedly avoided looking at you.

"What? Why?"

"Bad things happen when you're around me." Oh. This conversation again. Sure, Pope's life was a dangerous one compared to the average person, but you chose to be in his life. You knew what you were getting into and he couldn't seem to comprehend that, no matter how many times you'd had this conversation. His family had done a real number on him and his self worth. He was always sacrificing for the sake of his family and always believed he didn't deserve good things, including you. You'd have to fix that.

"Pope you can't honestly be blaming yourself for that guys actions. You kept me safe, just like you always do." You took some steps forward as you spoke and Pope flashed you a look of surprise. Undeterred, you continued to walk forward until you stood in front of Pope at the workbench. "That's what you should focus on." He shook his head at your words, disagreeing.

"I stopped him by hitting him. And I was going to keep hitting him until you got me to stop. I wanted to kill him. You shouldn't be around me."

"You don't scare me Andrew." You said as you took hold of his wrist, forcing him to stop cleaning his hand. He didn't fight you this time, letting you pull one of his hands up to you mouth so you can place a tender kiss against his split knuckles. You kept your eyes locked on his as you spoke.

"Thank you Andrew." You murmured against his skin. You closed the last of the distance between you both as you released his hand to cup his face with both of yours. Pope flinched and your heart broke. All he knew was harsh and painful touches meant to cause harm. Pope stood there frozen as you pushed up on your tip toes and placed a careful, gentle kiss to his lips. Pope didn't touch you with his hands but he leaned into the kiss, into you, capturing your lips again when they parted for a breath. You pressed further against him, your lips moving with his.

You pulled back after a moment and opened your eyes to catch Pope leaning towards you, his lips chasing yours with his eyes closed. You'd pulled back far enough that he stopped and opened his eyes but you caught the small smirk that graced his lips before he remembered himself and it disappeared.

"Thank you." You said again. You moved your hands down his face and neck to settle flat against his chest, steadying yourself so you could lean in and place a kiss over his heart. You glanced up at him to find him staring unblinking at you, his body frozen solid.

"Thank you." You shifted and lowered yourself to your knees, your hands sliding down to hold his hips as you got settled. You leaned into him, resting your chin on his abdomen as you looked up at him, your chest pressed against his thighs. Pope kept his hands at his sides but you could tell he was holding himself back, it was evident in the tension of his neck and the set of his jaw. His lips were pressed together and his breaths were short and uneven.

"You…you should go."

"You don't want me here? Then why does your body say otherwise?" Your head tipped down to look at the clear evidence that he was turned on, the straining bulge of his jeans. Your eyes flickered upwards and you smiled.

"Let me thank you Andrew." You searched his face for any apprehension or uncomfortableness but when his face stayed unchanged, you continued. You turned your attention to his belt buckle, making quick work of his pants and boxers until you were face to face with his rigid cock. You made sure to make eye contact with Pope when you gripped the base with one hand and leaned in to lick his tip. His mouth opened in a soft pant as he watched you taste how desperate he was for you. With your other hand braced on his thigh for balance, you opened your mouth to wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

"F-fuck," Pope muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear. You finally closed your eyes as you moaned in response around his cock before pushing forward to take more of him into your warm, wet mouth. Pope breathed in sharply through his nose and you opened your eyes again when you heard a clattering sound. Pope's hands had moved to grip the edge of the workbench behind him, his knuckles white around his bloody cuts. His eyes were locked on your face, the red blush of your cheeks and the way your lips stretched around his length. You pulled off slowly, making sure to keep eye contact when you reached for one of his hands and brought it to the back of your head.

"You don't scare me Andrew. I know you'd never hurt me." Pope nodded with an intense seriousness, like you'd just put the most valuable thing in the world in his hand. His warm palm made contact with your scalp and you took that as an invitation to continue.

You took his cock back into your mouth, moving forward inch by inch as you worked him to the back of your throat. To your delight, you couldn't take all of him, he was too big. It made you wet thinking about fitting him inside you, between your thighs. You peered up at Pope through wet lashes as you swallowed around his cock head and you heard his breath get caught in his throat. God, he looked so pretty like this, cheekbones flushed and his eyes glassy. He was staring like he was committing the sight in front of him to memory, his mouth open in awe and pleasure.

You began to pump the base of his cock with one hand as you took him in as much as you could. The hand on the back of your head twitched, like Pope wanted to guide your movements but he was holding himself back. You reached behind your head with your free hand to cover his and pushed, setting up a steady rhythm of pushing your mouth over his length. After a moment your hand returned to his thigh but his hand kept up the rhythm you set.

Good boy.

It didn't take very long for Pope's orgasm to start to build, making his thighs shake with the effort to not finish too quickly. However the sight of you on your knees for him, taking him into the wet heat of your mouth so enthusiastically, had his pleasure rising rapidly.

"I-I'm going to-you need to stop." Pope spoke like getting the words out were physically painful. You pulled off his cock immediately to turn your attention to his face. You licked your swollen lips as you tipped your head back to look at him and you watched as the blush on Pope's face spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"Where do you want to come Andrew?" You asked, your hand rubbing comfortingly over his jean clad thigh. "Down my throat? Or on my face?" Pope shook his head and you watched a hundred emotions flash across his face as his brain short-circuited imagining both possibilities. "Andrew?" You prompted, hoping to coax an answer out of him.

"Inside." He managed to choke out, his fingers flexing in your hair.

"Inside my mouth? Or…" You trailed off, biting your lip to contain your excitement. You watched him swallow heavily, his breathing laboured as you waited for him to fill in the gaps.

"Or." He said shortly, his voice rough. A smile spread across your face, wide and bright and all for him.

"Yeah?" You asked excitedly. "You want to come in me Andrew?" Pope groaned in response, the wood of the workbench creaking as his hand tightened on it. You rocked back on your heels and stood up, your hands reaching up to curl around the back of his neck. Pope kept his hand in your hair.

"How do you want me Andrew?" You inquired, breathless. Pope leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as his options overwhelmed him. You rubbed your hand affectionately across the back of his neck, your fingernails scratching his skin lightly.

"I want you Andrew. I want you to come inside me. Just tell me how you want me." When he didn't answer you decided the help him along. "Do you want me on the floor? Or in my car? What about on the work bench?" That got Pope to open his eyes and you leapt. "Yeah? You want me on the table?"

Andrew grabbed your waist in a tight grip and spun both of you on the spot, lifting you as he went in one fluid motion to seat you on the workbench. You spread your legs to accommodate him, your tight skirt bunching around your hips and his aching cock standing tall between you. Being this close to his flushed face and hungry hazel eyes, you were unable to contain yourself and you leaned forward to capture his lips in a searing kiss. His hands tightened their hold on you and dragged you to the edge of the table, inadvertently pressing the underside of his cock against your clothed core, making you moan into his mouth.

"Please," You whined against Popes lips. “Please Andrew.” Pope reached under your skirt and grabbed your underwear in his fists, pulling them off you quickly, tearing them in the process. He was lining himself up, ready to press forward into you when he faltered.

"Condom-"

"No condom Andrew, I want to feel you." You said desperately, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. “I want all of you.” That look of awe passed over Popes face again, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like he couldn’t believe you’d want him, any part of him.

He nodded solemnly, like this was the most serious and important job he ever had. Pope pushed inside you easily, you were already so wet and wanting for him and you both moaned as he slid all the way in. Pressing your foreheads together, Pope began to move, thrusting into you and building his pleasure back up. You clung to him, your hands traveling to his face to bring his lips to yours again. You kissed him fiercely, pouring every ounce of want into your touch. With one of his hands braced on the workbench as he leaned into you, his other snuck between you so he could press his palm against your abdomen and thumb your clit. You broke your kiss with a cry, pleasure shooting through your veins as your back arched.

"Oh! Ooooh, good boy Andrew." You moaned against his lips, your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. Popes hips stuttered at the praise, his thighs knocking against the workbench. Pope pushed his face into your neck as his hips picked up their rhythm, driving his cock even deeper into you. You cradled the back of his head and sighed praises in his ear as he pushed both of you closer to your orgasm. The pressure of his thumb on your clit and slide of Pope's cock deep inside you had your pleasure peaking and crashing through you. Your head tipped back, your mouth open in a silent cry as you came, your walls clenching around Pope's cock.

"Thank you Andrew. Thank you, thank you, thank you." You babbled as you came down from the high. Your hands stroked over his hair and head, urging him on as your hips matched his rhythm. "You're so good to me. You always take care of me, let me take care of you." He moaned into your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he moved his hand to your back to hold you close. Pope fucked you frantically, his hips slamming into you causing the tools on the workbench to shake and clatter to the floor.

"Good boy Andrew, be good for me. Come in me Andrew." Pope came with a broken cry of your name against your neck, his hips stilling against you, his cock pushed all the way inside you as he came. You felt him spilling into you, filling you, hot and wet. You rubbed your hand soothingly over his shoulders as he panted against your neck and a giddy smile spread across your face.

"Thank you Andrew."

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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He turns his head just slightly, the movement languid, weighed down by the liquor in his blood. He is still lucid enough to recognize your voice and respond in turn with your name. You slide onto the empty stool beside him, settling in on the ripped leather upholstery. 

“What are you doing here, kid?” He asks, playing with his glass. The two of you had the same night off this week. He knows that because he makes the schedule. What he didn’t anticipate, however, is that you would both end up sitting next to each other at the same cheap bar down the street from his house.

“My roommate’s coworkers invited her out tonight and I thought I’d join,” you lie, trying to make yourself seem like less of a drag who had to be physically pulled out the door. He follows your gaze to the gaggle of chattering people at the large, crescent moon booth in the back corner. 

Cathy is sitting next to her crush, a nerdy looking man with wire glasses and a cheap haircut. He’s cute…for her. She likes them doe-eyed and nervous. Submissive and teachable.

“Yeah?” His voice is looser than it is at work, deeper—less inhibited by the strictures and expectations of the ED. “Why aren’t you over there with her then?” He tips his glass to the back corner. Yeah, why aren’t you over there with your friend?

You let out a sound, something like a half-sigh, half-laugh, almost inaudible beneath the clammer and music surrounding you. “I was. I just thought it would be rude to see you and not say ‘hi’,” you explain, inching in closer until you can make out the details of his face. For his early fifties, the man is in great shape, the only tell of his age being the gray stubble on his jaw and the lines that frame his eyes when he smiles. “So, hi, I guess.”

“Well,” he exhales with a grin, lifting the glass to his lips once more. “Hi back at ya’. You want a drink? On me.” He waves down the bartender again, and you give him your order only for him to leave for a moment and then reappear with your drink. The alcohol is hot in your mouth and burns on the way down your throat. 

“Yikes,” you bite, wincing at the taste. “I can never get used to that. It’s gross.” 

He laughs. “Then why did you order it? I wouldn’t have judged you if you asked for a Coke, you know?” 

It’s your turn to giggle, the liquor immediately clouding your head with cotton. You’ve always been a lightweight. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed since your college days. 

“Liquid courage, as they say.” You take in a breath to clear the fuzz. “I should get back to my roommate now. Thanks for the drink, Dr. abbot.” Dizzy, you steady yourself with a palm on his thigh as you try to hop down from the stool, nearly unsuccessfully until he catches you. 

“Easy,” he coos, standing up from his own stool to help guide you down until your heels meet the floor. “And you can call me Jack when we’re not at work.” 

His hands are still on your waist, yours on his forearms, fingers splayed across veins and light brown freckles. He’s hot beneath your touch, radiating warmth against your palms. 

Almost comically, a lightbulb flickers on in your head. Brilliant.

You look over his shoulder—his very broad, very tense shoulder—to Cathy and her friends. She’s occupied, obviously flirting as she flips her long blonde locks back and forth, giggling like a little girl. There’s absolutely no chance of her eyes flickering over to you as you lean in closer to Jack, completely invading his personal space. 

“I don’t really want to go over there,” you confess, voice now syrupy and sweet in his ear. 

Jack knows he’s in trouble with you this close to him, your cleavage nearly spilling out of the skimpy dress hanging off of you. His hands are still on your waist, unmoving no matter how hard his brain commands the limbs to drop and slide into his pockets like a good man would do. 

“I kind of want to stay with you,” you add. The admission makes his knees weak. Now he really has to hold onto you. 

He opens his mouth to speak, to say ‘no’, to say that this is wrong and it’s not too late to stop because the two of you really can’t cross this line. For work. For your patients. For the sake of the flawless dynamic he curated so that shifts run smoothly. This would be a hitch in the system. A kink in the chains. 

None of that leaves his parted lips, however. Only words he knows he will regret tomorrow, when he sees you at work in the cold, unforgiving light of the hospital, once the slinky buzz of bourbon has worn off. 

He’s a weak man.

“Bathroom?” 

You squeal internally, following him through the crowds of people, like two salmon swimming upstream. He takes you down the dark hallway, past a locked utility closet and an office, also locked. You step swiftly behind him as he holds your hand, leading you to the bathroom. 

Not a moment wasted. 

He takes one baby step after another, backing you into the wall until your bare shoulder blades hit cool, crackled plaster. You press your palms out behind you, bracing yourself as the man draws closer. He raises a hand to gingerly tuck a swath of hair behind your ear, his breath warm and sweet on the patch of now exposed skin of your neck. Girthy fingers traipse across your jaw, one coming to the point of your chin, crooked beneath the jut of bone to lift it ever so slightly up at him. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, looking up at you from beneath raised brows. His hazel eyes are wide and full of a worshiping adoration that makes your heartbeat skip like a stone across water. Pulling back an inch, he offers you a better look at his face–the handsome mug you’ve previously only seen beneath the harsh, sanitary fluorescence of the hospital. He looks softer here, more human, more fallible. 

Dim, buzzing light flickers from a dying bulb that hangs lifelessly from the ceiling by a thick, black wire. It bathes the bathroom in a dewy orange glow that makes everything appear more glamorous than it is: the sticky tile floor that dips under the pressure of your feet, the leaky faucet dripping not-so-clear tap water, the garbage can overflowing with crumpled paper towels and god knows what else. 

You nod a little too enthusiastically, running your fingers through the silky curls at the nape of his neck, what you guess to have been completely auburn at one point, now peppered with strands of sand and salt. Your cupped hand pulls him closer into the space in front of your mouth. He hesitates, watching your lips part, watching you suck in a nervous, wobbly breath. 

“Breathe,” he commands in a low whisper, the gentle authority of the word pricking your ears and traveling straight to the growing warmth between your thighs. You inhale, shakily, and that’s when he plants one slow, languid kiss on your mouth. When he finally pulls away, dragging a strand of moisture with him, the look in his eyes shifts to something more dangerous. A curse rides out of his mouth on a labored breath. “We really shouldn’t do this. I know that, but I don’t think I can stop now.” 

Pulling him back to you by the fabric of his shirt, you giggle against the lips that now press sweet, puppy-dog kisses onto yours. “I don’t want you to stop, Jack.” 

He happily obliges, taking your face in his hands, heavy and calloused, experienced and competent, to bring you even closer to him. You can feel your fingers trembling as you graze his biceps, exposed beneath the sleeves of his slinky v-neck t-shirt. The shaking only gets worse when your hands travel down his abdomen, to the button of his dark jeans. 

He can feel the tremor of your fingers as you unzip his pants and begin to palm him through his briefs, and suddenly, the stinking pit of guilt he tried to ignore pulls him back down to earth. 

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, face only inches away from yours. His breath is sweet and warm, laced with mint and bourbon. The words on his tongue tickle your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “What’s wrong? Is it too much?” Even softer, “We can stop if you want. You don’t have to do this with me.”  

You shake your head, then take a beat to think. What if you don’t tell him at all? Would he somehow notice when it finally happens? Will your pussy ring out like a security alarm the moment he thrusts himself inside? You know for sure what will happen if you do tell him–you’ve experienced this exact scenario what feels like a thousand times. He’ll pull back. His eyes will get wide with trepidation. He’ll wave his hands and say that “it’s too much pressure” just like so many have before. 

But if you don’t tell him, is that some kind of assault? Is it entrapment to lead a man to believe he’s not breaking ground on someone’s vagina? 

 “If I tell you something, will you promise not to freak out?”

He knits his light brows together, narrowing his hazel eyes made more green by the orange light. 

What the hell are you about to tell him, he wonders to himself. That it has teeth? 

“Yeah, anything,” he promises, half-sincere, still holding your hands in his. His grasp is so warm and cozy, like a hug. You never want to leave. 

You bite your bottom lip, still debating telling him the truth. As much as you want to keep it from him, it feels wrong to withhold that information. 

“I’ve never done this before,” you finally admit.  

Jack chuckles, punctuated by a short shake of his head. “Me neither.” He kisses you again, this time with more force and power behind his movements, which you learn are just as skilled and meticulous as they are in the ED when he’s working under the immense pressure of saving lives. It makes you wonder how he is in the bedroom. Is he sloppy when caught in the heat of the moment? Or is he careful and planned? A hazard of his training and experience. 

You unglue yourself from his mouth. “What?” You blurt out, voice doped with a little too much incredulity that it physically takes him aback. Your fingers find their way to your lips, pressing them closed as if you could shove the words back inside. “Really? I–I thought you were married…at some point.” 

You’re not one to judge, but the idea of Jack having been married, and being as handsome, as smart, as educated he is and on this earth for nearly half a century, but not having sex at least once? It’s a bit unbelievable. 

He nods, eyes still thin, cocking his head to the side. “I was. But she wasn’t my resident and she sure as hell wasn’t half my age in the men’s bathroom of a bar.” He looks around at the space, dingy and murky.

Now it’s your turn to squint. “Wait. I don’t think we’re…” Your voice trails off into nothingness, leaving you and Jack alone in a silence only broken by the muffled music of the bar outside the door. “I’ve never done this before.” Your hand comes up to wave in the space between you two, gesturing to the act that was about to take place. 

“Huh?” He arches an eyebrow and his mouth twists to the side. “I’m gonna need you to be a bit more specific.” 

“Sex. I’ve never had sex before,” you murmur through tense lips, half-hoping he doesn’t hear. But he does, and his eyes grow wide, greenish-brown irises encircling blown pupils.  

“What?” He removes his hands from your completely, your body immediately missing the soothing warmth of his touch. Your hips ache for his palms to return to them. “Are you serious? Never? Not even in college? In medical school?” 

Maybe it does have teeth. 

You shake your head. “Never.” 

He almost doesn’t believe you. Maybe you’re just playing a joke on him, because how else could a stunning woman like yourself go so long without…being touched. 

“Wh–how?” 

You shrug. “No one will have sex with me.”

He laughs with his whole chest. “I find that hard to believe. Any man would want to have sex with you.” 

It sounds cheesier out loud than it did in his head, but he meant every word. You’re quite possibly the most gorgeous woman he’s seen in a long time. You’re incredibly smart and unbelievably gifted at your craft. He’d be on his knees if you asked. 

You blink up at him, tongue searching your mouth for the words. “I don’t mean it like that, Jack. I–It’s–ugh. Any time I get close with a man, I ruin it by telling them I’m a virgin. It’s too much pressure for them or something, they get freaked out and don’t want to be the guy who breaks me in.” You immediately regret being so vulgar and casual with your speech. “I should have just hooked up with someone in high school to get it over with, but I didn’t. I wanted it to be perfect and meaningful—the Hollywood of it all. I didn’t know it would be such a problem for me later on.” 

You were young, far too young for him, and he knew this already, but the idea of you not being even somewhat experienced was too much for him to handle. 

He takes a step back. “I’m glad you told me, um, but yeah, no, I can’t–I can’t do this with you.” 

You scoff, grabbing your purse from the vinyl-coated vanity. “See? This is what I mean.” A dramatic groan escapes your throat. “This is what happens. I never should have told you, and you wouldn’t have been the wiser.” 

“I just want to–” You stop, begging yourself to choose your words wisely, even though the liquor has loosened your inhibitions, and your vocabulary. “I want to experience it with someone already. No one will have sex with me because I’ve never had sex but the reason I’ve never had sex is because–ugh, nevermind.” A sigh leaves your lips, your shoulders fall in defeat. You can feel the red-hot heat of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, Dr. Abbot.” 

“Stop.” A hand on your biceps stops you from turning to leave. Jack pulls you back to meet him in the eyes. He has such beautiful eyes. “Hey–just listen to me for a second. You deserve better than to have your first time up against the door of a bathroom bar, okay? This isn’t what you want, trust me.” 

“You don’t understand. I don’t care anymore, and I’ve made up my mind. I just want to get it over with–tonight–and if it’s not with you, I’ll do it with someone else. Like you said, there are plenty of eager men out there that would love to fuck me,” you spit, adjusting your purse to better fit on your shoulder. “I wanted it to be you because I trust you. I like you, Jack, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been harboring a fat crush on you since I started working at the Pitt.” 

Just as you wrap your fingers around the cool metal of the door handle to tug it open, a flat palm on the splintering wood forces it closed. All you can see is a brawny hand pressed flat against chipped black paint. 

“Wait a second. Just wait. I’m not going to let you hook up with some random guy, okay?” 

After a moment to quell the frustrated tears that start pooling on your lower lashes, you glance behind you, eyes spanning across the length of his muscular arm, still extended toward the door. A swatch of hair trickles down your exposed blade and Jack can’t help but reach out with his other arm and touch the velvety tresses. It then comes up to completely barricade you with his body. He has caged you in like a rat in a trap with nowhere to go…but down to your knees if you chose to bless him with those pretty lips of yours. He stares at them and you notice. Maybe there’s still hope for you tonight.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks with a rasp, eyes still locked on your mouth, now rubbed dry from the lipgloss you were wearing earlier. Jack happens to like them better this way, all raw and swollen from his attack. “With me?”

You nod twice. “Please.” 

“I’m damaged and crippled, and I’m pretty sure I was in my second year of medical school when you were born. Think again.” 

These things aren’t breaking news to you by any means. You’ve seen the crows' feet around his eyes, the limp he resorts to when he’s on the last few hours of his shift and his prosthetic begins to pain him. Somehow, his blatant reiteration of the age difference between you makes your clit throb, and you’re quick to worry about what that says about you and your desires. 

“Jack, please, I want you. I’ve wanted you so badly for so long. I don’t know how else to tell you.”

“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, releasing you from the cage he had you in, lowering his arms to his side. “But not here. I’m taking you back to my place and we’re going to go slow.” 

Slow? You don’t want slow. You want steamy, hot, passionate sex that has you sore and throbbing for weeks after. You want to be tossed and thrown and bruised. You want him to pull your hair and slap your ass so hard it leaves a red print in its wake. But you know that if you admit those wants to Jack, he will completely back off and you can’t risk losing him when you’re so close. 

“Slow. Okay. That’s fine.”

He walks you out of the bar, holding your hand the entire way, breaking from the clasp only to throw some cash onto the bar top, not stopping a moment longer than necessary. The balmy summer evening had dipped into night since you first stepped into the bar. The sky is now a deep indigo, speckled with the shimmering opalescence of stars. 

“This is my car,” he says, so flat and matter-of-fact, you almost want to chuckle. He drives an understated black sedan, the exact make and model unavailable to you in the dark night. 

“Cool,” is all you’re able to muster before he unlocks the vehicle with the swift press of a button on the key fob pinched between his fingers, and opens the passenger side door to help you get in. Once settled on the cool leather seats, you take out your phone to send a quick text to Cathy, who you doubt even remembers you went with her to the bar tonight.

Heading home. It’s true. You are heading home, just not to your home. She won’t be there to know the difference anyway. 

The next thing you know, you’re in Jack’s bedroom, beneath the velvety glow of a small lamp on his nightstand. It bathes the bed in its dewy warmth, keeping the rest of the room in the shadows of its absence. When he turned his back to flip the lamp’s switch, you threw off your dress, leaving yourself nearly naked in nothing but a bra and panties…a matching bra and panties, because even though you weren’t totally expecting the night to end in this, you always held out hope. 

When he saw you, standing there half-naked, your body illuminated by the low light, Jack thought about throwing you onto the bed and having his way with you, right then and there. To hell with slow. But he mustered up the courage to be a gentleman tonight, and instead of tossing you over his shoulder, he approached you with unhurried steps. 

“I’m going to go slow, okay?” 

He presses a chaste kiss on your mouth, waiting for you to respond. Palms that were previously flat on your bare hips, now run up your back, rubbing the skin in slow, soft caresses. His fingers dance in circles between your shoulderblades. The soothing sensation lulls a moan from your lips. You lean into the crook of his neck, and for a moment, he keeps you there, just rubbing your back. 

“You alright?” He asks, voice low and dusky in your ear. 

You nod against his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. It smells something like cedar and soap and man. Like a cabin in the woods. Like a dip in a crystalline lake on a buttery summer evening.

His hands move to the clasp of your bra behind you, toying with the fabric. “May I?” The request makes you giggle. “Don’t mock me,” he pleads playfully with a breathy laugh. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.” 

“You’re being a little too gentle, if you ask me. Acting like I’ve never been kissed before.” 

“You have been kissed before, right?’ He asks, eyes dripping with mirth, all the way down to the smile tugging at his lips. You slap his arm. 

“Jerk,” you giggle. “Of course, I’ve been kissed. I’m not a total loser.” 

“You’re not a loser, (Y/N). You’re brilliant,” he assures with all the sincerity in the world. You feel so safe with him at this moment, all the more reason to continue, as this becomes less like an arrangement and more like an eruption of desire. 

You finger the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head to leave him one step closer to being as bare and vulnerable as you are in his arms. “Wow,” is all you can say as your eyes drink up the sight of his toned chest. You can’t help but reach out and touch his defined abdomen, the hills and valleys of the muscles beneath your fingers as you glide them across his stomach. 

 Next, he takes off his pants, his prosthetic, and the two of you are on the bed, his hands having found their way into your now bare pussy. 

“Come on, baby, let me hear you.” He pumps his fingers in and out, crooking middle and ring at your g-spot until you let out a lewd yelp. “Fuck,” he groans, getting off on your pleasure as much as you are, if not more. You feel him straining against his briefs as he rocks his hips against your thigh. “More. Give me more.” 

You obey, completely overwhelmed by the sensation that you almost forget to breathe until Jack reminds you, his voice velvety at your ear. 

“Keep going, I can feel that you’re close. So close.” He huffs heavily against your neck, his cheek flush against yours, your skin sharing in the sticky heat you’ve both worked up. Your back arches off the mattress and you feel the muscles of your abdomen tense, the walls of your pussy contracting and releasing around his fingers. 

When your orgasm finally crashes over you like an angry ocean wave, you pull him by the shoulders to meet your mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as it swirls around yours. 

“I’m ready for you,” you assure him, moving your hand down to the erection testing the strength of his cotton briefs. He helps you pull them down, revealing his full length to you.

“Oh shit, you’re huge,” you gasp, looking down to take in the sight of his size. Of course, Jack has a pretty cock. You practically salivate just looking at it, until you remember that it has to fit inside you and the fantasy shatters like a piece of porcelain china. 

“You can still change your mind,” he reminds you, brushing the hair away from your face, taking time to caress your cheek, your lips. “Just say the word.” 

“Jack,” you coo. He looks up at you from beneath arched brows, eyes expectant. “Stop asking me if I want this.” You reach down between your bodies, feeling the warmth, the stickiness of your sweat, to stroke his dick. It grows even stiffer in your hand. He quickly removes your grip from him, pinning your arms above your head. With the hand not pressed against your stacked wrists, he gathers some of your arousal on his fingers and strokes himself with it, groaning beneath the touch. He lines himself up at your entrance. 

“I want this,” you reiterate. 

He knows you do, but he’s still scared shitless of hurting you or ruining this in any way. In his fifty years on this earth, he’s never been with a woman for her first time. It makes him feel young again. You’ve reinvigorated the old man. 

“Mhm,” you moan, feeling the tip of his cock tease your slit. “I’m ready. Please move.” 

He guides himself inside, hesitantly even though his dick wants to act on its own impulses and jump straight into you. He resists, sliding in just the first inch. You wince slightly at the stretch and his heart skips a beat.  

“Are you okay?” 

You nod. “Yeah, keep going.” 

Another inch. He groans and you yelp, the sounds of your pain and his pleasure creating a sweet symphony that bounces off the walls of his bedroom, echoing down the hallway. Jack retreats, suddenly leaving you empty and sore and missing him.

“I’m sorry, are you okay?” He cups your cheeks with his hands, pulling your jaw up to look at him. His eyes are wide. 

You nod. “Please, Jack, keep going. I need to feel you again. All of you.” You’ll probably regret it, but the sensation has already left you dumb. 

He pushes inside you again, the full length this time and you cry out at the stretch, the sting so bitter-sweet it quite literally brings you to tears. The salty droplets drip down your temples and into your hairline. 

“Good girl,” he praises, caressing your hair. “You’re taking me so well. Just breathe.” 

He thrusts gently and you begin to warm up, the pain subsiding, leaving behind the dawn of pleasure. It starts at the crown of your head and trickles through your veins, down your thighs to the tips of your toes. Your body squirms beneath him, hips jolting upward to meet his as he pumps again and again. 

“Holy shit,” he groans raspily in your ear. “You feel so good, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.” 

“I want to be good for you, Jack.” 

“You’re so good.” His eyes light up as he pulls away from your neck to take in your face. You look absolutely angelic beneath him, with cheeks flushed the prettiest pink color, and eyes glossy with ecstasy. When you look up at him, he thinks he actually died and went to heaven. 

“God, you’re so beautiful, baby.” 

You wonder if he means the sweet things he’s saying to you, or if that’s just what men say when they fuck, heads dumb and dizzy with the pleasure you’re providing them. 

Your core tightens around him, squeezing his cock like you never want him to leave. Truthfully, you don’t. You could hold onto him all night, keeping him inside you until you finally become one. If only he could actually meld to your flesh. 

“I’m so close,” you admit with a cry, the admission pushing you closer to the edge. When you cum, it gives him permission to follow suit. You tell him you’re on birth control, that he can finish wherever, safely, and with a final few thrusts, he is finishing inside you, releasing a gush of warmth. Exhausted and completely drained, he collapses onto your body, rolling over onto his back only when he’s able to catch his breath. 

You watch the labored rise and fall of his chest, as it slows, and when your core stops twitching and your  muscles are strong enough, you turn over to rest your head in the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm and dewy beneath your cheek. 

“Did it hurt?” He asks, not sure he could handle the answer being ‘yes’. 

“At first,” you admit, turning your cheek on his chest to look up at him. “But it stopped after a while, and then it felt really good.” You smile, and he returns the gesture, eyes twinkling beneath the light source beside him. 

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service. Now,” he starts, keeping you tied up in his arms while he lifts himself further onto the headboard until he is sitting up straight and you’re just a degree behind him. His arm is draped over your shoulder now, pulling you in closer. “I need to tell you something.” 

Fuck, you curse silently. Is he diseased? Is he terminal? Does his dick cum nuclear waste? 

“What is it?” 

He stays quiet for a moment, giving himself time to revel in the anxiety flickering in your eyes. 

“I don’t do one-night-stands.” He shrugs, lifting and lowering his free hand. It slaps down onto his sheet-clad thigh. “It’s not my style.”

You laugh. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but you just did.” 

At this point, the stack of paperwork beneath your hand is meaningless. To you at least, of course. Obviously. Super important for the poor guy who's name is printed in block letters across the top. And his family. Of course.

Truthfully, though, you've just been sat staring at the clock for the last 45 minutes, glazed over eyes and face smushed against your fist, willing your head not to drop forward in a sleepy trance. The graveyard of red bull cans in front of you have unfortunately not worked their magic, and you point blank refuse to even touch the hot tar in the breakroom some heathen has labelled as coffee.

In order to actually finish the custody forms and crosschecking them with sampling logs, you reason that you need to force your brain into gear. Surely stretching your legs will suffice. And if that leg stretch concludes with a lap around the ER which may or may not coincide with a certain nocturnal chief attending's rounds then that will simply be the world's largest coincidence.

A certain nocturnal chief attending who you may or not be working up the courage to ask out for dinner. Eventually.

You've been given enough encouragement by your friends, the usual "What's the worst he could say? No?".

Yes, the worst he could say is no, actually.

Well, not technically. He could turn around and spew off insults and declarations of total disgust and hatred for you. But you figure that reaction would go against the months and months of cheeky smiles and winks brandished in your direction, the inside jokes and flirty comments he greets you with, the smiley faces (and the one-time scribbled out heart!!!) he leaves on the sticky notes littered on the forms he sends downstairs.

So, really, a no would be the worst thing. A no would confirm that you'd done it again- read too far into things, saw signs that were more like mirages- an oasis granting affection in the touch-starved desert that is your love life.

A no would mean having to look into the eyes of a man you have admired for longer than you'd care to admit and watch him reject you. Which he is more than entitled to, of course! You'd take it on the chin and respect his no.

Then lock yourself in your office and sob loud enough to wake the bodies housed on the other side of your office door.

Dr Abbot wouldn't be your first rejection, of course. Far from it. To be human is to be rejected, and you'd learned long ago that picking yourself back up is the only response you can have if you want to remain human.

It would be the first to stop you in your tracks, though, you think. Your professional lives are so entwined- you're the one he calls every time he needs a deceased patient moving, or a DOA evaluated, or legal forms need both of your approval. Even the of his residents who show interest in mortuary rotations have to speak to the both of you, and you always manage to cross paths at hospital galas and fundraisers.

Quite frankly, you would survive the fallout. You would move on, tell yourself that you're a grown woman who has before and will again face rejection. Your professional lives would be just the same.

Your heart is another matter entirely.

It doesn't care that you're a woman with nearly three decades of earthly experiences. Or that your career is logically more important than a silly infatuation with the silver haired grump upstairs.

A muscle so intent on latching onto said silver haired grump cannot possibly care about logic.

Apparently, neither does your brain- the logic machine- as your calf muscles burn through the stretch of the seemingly endless stairs up to the ER.

The floor is almost awkwardly quiet tonight, your trainers squeaking against the linoleum and the sound of your heavy-ish breathing making you wince slightly with every movement. Box breathing is all you can do to tamp it down as you make your way through half empty corridors, every couple of rooms housing a patient but otherwise unusually inactive. The witching hour usually brings a whole host of crazy energy whirlwinding through the ER doors.

Perfect conditions for the native species of nightcrawler who infest this floor.

"Spook. Over here."

Your head snaps to the right at the familiar cadence of your favourite night shift attending. (Only marginally more favoured than Ellis, if only for the fact that Jack doesn't raid your super secret stash of cookies.)

You've gone by that nickname now for longer than your own name. Spook, or Spooky- bestowed upon you by Jack himself after he spotted the poster in your office. The UFO and 'I WANT TO BELIEVE' matching with that of Agent Fox Mulder's from The X-Files.

You suppose there are worse things to be called.

And, admittedly, you probably do come across as marginally spooky what with being cooped up with the dead four days a week.

"Hi."

"Hi."

That lopsided smile. It reminds you of the angle of Orion's bow in your favourite constellation. And the spray of freckles across his face reminds you of the Milky Way. You're almost certain you can trace a path between them, make up your own constellation.

"How are things downstairs?" Jack prompts the conversation at the sight of your slightly glazed eyes. He doesn't want to go so far as to assume it's because of him, so he'll chalk it up to the hour and the steadily growing army of empty red bull cans he's sure are encroaching on your desk.

You rock back and forth on your heels, hands fumbling to do something- anything- in front of you, "Oh, you know. Peachy. Lively as always."

The smile returns, this time more of a purse of his lips, as if biting back a chuckle. At you or with you: you're not sure you want to know.

"As always." Reaching for the tablet in front of him, he starts off in the direction of the triage bays, "Fancy joining me on my rounds tonight, Spooky?"

"Oh, yeah! Can't promise I'll be much help- my expertise is more use for those patients who don't really need fixing anymore."

He looks over his shoulder at you, smirking as you stumble on your feet to rush after him. Like a puffin, he thinks, not for the first time. A very cute puffin.

"Mmm, I'm sure we'll find a use for you yet, Spook. What're you doing up here in the land of the living anyway?" He looks back down to his screen as he walks, content with the knowledge that you're by his side.

You look around the ER with wide eyes like you're seeing it for the first time (even though this probably marks the thousandth time).

"Hm? Oh, um, I…needed to stretch my legs. Thought I'd come up and grace you all with my presence." A hollow chuckle betrays you slightly and from the amused look Jack throws your way, he believes you even less.

Thankfully he lets you get away with the obvious lie, swiping through the charts to find the one he's searching for. He stops in front of a curtain and briefly announces his presence to the patient on the other side, giving them an additional second before gently pulling the curtain aside with a practiced smile. One you've been on the receiving end of countless times, the one you're sure is laced with calming properties. You've seen many a patient be talked down from ledges just with that smile; the one that says I'm here, I understand, I've got you, we'll do this together.

Jack brings himself down to the patient's level, seating himself on the rolling stool, "Mr Romano, I'm Dr Abbot- this is another of our doctors here at PTMC, do you mind if she observes our chat for a minute?"

The patient looks nervously towards you so you take that as a sign to introduce yourself, telling him your name, "I'm normally downstairs in the mortuary, it's nice to meet you up here!"

The facepalm Jack makes immediately after you finish speaking makes your heart jump. Mr Romano's head shoots towards Jack, eyes wide like dinner plates, "Mortuary?! What? I am dying?" His thick Italian accent reverbs off the walls as you wince and rush to placate him.

"No- no,"

"Mr Romano, everything is fine. My colleague is just brushing up on her bedside manner," Jack pointedly looks towards you though you can see the amusement in his eyes from here, "You came in with laceration to your thumb, that is all. Once it's stitched you'll be free to go. No one is dying any time soon."

His words seem to calm the man if only momentarily, so Jack uses the sliver of calm to inform him that a nurse will be in to stitch him up shortly before ushering you out of the bay and shutting the curtain behind him.

You walk to the nurses station with your hands covering your face, refusing to even look at Jack.

"How bad was it?" Your voice comes out mumbled from behind your palms.

Instead of the reprimand you were expecting, you hear a throaty chuckle which quickly dissolves into uncontrollable giggles. A warm hand comes up to grip your fingers, gently removing them from your face. The sight of Jack's laughing face sets off your own, his out of amusement and yours out of embarassment.

"God, Spooky. 'I'm from the mortuary'? Really?" His imitation of your voice only worsens both of your giggling.

"I didn't know what to say! I haven't had to speak to a living patient in years! God he must've thought I was the grim reaper or something." At this point, your quickly warming forehead is pressed to the cool surface of the nurses station.

Jack rounds the desk, still chuckling, to sit in a chair, "You say anything but that, sweetheart. Anything. Did you see his face? Poor guy."

You bring your head up to glower at him still laughing at your expense, "Yeah, keep it up, giggleshits."

That only makes him laugh harder. You can still hear him when you turn and start back down the corridor. The sooner you get back to your safe space with no talking and moving patients, the better.

"Aw, Spook, don't run off! We were just getting started!"

A backwards middle finger is all he receives in reponse.

His chuckling it still audible when you reach the stairs.

A week later, you're back in a very familiar position, only this time during normal people hours.

The dayshift proves a stark opposite to that of the night shift; you're sure you've almost run into at least four separate people in the two minutes you've been on the ER floor. You watch with darting eyes as patients and staff alike flit and scurry between rooms, codes are called, and an incessant hum seems to hover above everything.

There is significantly too much life and noise happening up here for your taste.

Robby had called you a few minutes ago saying he needed your assistance with moving a patient and you find him outside of the family viewing room, a somber smile on his face. Whilst you enjoy each other's company, you'd both much prefer if your professional meetings were kept to a minimum.

Over your years working with him, you've come to find Robby views death as sadness completely. You suppose it makes sense; his job is to help these people, to do everything he possibly can to nurse them back to health- or at least stability before another specialist can swoop in. He is the frontlines for any and all emergencies and so death to him is a failing. Personal and professional.

From your perspective, death is a process. All of us die, some of us at the very hospital you work at. It's your job to treat all of your patients with dignity and respect, making sure they each receive the best possible standard of care. You see death as a ritual, and you have a sacred purpose to take care of their physical body and appreciate the life they lived. If you stopped to grieve for every person you performed on, you'd be stuck in one place infinitely.

If anything, you now have a deep appreciation for your own life. The job just comes with the added bonuses of developing a strong stomach and dark humour.

"Hey, Spooky, thanks for coming up. Sorry for the craziness around here, you know how it is." His accompanying laugh is more of a mirthless breath through his nose.

"Dr Robby, no problem, haha..yeah."

No, actually, you don't know. The speed up here is miles ahead of the one you're used to.

To his credit, Robby doesn't allow the awkwardness to linger for too long, instead sweeping you into the room with a palm hovering over your mid-back.

Transport support is already waiting inside the viewing room as you set to work on the usual identification and verification processes, checking over the death notification paperwork and ID tag, removing the little remaining medical apparatus from the patient's body, and securing a chin strap to ensure both dignity and practicality. After you give the go ahead to the transport staff member, they help you move the patient into a bag and then with securing the body with the concealment gurney. You give Anton, the transport staff, a murmur of thanks before asking him to move the body downstairs using the back elevator and noting that you'll be down in a moment once Robby and you finalise paperwork.

You find Robby waiting outside the room, his chin titled towards his shoes in thought.

"Hey, all finished in there, I'll be heading down to process them in a minute."

His eyes meet yours, some of the heaviness from before replaced with the professionality all doctors have to master- especially when they are the Chief Attending of an city's emergency department, "Thanks, Spooky. You're an angel."

The toothy, too-wide grin you give back makes him smile even more. You never could take a compliment.

At the nurses station, Robby turns to you with both the paperwork you need to complete and an expression you recognise all too well. You've worked with him for too long not to know when Michael Robinavitch is scheming.

"…What? Do I have something on my face?" Your hand haphazardly sweeps at your mouth, praying the pesto pasta salad you brought for lunch isn't smeared across your chin.

"No, no. You look great. Just…a question, if you will."

Your eyes narrow in suspicion, "Hmm, why do I not like where this is going already?"

Robby chuckles, "God, Spooky, at least hear me out before you start accusing me of something."

"You have that look, Robinavitch. I know that look."

His eyes roll good-naturedly before they meet Dana's over the other side of the desk, her own spying on the two of you from above the glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

"I just wanted to ask if you'd put any more thought into that gala. Gloria's been on my ass about numbers and representing the hospital properly, putting on a united front, yada yada. 'S all bureaucratic bullshit, but someone's gotta do it."

Robby watches in thinly veiled amusement as your head tips back on a groan, "Fuck. I completely forgot." You look over at Dana, still watching curiously, for moral support, "Do I have to?"

She raises both hands in surrender, one holding a patient chart and the other the bright red hospital landline, "Hey, don't look at me, Spooks. I got nothin' to do with those bigwigs upstairs."

Unfortunately for you, your puppy dog eyes do not have the same effect on Robby as they do on Jack, "Put those eyes away, missy. Someone from your department has to go or Gloria will ride your ass so hard you'll be drowning in paperwork for the next year."

Robby's words make your whole face screw up in a cringe, "Please, don't ever put that image in my brain ever again."

He simply laughs out loud before fatherly patting you on the back, "You'd best send Gloria confirmation of your attendance." Handing you the final sheet of paperwork, he pauses as if remembering something important, "Oh, actually, you know who else is going? Jack. Huh, at least you won't be alone."

With that, he picks up a chart and heads towards a triage bay. His words make you pause: if Jack is attending then maybe the night won't be so bad, his presence might just make up for the painful amount of schmoozing with potential donors you're going to have to do. Seeing him in a suit will also make the brain melting act of socialising easier to stomach. Maybe you can even dress up nice to feel confident enough to ask him for dinner sometime. You wonder absentmindedly if your sister still has that formal dress from her friend's cousin's wedding sat in the back of her wardrobe.

When you look up, you realise how in your own head you were when you spot Dana smirking knowingly at you, "Don't. Even."

Both eyebrows raise in faux innocence, "My lips are sealed."

After three back to back shifts the last place you want to be right now is in a crowded, overly decorated banquet hall surrounded by the best doctors in the tri-state area, the wealthiest Pennsylvania has to offer, and staff who look like they also want to be anywhere but serving comically tiny hors d'oeuvres to stuffy old white men.

It'd taken your sister over an hour to convince you to leave the house in the dress you're wearing and, despite how good you felt when you first tried it on, you suddenly feel ridiculously out of place considering your day to day attire is usually frumpy scrubs, a hair net, and your comfiest shoes.

A small part of you- well, perhaps a large majority- is hoping you'll find Jack tonight and he'll be starstruck by your dress. That same part of you that has existed since you were a pre-teen and your love of rom coms was kickstarted, watching scenes of undercover princesses swaying down palace steps in a gorgeous dress and captivating the eyes and hearts of Chad Michael Murray and Heath Ledger.

It's a satin fabric in a rich plum colour, an asymmetrical neckline showcasing the oiled skin of one shoulder, boning across the mid-section to accentuate your waist and hips, and the rest falling in smooth pleats around your calves. The silver heels on your feet started hurting before you even got in the Uber here and you're almost 100% positive you lost bloodflow to your pinky toe around seven minutes ago. Grinning and bearing it seems the only option.

You've already made the rounds a couple of times, your schmoozing power running on empty to match the empty champagne glass you've been clutching like a lifeline instead of awkwardly fiddling with your hands as usual.

You're still yet to spot Jack amongst the crowd you think to yourself, and, as if by magic, there he appears. You spy him chatting with a group of donors you're yet to try and work some of your unusual charm with, their faces all alight with rapt fascination as he no doubt captivates them with his otherworldly charisma. He'll be regaling them with some story of his time overseas, or managing to spin a patient story into a subtle yet effective appeal for donations.

He looks as dashing as ever, even if you are only glimpsing him from behind; his deep slate suit stretches taut over broad shoulders, pants tailored to perfection, and his more salt than pepper curls perfectly coiffed. You hope he's missed a day or two of shaving. You love the stubble that grows in after only a short amount of time and have spent more time than is probably healthy imagining how the scruff would feel between your thighs.

Setting out to cross the bustling room to reach his side, the crowd he was previously entertaining seem to fall away with wide grins and pats to his back, leaving him stood alone with possibly the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen.

Your steps fumble slightly, not wanting to make a fool of yourself by marching over there when he's in conversation with someone else.

Especially not when he's smiling like that at her.

She's in a long sleek dress to match her long sleek hair and she looks so elegant you're unsure if she's even real. Of course he'd be smiling like that at her.

Her elegance doesn't bother you nearly as much, though, as the hand on his arm does. Her fingers are wrapped around the crook of his elbow in such a way that looks natural, familiar. And he's not rejecting it. Jack is standing there letting her paw at him, smiling at her in that way that says I'm listening, I'll always listen to you that you foolishly believed might just have been exclusive to you.

For just a minute- though it feels like an eon- you stand and watch them; how good they look together, how naturally they seem to fit together, how she throws her head back on a laugh and he watches the clean line of her throat. It feels like a car crash you can't look away from, though you know the only car crash is the nosedive your potential relationship with Jack just took off the Fort Pitt Bridge.

In the years you've worked with Jack, you've never once heard him mention a partner- you knew he was divorced, everyone at the Pitt knew that, but you had no idea he was seeing anyone. And, from the way they're stood together, they can't be anything but a couple. It makes you feel sick thinking about how many hours you must've accumulated flirting with Jack over the years. How he'd never shut it down- had played along, even. Once again, you feel like that same silly teenage girl again; awkward and a hopeless romantic, only to find out that the cute flirty guy next to you in biology class had been dating your friend since the beginning of junior year.

You feel stupid and small and really fucking uncomfortable in this dress that you wore for him.

Behind you, you hear someone call your name and, deciding you've seen enough, you turn from the smoldering remains that was your crush on Dr Abbot.

In turning away, you miss the way Jack's ears perk up completely at the distant sound of your name, swinging his head around the room in an attempt to find you and the sting he feels in his chest when he can't.

The pile of papers on your desk has officially reached critical mass.

You're at the point where one strong shove of your office door may result in bureaucratic disaster, however sorting and filing them properly would require a trip to the ER. The same ER in which you have been completely avoiding for the last two weeks due to the residence of a certain silver haired grump.

You'd received exactly one message from him at the end of last week (when you figure he finally caught on to the fact that you were quite obviously avoiding him);

Jack's Abs: Hey Spook, everything okay? Didn't see you at the fundraiser dinner, must've missed each other. Let me know if you want to come up and help with rounds again at any point. I'll make sure you don't frighten any patients half to death this time. - Jack

You'd only deigned to reply with a thumbs up emoji, to which you figure he must've guessed he'd done something wrong as he hasn't contacted you since.

In all honesty, you miss him. You miss the chats you would sneak together in the break room between lulls, you miss the way he would make any excuse to come downstairs to visit you, you miss the way he'd always have an energy drink chilling in the fridge for you- hidden behind the leftovers that have gone untouched for so long he's sure no one will bother to look behind them. You miss him when you see something funny on Instagram and you can't show him it, when normally you'd send it to him and watch him furrow his brows in old man confusion.

You've moped around so much for the past two weeks that even your assisstant, Sylvie, has been giving you shit for it.

"Girl, you've been slouching around here like a zombie for too long. Go talk to him!" She's sat in the chair on the other side of your packed desk, her feet propped precariously on one of the smaller piles of paper teetering on the edge of the cherrywood. You're slouched in your reclined office chair, head in your hands as you massage an incoming migraine from your temples.

"You should've seen them, Sylv- there was no way that wasn't his girlfriend. I feel so embarassed."

The whine in your voice makes Sylvie's eyes soften in sympathy, "Hun, there is no way that a man who looks at you like Dr Abbot looks at you has eyes for any other woman. Did you ask him if they were together?"

Shuffling your fingers apart, you peek up at her nervously, "…No?"

The eye roll you receive is expected, the tinfoil ball from her sandwich being thrown at your head, is not.

"Okay, well, if you're not going to take these up, I will." Sylvie begins precariously stacking papers in her arms and heads for your office door, "I'll be sure to tell Dr Abbot you asked after him."

All you can do is cover your face again and groan, slouching down even further into your chair.

It's your day off and you're still moping. Only now, you can mope from the comfort of your own home.

You've not even left the house today, even though you know definitely should've when you open the fridge door and all that's in there is a half-drunk carton of orange juice and a moldy punnet of cherries. The weather is another reason you haven't left the house today, the thunder and lightning and lashing rain mirroring the emotional deluge happening inside your head.

A tiny, insane, part of you thinks maybe you should risk a grocery run today. Should risk driving in the torrential rain if only for the fact that the grocery store is in PTMC's catchment area and any accident that may've happened to you on those rain-slick roads would've resulted in the potential for Jack to be the one taking care of you. You dismiss the thought as soon as it pops into your head, immediately apalled at yourself, and decide to just rot the rest of the night away on your couch. You're sure you have some stovetop popcorn hidden in a cupboard somewhere.

You're almost through Four Weddings and a Funeral, just about to reach Hugh Grant's famous love confession to Carrie in the torrential rain when you hear a pounding on your front door.

Immediately, you check your phone to make sure you didn't accidentally order a pizza in you zombie-like state and make some poor delivery driver make the trek to your house in the storm, only for another, much longer, knock to sound through your living room.

You hop up from the couch, fastening the belt of your robe around you tighter as you swing open the front door to be met with a very wet Jack Abbot.

"What the hell are you doing here?", You shout to be heard over the thunder rolling behind him, brows furrowing in desparate confusion.

Jack brings a hand up to swipe his dripping curls from his face, slicking them back only for the shortest at the front to stick to his temples, "You've been avoiding me for weeks!"

"So you show up at my house?! In a storm?!"

"I had no other choice!"

Looking at him dripping wet on your doorstep makes your defences wither faster than you'd like, "God, Jack, just- just come in. Come in. I'll get you some towels and something to wear." He lets out a breath of relief, making sure to keep his feet on your doormat as he removes his soaked shoes and jacket, trying to minimise the mess he is guaranteed to make. When you return from the towel cupboard, you find him standing sheepishly still in your doorway now with the door closed at least, "Come on, you can sit on the couch- I'll put towels down."

Whilst he busies himself with drying off, you go in search of the biggest sweatpants and hoodies you can find, hoping you have something buried in the back of your wardrobe, and when you get back your heart bursts out of your chest at the sight of Jack's wet t-shirt halfway off of his body, arms stretching backwards to rip it off. When his head is free of the soaked fabric, he catches your widened eyes, curls still damp and now ruffled, the skin of his chest and arms reddened from the cold.

"He-here," you have to clear your throat to speak a coherent sentence, "take these- they should fit. Hopefully." You all but toss the clothes at him and make an escape to the kitchen in a plan to bring him a warm drink and to put his own clothes in the dryer.

Jack takes the time to scan your living room, a space he's never been privy to before but always wondered about- wondered whether you like to keep things neat and minimalist or go all out with bright colours and clutter. From what he can see, it's very you. He loves it. Although he's not sure his opinions on interior design have any weight considering his own house has looked the exact same (if he had to pick a word to describe its aesthetic, he would choose showhouse, Robby would choose sad) since his divorce years ago.

"Black, one sugar." You place a coffee down in front of him, settling in opposite him with your own mug of no doubt something teeth-rottingly sweet that most likely no longer classifies as coffee.

"Thanks, Spook."

For the first time in all of the years you've known each other, the silence between you is awkward. It feels like there's an impenetrable barrier between the two of you, something tangible, something you can reach out and crush betwene your fingers. For the first time ever, you don't know how to talk to each other.

So, Jack takes the leap of faith.

"We need to talk, sweetheart."

The eyes you look at him with make his chest tighten immeasurably, there's hurt and guilt and longing and want burned into your pupils, so clear he can read them like his favourite book.

"You've been avoiding me, for a while now. Too long, really. And I just want to know what I did." Jack puts his coffee down and scoots forward on the couch, eyes wide in desperation, "Did I fuck up? I want to make it right, but I'm at a loss here, Spook. I miss us. I miss you."

"I don't know if you should be saying that, Jack. It's…inappropriate."

If it was possible, he's somehow leaning even farther forward, trying to get as close to you as he can whilst still respecting the clear space you've put between the two of you, "To who? We've always done this. It's been you and me since day one, Spooky."

"God, your girlfriend, Jack. Or partner- wife- whatever she is to you. I'm not coming between that, okay?"

Jack's eyes narrow in confusion, "Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend, or-or a partner or a wife."

The pit in your stomach widens, "You…don't?"

"Of course I don't. How could I when I have you? If you aren't filling any of those roles I don't want it." Out of all the expressions you've seen Jack Abbot wear, this one is a first. It's desperate, pleading, pure want.

"What about the woman in the black dress- from the fundraiser dinner? You two seemed…friendly." You can't even look at him as you say it, embarassment swirling in your chest.

"You mean Val? My sister's wife? She's on the board for the woman's clinic outside Presby. Spooky, she's family. I promise you. I'll get out the fucking family albums if you want me too, sweetheart." And god help you, you know Jack would never lie to you. Not about something like this.

"Oh."

The smile he gives you is one of hope and sympathy, "Yeah."

"Well…now I feel stupid."

Jack laugh is full of pity and amused exasperation, "Me too, Spook."

There's one thing still left to clarify, though, "Did you mean what you said before? About…me. Being your…girlfriend or whatever."

Jack's smile is megawatt now, "Oh, my silly girl, get over here."

In an instant, you're rounding the coffee table, and straddling Jack's lap. His hands reach to cup your face automatically, bringing it to down to meet his awaiting mouth. The kiss is desperate and searching, your tongues sweeping each other's mouths, dying to memorise the feel of each other.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" you pant between kisses, "I'm sorry I avoided you i just-"

"Shh, shh. 'S Okay, sweets. You're okay, I'm here now, hm?" Jack's hands are placating as they smooth over your body, gripping your curves, memorising the feel of your hips, "Now, I love this robe but I wanna see what's under it, yeah? That sound good?"

You nod frantically, aching to have his big hands touch your heated skin. He gently unties the knot, pushing the satin fabric from around your shoulders to pool at your feet. Instantly, his hands are going to your nipples poking from under thin material of your tank top, pinching and rolling and pulling. His mouth drops to envelop one through the fabric, teeth just and so nibbling at it before his tongue sweeps out to soothe. When he pulls away his eyes are heavy lidded at the sight of the wet spot on your tank and the outline of your swollen nipple even more prominent.

He looks up at you, your neck thrown back and whimpers pouring from you, "These tits, sweetheart. The things I've imagined doing to them."

You meet his eyes with your own hooded ones, "Yeah?"

"They're fucking perfect. Perfect for me." His fingers reach to pull the fabric of your tank down under your heavy tits, nipples jutting out proudly. Jack groans uncontrollably, mouth attatching to your tits once again like a man starved. Your hips works against his own, little shorts bunching up against the sweatpants you leant him, though you can feel the unmistakable bulge he's sporting.

"Where's your bedroom sweetheart?", Jack mumbles around a mouthful of your breast, his bite marks and spit leaving a trail across the delicate skin.

You point with a shaking hand in the direction of your room and, within ten seconds, he's pulling you up to stand so he can yank you down the corridor. Once he locates your bed, he shoves you down, standing between your parted legs as you prop yourself into your elbows. Jack takes you in, tits pressed together above the fabric of your top, tiny shorts hiding next to nothing, the outline of your perfect soaked cunt on display for him, your face already sweat slick and looking freshly fucked. He thinks you're the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

You watch with unconcealed lust as his rips the sweatshirt from over his head, pushes his sweatpants down, and reaches to remove his prosthetic leg. You watch that part with more interest- next time you want to be the one to do it for him. Once he's done, he leans against the bed, one of your ankles in each of his hands as he begins planting kiss after kiss up the side of your leg. Some are small pecks, others open mouthed, all whilst looking directly at you. Your jaw is touching your heaving chest at this point.

He finally gets to the apex of your thighs, the fat dimpling under his fingers as he places kiss after kiss over the fabric of your shorts, tongue coming out to poke at your clit, nose taking deep lungfuls of you. Your gasps and whimpers spur him on as he looks up at you, "Sweet girl, I want you to take these off for me."

You're nodding and hooking your fingers beneath the waistband instantly, hips lifting from the bed in what should feel an awkward move but doesn't as Jack keeps his eyes on yours- reassuring, guiding, loving. When the shorts are eventually hooked over one ankle, he slips them off and returns to face your cunt, weeping and leaking for him. Once he reaches what he's after he envelops your clit, nose smushing against the thatch of hair above your pussy, tongue sweeping across you, "God, Jack, oh my god-". For what feels like hours he suckles, kisses, licks, fucks you with his tongue. When he comes up for air, his face is glistening, the scruff you love so much completely doused in you.

Your hands grab at his curls, guiding him to where you need him most. His own hands come up to play with your tits, rolling and pinching, sometimes just grabbing handfuls of the plush flesh as if he needs something to ground him. You see his own hips working at the bed beneath him, unable to keep still at the sensation of completely devouring your cunt.

When he feels you beginning to reach the edge of your orgasm, he brings one hand down, rolling your clit beneath the pad of his thumb, his fingers dipping shallowly into your pussy, "Come on, sweet girl, come for me. You can do it, I've got you." Your hips are uncontrollable, writhing and rolling against him, your thighs clamping down on his ears as your first orgasm collides into you. It's less of a plunge and more of a tidal wave, one big wave and lots of slightly smaller jolts that pull you just as far under.

"Yeah, that's it. You're so pretty when you come, baby."

Jack unwinds his hands from your thighs when you release him, moving to his knees to crawl over you. His mouth brushes your stomach as he moves, the skin instantly tightening making him glance up at you as he leans down and presses a firmer kiss to the skin still covered by your tank top.

"You're beautiful. Don't hide from me. I know what you look like, Spook." He tenderly thumbs at your temple as he says it, looking between your eyes. The kiss he plants on the bridge of your nose brings a prickle to your eyes. Before any tears can fall, though, Jack is lining his hips up with yours, the tip of his cock just and so pressing at your hole, "You want me baby? Hm?"

"Yes, yes- please, please. Need it, Jack-" His lips cut you off from anymore begging.

"Okay, sweet girl, you're okay. You'll get it. You'll get it all."

With a deep groan, Jack pushes in in one fell swoop, and it feels like fireworks explode behind your eyes. Like finding the missing puzzle piece. Like you've finally found your person. He's still for a moment, his face buried in your neck and hands gripping your waist, whilst he gives the both of you a second to acclimate.

"Please, Jack."

At your words, he begins a rhythm that feels like your favourite song and the beat of both your hearts, and, listening to Jack's heartbeat now they might just be the same thing.

His hips meet the backs of your thighs, the very tip of his cock reaching the very deepest parts of you. The neatly trimmed hair above his cock catches deliciously on your clit. He's so thick you can feel him everywhere.

"Oh sweetheart. you're perfect. You feel so good. So wet- oh my god-" Jack murmurs into your ear, not holding back from moaning and whimpering right against it. He blanketing you with his full body and you've never felt so secure. Your hands are in his curls once again, nails blindly scratching at the base of his skull and travelling down to his freckled shoulders. You rake lines down his back just slightly, not enough to draw blood but enough to know you were there, "Yeah, baby- like that. Feels s'good," His pistoning hips continue to meet yours filthily, echoing through the room in a delicious symphony.

"Gonna cum with me this time, sweets. Come on, you're nearly there- can feel it.", With his thumb back on your clit, he continues fucking you towards your orgasms. You can once again feel that tidal wave approaching though your ears are muffled now, as if underwater, your head fuzzy and fucked out. Your brain whites out completely as you cum, leaking onto the matress below you, "Come on, baby, now. Cum for me. Yeah- yes. Ohh my god-", Jack's whimpers mix with your own until you're creating a perfect harmony, his hips still fucking you through both of your orgasms, and, though they're slowing, they're no less intense.

Your ears are ringing by the time you come back down to Earth, Jack's heavy breathing the first thing you tune back into, "Oh, you're so perfect. My perfect girl. I love you." His tiny kisses are pressed to the skin of your cheeks, nose, lips, forehead- anywhere he can reach.

You giggle up at him, still spacey and fucked out and exhausted. But happy, so so happy, "I love you, too."

When he chuckles back at you through a kiss, his teeth pressing to your lips, you can't help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

A couple of hours later, with the storm still raging outside, you're huddled with Jack under fresh bedding and the TV playing some random true crime documentary. You're propped against your headboard with Jack nestled into your bare chest, and your nails scratching at the skin of his freckled back.

"Do you not see enough of this shit at work, Spooky?", Jack asks as an autopsy is described on screen.

"Hm, yeah. But I don't get to do all the cool forensics stuff normally, so."

He seems to take the answer, turning his head back towards the television. Leaving you to once again trace the constellations between his freckles.

You think from here you can just make out Orion and his bow.

He just nodded, entirely unbothered. “Yes. Long-term isolation can… cause erratic impulses. This serum would regulate it and smooth out emotional volatility.”

Before you could ask if “erratic impulses” was just science jargon for horny astronauts, the lab elevator doors swished open.

“Well, well, well,” Johnny drawled, leaning against the frame like he was posing for a magazine. “Who’s having libido spikes, and do I need to be worried—or excited?”

You groaned. “Johnny, you’re not allowed in here.”

He strolled in like you hadn’t spoken, grinning. “Yeah, well, Reed’s not allowed to leave the house in those socks either, but here we are.”

“This is a controlled environment, Storm.” Reed said without even looking up.

Johnny’s eyes skimmed the workbenches before landing on you. “Controlled, huh? Looks more like… tense. Are you tense?”

He was suddenly right there, leaning one forearm on your workstation so close you could smell his aftershave—something warm and a little spicy, like he’d been out in the sun.

“What’s this?” he asked, nose scrunching while nodding at the beaker. “Looks like alien mouthwash.”

“It’s experimental,” you muttered, angling your body away from him. “Delicate. Very Dangerous.”

You emphasized very, shooting him a pointed look.

“Dangerous? That’s basically my brand.” He grinned, his lips doing that stupid thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just enough to be infuriatingly adorable.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s what you like about me,” he shot back with a wink.

The comment slipped under your skin before you could shove it away. You opened your mouth to tell him off— —and then he bumped the counter with his hip.

The beaker wobbled, tilting toward the edge. Without thinking, you grabbed it. The glass was cool against your skin, but the spill over its rim was warm—unnaturally warm—and slick like silk.

For a second, nothing. Then a tingle bloomed across your palm, running up your wrist like champagne fizzing through your veins.

“No!” Reed’s voice was sharp, almost panicked. He was already striding over. “Don’t touch it with bare hands!”

“I’m fine—” you started, but when you looked down, the liquid had already sunk into your skin, leaving only the faintest shimmer before it was gone.

Reed’s mouth pressed into a line. “You’re not fine. That compound reacts to bare skin—emotional and sexual stimuli can amplify its effects.”

Johnny made a low whistle, his gaze flicking to yours, and there was a spark of something there—mischief, sure, but also curiosity. “So… what you’re saying is Y/N might suddenly get really, really into somebody?”

 “Johnny.” You warned.

“What? I’m just asking for science.” His grin widened, and you hated—hated—how charming it looked.

Reed sighed. “You need to rest in the infirmary while I run some tests.”

Johnny leaned back, hands in his pockets. “Want me to keep an eye on her? You know, in case she gets any… sudden impulses?”

You hit his arm, making him let out a small, “Ow,” but the warmth in your skin hadn’t faded—and the way his voice dipped on “sudden impulses” didn’t help.

-----------------------------------

The infirmary wasn’t exactly cozy. Stark white sheets, bright overhead lights, the steady beep of the monitor beside you. Reed had been fussing for the past twenty minutes—blood pressure, heart rate, temperature—murmuring to himself as he typed readings into his tablet.

“You’re fine,” he said, more to the numbers than to you. “Vitals are all within normal range.”

You nodded, though you didn’t feel fine. Your skin was warmer than it should be, like you were standing too close to a radiator, and there was a strange, restless fizz under your skin that you couldn’t shake. Not painful. Not even unpleasant. Just… distracting.

You were just about to convince yourself that it was all in your head when the infirmary door opened.

And in walked trouble in the shape of Johnny Storm.

He was wearing the team’s white fitted shirt with the blue “4” logo etched over the right side. It wasn’t tight, not exactly—but the way the sleeves hugged his biceps made it feel intentional, like the shirt had been made just for him. The fabric outlined the definition of his shoulders, the curve of muscle in his arms…

God, those arms. You could almost feel them hooking around your throat from behind, pulling you back into him while he pounds into your wet pus—

You stopped the thought dead in its tracks; heat rushed to your cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me?

Johnny grinned as he dragged a stool over and sat down beside the bed, leaning forward on his elbows like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. “Wow. All tucked in. Should I grab you a juice box?”

You groaned, shooting him a glare. “You’re supposed to be banned from the lab and here.”

“Banned is such a strong word,” he mused, tapping a finger to his chin as if in deep thought. “I like to think of it as… strongly discouraged.”

“And besides, Reed likes me.”

Reed, still staring at his tablet, didn’t even look up. “No, I don’t.”

Johnny ignored him, his gaze flicking over your face. “You look a little flushed. Are you sick, or just excited to see me?”

The heat in your body ratcheted up another notch. “I’m fine.”

The heart monitor disagreed. Its beeps quickened, and you saw Reed glance at it, frown, then glance at you. “That’s odd.”

You swallowed. “What’s odd?”

“Your vitals just spiked,” he murmured, tapping something on the screen. “Everything’s stable, and then…” He trailed off, clearly trying to puzzle it out.

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “What, like a random adrenaline surge?”

Reed didn’t answer right away, still squinting at the data. “Maybe. I’ll… run a few more checks.”

Johnny smirked at you, and you knew he’d clocked your slight fidget, the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “You sure you’re feeling fine?”

You tightened your grip on the blanket. “I’m sure.”

The monitor beeped a little faster.

Reed muttered something under his breath, still baffled, while Johnny sat there, warm and solid and dangerously close, looking like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up in your head.

-----------------------------------

The kitchen was warm, filled with the sound of clattering pans and the savory scent of Ben’s cooking. He stood at the stove in an apron that read Kiss the Cook, flipping something in a massive skillet while Sue chopped vegetables at the counter.

Reed sat at the table with his tablet, his brow furrowed as he quietly murmured to Sue about your “odd vitals” earlier. The word odd felt far too casual for how restless your body still felt.

You stepped inside, willing yourself to act normal, but every movement felt exaggerated, as though you were suddenly aware of how your own limbs moved, how warm your skin was, how every breath seemed a little too quick.

Sue glanced up immediately, frowning. “Are you okay, Y/N? You don’t look too great.”

“M’fine. I’m just… warm,” you said, trying for casual but landing somewhere between nonchalant and liar caught in the act.

“Sweetie, why don't you sit down before you collapse on the floor.” Sue insisted, before giving the chopped vegetables to Ben.

Ben took a quick glance at you and grunted, “Kid, you should eat somethin’. You look like you’re really about to pass out.”

He gave you a steaming bowl of corn soup, the smell warm and comforting. You wrapped your hands around the bowl, more for something to do than actual hunger.

You’d barely lifted the spoon when Johnny appeared in the archway.

Oh Johnny.

He strolled in wearing that fitted white shirt, the fabric clinging in all the right places—skimming over his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of his lean torso, and framing the sculpted definition of his chest and arms. You let your eyes wander down his blue pants that looked tighter than usual, fitting him perfectly—shaping his ass so deliciously and oh god, his big bulging—

You shut the thought down hard, cursing yourself under your breath.

Johnny stopped by the stove, leaning casually against the counter. “Whoa… someone’s been busy. Smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Busy?” Ben scoffed. “I wouldn't have been if you had shown up earlier and actually helped out.”

Johnny grinned. “Sorry, big guy. I was busy saving the city. Again. Not that anyone says ‘thank you’ anymore—”

Ben brandished his spatula like a weapon. “Careful, hotshot. Keep braggin’ and I’ll season you up and toss you in the pan.”

Johnny chuckled, and the sound curled down your spine in a way that was unfairly distracting. He reached for the pot of corn soup on the counter, glanced at Ben, and asked, “This any good?”

“T'was,” Ben said pointedly.

Johnny ignored him, dipping his index and middle fingers straight into the warm, creamy broth before lifting them to his mouth. He slid them past his lips, tongue curling over the tips.

Your brain then short-circuited. In an instant, you were imagining those same fingers curling up inside you, making you gasp for air, pressing until you opened wider for him. And that same mouth moving lower, leaving hot kisses everywhere until you—

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers across your mouth, only then realizing—oh god—you’d actually been drooling.

Johnny caught your dazed look; a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes.

His lips curved, slow and amused. “You’re drooling, sweetheart.”

You blinked, blood rushing to your ears. “I—”

The words jammed in your throat, every coherent thought slipping through your fingers. And then, without thinking—like your brain had just given up—you murmured, soft and almost breathless, “Wanna taste?”

The kitchen went dead silent.

Sue’s eyes went wide, disbelief written all over her face. “Are we interrupting something?” Her tone was equal parts exasperated and incredulous, like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Reed’s tablet chimed quietly. He glanced at the screen, brows furrowing as his expression turned perplexed, like he’d just confirmed something that made no sense. He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “I… I don’t even—”

Ben, fork halfway to his mouth, froze. His jaw worked, then he muttered, “Y’know, I should’ve just stayed out of this.”

Johnny didn’t flinch. The teasing spark in his eyes darkened into something warmer… heavier. More dangerous. His gaze locked on you like he’d just uncovered a secret you didn’t even know you were hiding.

Your soup sat untouched, but you’d never felt hungrier in your life.

-----------------------------------

Reed was firm, almost annoyingly so. “You’re staying here overnight,” he said, scanning the monitors. “Your heart rate’s still abnormally elevated.”

“I feel fine,” you protested, which was only half true. Physically? Sure. Mentally? You were a mess.

“You’re not leaving until I figure out why this is happening,” Reed replied, already logging data.

Hours passed by and the infirmary was quiet. Dim. Just the hum of machinery and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you. You were half-dozing when the door hissed open.

Johnny slipped in, hands shoved in his pockets, still wearing that same white shirt from earlier—the one that made you want to tear it off him and ravish him right then and there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning casually against the doorway. “How’s my favorite patient?”

“You came to check on me?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he smirked, stepping closer. “I was bored.”

“Uh-huh.” Your lips curved, but your pulse jumped again—the monitor betraying you with every beep.

Johnny’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to you. “Still spiking, huh? Guess I must have that effect on people.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the heat pooling in your lower regions made it hard to play it cool. “Maybe you do.”

“Maybe?” He grinned, stepping into the dim halo of your bedside lamp. “Sweetheart, you’re practically vibrating.”

Sweetheart.

That stupid nickname. The way he said it—amused, low, teasing—made your breath hitch. And suddenly, all the restraint you’d been clinging to snapped.

Your hand reached for his wrist, your grip firmer than you intended. You looked at him through your lashes. “Johnny,” you breathed. “Please.”

His breath hitched at how glossy your eyes looked, yet he let his brow quirk. “Please… what?”

“Please fuck me,” you blurted, the words breaking out in a choked rush. “I can’t—” Your voice cracked, and you hated how desperate you sounded. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t even breathe when you’re this close. I need you.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, watching you with a heat in his eyes that made your skin prickle.

Then you feel his fingers stilled on your cheek, and for a moment, you thought he’d lean in and finally close that aching distance.

But instead, his expression changed—barely, but enough for you to feel the drop in your chest. The playful glint dimmed. His hand fell away.

He straightened and murmured, almost to himself. “It’s that damn serum.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Your vitals have been through the roof all day. Reed’s running tests. Whatever got on your skin earlier is messing with your head.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh and took a small step back, like distance could cool the heat in the room. “God, Y/N… you’re begging me like—” He broke off, jaw clenching. “It’s not real. Not like this.”

The words hit harder than you expected—not because they weren’t logical, but because there was something in his voice. A disappointment. A thread of hurt. Like maybe he’d wanted to believe you… but couldn’t let himself.

You sat up straighter, heart pounding for a whole new reason. “Johnny…”

He shook his head, looking away. “I’m not gonna be the guy who takes advantage of you when you’re not thinking straight.”

That broke something in you. Not because of the restraint—but because he thought that’s all this was.

“This isn’t just the serum,” you said, your voice trembling but firm.

He looked at you then, brow furrowed like he didn’t quite trust what he’d heard.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” you continued, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting for an opening. “Before today. Before the kitchen. Before… whatever this is. You make me crazy, Johnny Storm, and it has nothing to do with some chemical reaction!”

He just stared at you, his breath slow, almost uneven.

“I’m not saying this because I’m drugged up,” you whispered, eyes stinging again. “I’m saying it because if I don’t, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

His blue eyes searched yours, like he was looking for even the tiniest hint of hesitation. When he didn’t find any, his shoulders dropped—not in defeat, but in surrender.

“Goddamn it, baby,” he muttered, and before you could ask, his hand was cupping your jaw again, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. “Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying not to want you?”

Your pulse leapt. “Not very well,” you whispered.

That earned you a huff of a laugh—short, almost pained—before his forehead rested against yours. “You’re killing me, Y/N.”

“Then stop making it hurt,” you breathed.

Something in him broke then. Maybe it was the way your voice cracked, maybe it was the stubborn shine in your eyes, but the next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours—warm, sure, and devastating. The kiss wasn’t just heat; it was months of unsaid things, of teasing you in the kitchen, of stolen glances and the way your name always lingered a beat too long on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. A thin string of saliva clung between your lips before snapping.

Johnny smirked, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “Finally got to taste it,” he said, like it was a victory he’d been waiting to claim. His voice was low and satisfied.

And when he kissed you again—deeper this time—you knew you weren’t imagining it: the serum might’ve lit the match, but Johnny Storm had been holding the gasoline all along.

-----------------------------------

You didn’t pause long. Clothes became a distant memory, slipping off, tossed carelessly to the side as if the fabric itself couldn’t keep up with the heat building between you. Johnny’s shirt rode up with his movements, revealing more of him with every shift, and your own garments disappeared in tandem, leaving only the two of you tangled together.

Johnny’s lips found yours again, this time with a sense of urgency that made your breath hitch. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, tongues dancing in a passionate rhythm. Your hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

Johnny suddenly slowed—just a fraction—his mouth softening against yours as if to check, to feel if you were still you and not just a serum-dazed shadow. His forehead rested against yours, breathing hard. “Tell me this is real, that it’s you. Not just the serum talking,” he said, and you realized there was the faintest thread of disappointment in him—like he was bracing for you to say this was just the serum talking.

You nodded your head, holding his warm hand. “It’s real,” you swore, your voice shaking. “It’s me.”

The look he gave you in that moment was devastating. A smile—not cocky, not teasing, but raw and unguarded—lit across his face before he kissed you again, slower this time, as if committing every second to memory.

Johnny's hands roamed over your body as he climbed on top of you, removing the paraphernalia attached to you. He traced the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, as if he couldn't get enough of you. His fingers then found the wetness between your legs, sliding inside you with a slow, deliberate motion.

You moaned, your hips bucking against his hand as he began to move, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that matched the pulse of your desire. You reached up and tugged on his golden hair, earning a hiss from him.

His fingers moved faster, his thumb finding the sensitive nub of your clit, rubbing it in slow, circular motions that sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You could feel the tension building inside you, your body on the edge of release. But before you could reach it, Johnny pulled his fingers away, leaving you squirming and whimpering.

“Please," You begged, clenching around air and tears prickling your eyes. "Please, Johnny. I need you."

Johnny's eyes darkened. He stood at the end of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched, your heart pounding in your chest, as he pushed his jeans down along with his boxers, revealing his thick, veiny cock. He was hard, his cock standing proud and tall, the tip glistening with pre-cum. You licked your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

"You're so big," you whispered, voice filled with awe and a hint of fear.

Johnny’s chest swelled with pride. He moved back onto the bed, his body hovering yours. He kissed you, his tongue exploring your mouth, his hands roaming over your body. Johnny hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down slowly, revealing your most intimate parts. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his breath coming in short gasps.

"You're beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse with need. "So fucking beautiful."

He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a fierce, hungry kiss. You could feel his cock pressing against your thigh, hard and insistent. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, feeling his cock slide against your wetness. He groaned, his hips moving, his cock rubbing against your clit.

He broke the kiss and smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips. "You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers dipping into your wetness. "Just for me."

Johnny then pushed into you with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes never leaving yours as he filled you completely. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sensation of fullness overwhelming.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered in your ear, his voice filled with a raw, intense emotion that made your heart race.

He began to move, his hips thrusting against yours with a slow, steady rhythm that sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your nails digging deep into his back as you met his thrusts with your own.

The room was filled with the sound of your bodies coming together, the wet slap of skin against skin, the low moans and gasps. He was sloppy, messy, and his cock sliding in and out of you was sending you into a spiral. You could feel your orgasm building, a slow burn that spread through your veins like wildfire.

He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. Johnny's fingers moved faster, his thrusts becoming more urgent. You could feel him getting closer, his cock swelling inside you.

You felt your mind go cloudy, Johnny’s name rolling off your tongue like a sinful prayer.

“Come for me, baby.” He growled, his voice a low rumble.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust, you were over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure as the orgasm washed over you. Johnny followed soon after, his body tensing as he found his own release, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

You lay there, your body spent, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to catch your breath. Johnny collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his heart pounding against your chest.

He waited for a good minute then rolled off you, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. You lay there, your body still tingling with pleasure, your heart pounding in your chest. Johnny kissed your shoulder, his lips trailing down your neck.

“You’re not walking away from this tomorrow,” he said, low and certain. “I’m not letting you pretend it meant nothing.”

All you could do was smile as you felt yourself drift into slumber.

-----------------------------------

You woke to the sound of his breathing—slow, steady, and impossibly close. Your cheek was pressed against the warm expanse of Johnny’s chest, his arm heavy around your waist like he’d anchored you there on purpose.

For a few blissful seconds, you just listened to the rhythm of his heart. Then the weight of reality crept in. You shifted slightly, fingers curling into the sheets.

“Johnny…” you murmured, voice hesitant.

He stirred, blinking at you with a lazy grin that could melt steel. “Morning, beautiful.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname.

Then your throat felt tight as you tried to find the right words. “I… I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed, grin fading into something sharper. “Sorry? For what?”

“Not for last night,” you say abruptly, cheeks heating. “Just… I don’t want you to think that I only wanted you because of the serum. I don’t want you to feel like I—”

His smirk returned, slow and wicked. “Sweetheart, you can use me anytime you want.” Then, softer, almost shy beneath the tease: “But you should know… I want more than just this. I’m not here for one night and done.”

Your chest squeezed, but this time it wasn’t panic—it was relief. “Me too,” you whispered.

His smile softened, and he pressed a kiss into your hair, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then— A loud knock rattled the door.

Ben’s voice boomed through the room: “Clothes on, you two—we ain’t paying for therapy!”

Johnny groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Unbelievable.”

You were laughing now, hiding your face in his chest. “Guess we should get up.”

“Or we could make ‘em wait,” he countered, tightening his grip like he meant it. “Ten more minutes. At least.”

You caught the sunlight glinting off his hair, and saw how his blue eyes sparkle in the glow. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

MASTERLIST

Five months. Five whole months you and Steve had been falling into each other’s beds (and any other surface or sturdy wall that would hold) on a regular basis. It started as a once a month thing. Then every two weeks. Once a week. Now—it was every few days that you were calling him up and asking him to come over. 

Steve didn’t want to read too much into it, didn’t want to get his hopes up but he couldn’t help but notice the increasing frequency of your hookups. It had made him hopeful. Ridiculously so.

Which is why tonight—he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not that this was out of the ordinary. Steve was always stealing glances toward you when you two were out with your friends. But tonight—Steve Harrington was trying to reconcile with the knowledge that he was most definitely in love with you.

It was less than ideal. Being in love with his close friend—a close friend that he was meant to only be casually hooking up with. But it happened. Somewhere between you tracing your finger over the moles dotted over his back and how you had even started calling him Stevie he had fallen for you. How your touch made his bad moods disappear. How ‘Stevie’—that single, stupid nickname had ruined his life. How it left him feeling weak and needy and imaging a future with you where he kissed you just for the sake of it and not just because you were about to fuck in the back of his BMW.

You seemed to be attuned to Steve—or perhaps the intensity of his stare had alerted you to his watchful gaz—because one second you were listening intently to Robin and the next you were looking back at him.

Eddie was talking to him—something about an upcoming gig—but Steve was not listening. Not when you were looking back at him.

You raise a brow, smiling a little as you nudge his calf with your shoe. It shouldn’t have an effect on him, but it does. Swears his heart could have burst out of his chest when you smiled at him.

“Something wrong, Harrington?” You ask him in that teasing voice that went straight to his cock. He was going to be sporting a semi in the middle of the bar soon if he didn’t sort himself out and stop acting like a hormonal teenager.

He swallowed—glanced at Eddie who just rolled his eyes. Eddie knew all too well about the little arrangement between you and Steve and if he was honest, he thought it was ridiculous. Steve was clearly unable to be okay with the casualness of it and you seemed completely unaware of Steve’s feelings towards you.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes flickering back over to you and trying not to think about your foot that was still rubbing his calf. “I’m—yeah, no—I’m great.”

You hum in a way that indicates you didn’t buy Steve’s attempt at nonchalance. Your friends barely notice—Robin rambling about some professor at Smith’s while Nancy tries hard not to smile, Jonathan telling Eddie about his latest short film and Eddie listening intently (the only person who seemed intrigued with Jonathan’s eccentric ideas). You press your foot a little harder against Steve’s calf and watch as his eyes flicker back over to you, almost in warning.

He wasn’t sure what was with you tonight but he loved and hated it at the same time.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you announce, withdrawing contact from Steve’s leg and slipping out of the booth. ”Does anyone want anyth—”

“Yeah. Another beer,” Steve interjects before you could even finish your sentence. He ignores the fact that the beer on the table in front of him was half full. That his eagerness was painfully obvious. “I’ll help.”

You watch, brow raised as Steve clambers out of the booth in his haste to follow you.

”Do you think I can’t handle a few beers, Harrington?” You ask him at the bar a few moments later, after your friends had reeled off their drink orders to you while Steve stared at the shape of your mouth and pretended to listen.

Steve rolls his eyes, ears turning a little red while he busies himself with trying to get the bartender’s attention—determinedly ignoring your little remark.

You watch as he orders the group drinks—your eyes moving from his handsome face before they inevitably travelled down his body. You did this a lot. It was hard not to when you knew what he looked like beneath all those clothes. When you knew the dark smattering of hair that covered his chest—just barely visible beneath the v of his shirt. How his hands felt gripping your hips as you fucked into you. How those arms of his wrapped around your waist as you rode his—

“(y/n)?”

”Huh?”

You had been so deep in thoughts about Steve fucking you that you didn’t realise that he was holding out your drink for you. Your eyes flicker down—seeing his fingers wrapped around the cold glass. You try not to think of those fingers pumping in and out of you, tried not to think of Steve slipping them between your lips and telling you to suck—

“Oh,” you say, a little breathless as you take the glass of beer from his hand. Your fingers brush. You swear you feel the heat building between your legs. You weren’t sure what was wrong with you this evening—maybe Steve looked extra good in that shirt or maybe you were just incredibly horny. Perhaps a dangerous mix of both.

The moment Steve turns to grab his and Jonathan’s beers—you set your glass down on the bar and lean towards him, under the guise of grabbing a straw. Your free hand however, finds its way onto Steve’s thigh. You feel his intake of breath you let out of a hum of satisfaction before squeezing. You could tell Steve was already affected. Just a simple touch from you and the blood was already starting to rush to his cock.

”What are you doing?” He mutters, looking around the bar in mild alarm before he looks back at you, jaw clenched. “Anyone could see—”

”Oh relax, Stevie,” you murmur, another firm but gentle squeeze of his thigh before withdrawing your hand with a teasing smile. “But fine. I’ll stop. Don’t want to get you all hard now, do I? Would be difficult to hide that cock of yours, wouldn’t it, baby?”

The effect on Steve was instantaneous. Steve’s ears—his entire face—burns a shade of red that you were sure you hadn’t seen before. He clenched his jaw. His knuckles turned white where he was gripping his and Jonathan’s beers bottles too tight. You knew what it was instantly—it wasn’t just your hand on his thigh. No—Steve could handle that. It turned him on, sure but it didn’t fluster him like this. What flustered him—what made his cock start to swell beneath his jeans was you calling him baby.

Steve didn’t want to admit it—would never in his wildest dreams admit it—but that sweet pet name falling from your lips made him want to drop down to his knees right in the middle of the bar.

Steve adjusts himself in his jeans subtly, shooting you a look that told you he was semi hard by just a few dirty words. “You know that there’s going to be consequences for that, right?” He tells you—trying to regain some control despite the fact that his body was betraying him.

You bite back a smile, turning back to the bar so you could slip some money into the tip jar.

”You know I can handle consequences just fine,” you tell him before you take a purposeful sip of your drink—watching as his eyes flicker down to your lips. 

It’s a battle of wills after that. You slide back into the booth like nothing has happened, sipping your drink as Steve followed—eyes on how your hips swayed and mind on how much he wanted to bend you over the table and fuck you until the wood splintered.

You teased Steve mercilessly after that—your foot back to rubbing his calf as you both rejoined the conversation as though nothing had happened. Steve tried to look unfazed but he was failing miserably. You couldn’t help but feel smug about it—you had somehow managed to reduce the former King Steve to a pile of mush with just a bit of pressure on his leg.

The taxi on the way home was close to torture for him. It was just you, Steve and Eddie in the car and a taxi driver who seemed incapable of shutting up. Your thighs were pressed right up against Steve’s and it was all he could focus on.

“You gonna ask me back to yours?” You ask him in a whisper, resting your head against his shoulder in a completely innocent gesture.

The action made Steve’s heart do funny things in his chest. He had the urge to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. He didn’t. He just swallowed before looking back at you with an attempt at any easy smile.

“You wanna come back to mine?” He asks.

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile. “Stupid question, Harrington.”

Steve Harrington no longer lived with his parents. He lived in a respectable two bedroom house with a refrigerator that hummed too loudly and a downstairs bathroom that desperately needed remodelling. He was proud of it—being able to afford a house on an assistant baseball coach (and occasional sex ed teacher) salary at twenty three years old. And so, Steve usually loved showing it off. But as soon as you were in the comfort of his new home—the last thing on Steve’s mind was showing you his brand new coffee machine.

Steve’s lips were on yours the moment that the front door had closed behind him. One hand cupping your face while the other slid into the back pocket of your jeans to pull you closer. You hum against his lips, your own arms wrapping around his neck and smiling when you feel how hard he already was through his jeans.

You pull away enough to smile at him, your fingers sliding through the hair that curled at the back of his neck. You smile a little more as you see him suppress a shudder.

“Gonna offer me a drink?” You ask him, brow raised. “Like a good host?”

Steve barks out a laugh, giving your ass a firm squeeze through your jeans before pulling you just that little bit closer. “Oh sure, I’ll get you a drink. Right after we christen the couch.”

You start to laugh but are cut off by Steve’s lips. He’s not polite and you’re grateful for it. Your body thrumming with want as he backs you into the nearby living room, licking into your mouth and groaning as your fingers tugged at his hair.

Your thighs hit the back of his couch and you let yourself fall back—looking up at Steve with wide eyes and lips wet with his spit.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, sinking to his knees in front of you—resting his hands on your jean clad thighs and squeezing. “Look at you. Fucking perfect.”

Steve often said things like this and it always went straight to your cunt. He felt you try and squeeze your thighs together but he held your legs apart.

“So fucking perfect,” he continues, leaning in to kiss over the seam of your jeans, right over where you were aching for him. The feeling made you whimper, hips bucking towards him as his fingers find the waistband of your jeans and tugging. The material snaps against your skin at the same time he presses his lips back against you.

Your back arches instinctively, fingers curling into his hair. “Stevie, please.”

Steve pulls away from you, enough to make you whine. There’s a smile spread across his face as his fingers continue to tease, now toying with the button on your jeans. “Please, what?”

“Your mouth,” you say simply, lips parting as you look down at him. “Your mouth. I need your mouth, baby.”

Whatever shred of self restraint that Steve possessed vanished the moment you gasped out the word ‘baby’. His fingers fumble with the button on your jeans, hands shaking with want when he’s successful. You lift your hips up off the couch to aid him as he tugs your jeans down your legs, throwing them carelessly across the room. He might have knocked over a lamp. He didn’t care. His lips find your left knee instantly, big brown eyes looking up at you like he couldn’t think of anywhere else that he would rather to be right now. 

“Can fucking smell how much you want me,” Steve murmurs against your skin, his fingers skimming up your inner thigh to watch how your skin twitches beneath his touch. “So fucking sweet, my girl always fucking wants me.”

You don’t correct him. Don’t tell him that you weren’t his girl because as far as you were concerned, right now—you were his girl.

“Always want you, baby,” you tell him as you move your hips up enough for him to see the damp patch in your panties. “Always.”

Steve swore he could have come on the spot from those words alone.

Fuck. He was in deep. He was in so fucking deep.

And so, he leans in—breathing in your sweet, musky scent before his mouth seals itself over the damp patch. You gasp, fingers curling into his hair as his tongue laps desperately at your clothed cunt.

It was too much and not enough at the same time—your body feeling as though lava was rushing through your veins instead of blood. And when his nose brushed against your clit through the cotton, you cried out his name.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs against you—his jeans were impossibly tight from how hard he was but all he could think about was you. You writhing beneath him—you losing your composure when he hadn’t even really touched you yet. “Say my name, pretty girl. I’m the only one who makes you feel this good, aren’t I, baby?”

Your hips buck against his mouth, nodding as your lips part, head falling back against the back of the couch. “Yes—fuck. The only one Stevie. The only one.”

It wasn’t a lie. Steve was the only guy you were hooking up with. And maybe if you weren’t so clouded by lust, you would have thought more about that. But his tongue was swirling around your swollen clit over your panties and you were going to lose it.

“Stevie, could you—”

You didn’t even have to finish your sentence—two of Steve’s fingers hooked your panties to the side and you hissed as he blew cool air against your bare, soaked pussy.

“Oh honey, she’s fucking crying for me,” Steve murmured, brown eyes on your glistening folds—lips parted in awe as he spread apart them gently, eyes flickering up when you whimper above him. “I got you. Don’t worry—I got you.”

His fingers smear your slick over your folds, watching the way your body reacts. How your chest heaves and how your lips part. How—when he finally slides two fingers inside you—you let out a moan so loud that he has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from groaning like a pathetic hormonal teenager.

Steve fucked you with his fingers slowly—thursting his fingers deep inside of you and curling them upwards so you let out another sweet moan. His other hand gripped your thigh, massaging the flesh as you lifted your hips toward his hand.

He knew what you needed. And he wasn’t going to hesitate to give it to you.

His fingers curled inside of you—watching for a moment as you whimpered his name desperately before he leaned in, lips finding your aching clit with ease. 

Your reaction was immediate—head thrown back against the back of the couch and his name falling from your lips. Steve felt like he had died and gone to heaven—tongue swirling your clit as his fingers continued to pump in and out of you, your pussy squelching with every thrust.

Steve could have lived between your legs—the way you tasted, how your fingers were tugging at his hair, how your hips were jerking up to meet his movements. How much you fucking wanted him.

Him. No one else. 

The coil in your belly tightened embarrassingly fast. It always did with Steve. You had never told him how quick he could make you come—you knew it would go to his head. But fuck—he just knew your body. He knew how to find that spot inside of you, knew just how to find your clit—

“Stevie,” you gasp out, fingers now pulling at his hair. “I’m gonna—”

Steve just hums against you—not speeding up just continuing exactly what he had been doing so well. Doing just what you needed—tongue swirling as his fingers pressed against that spongey spot inside of you.

And that was all you needed.

Your head falls back, your back arches as the coil inside you finally snaps. Steve groans against you as your walls flutter around his fingers—squeezing them like you wanted him to stay inside you forever. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he tells you, a final kiss to your clit as he looks up at you properly now, withdrawings his fingers just to lick them clean. “Most fucking beautiful girl in the world, baby. I swear it.”

You blink—still on another planet as you look down at him. At his big brown eyes, at the mix of your release and Steve’s spit dribbling down his chin obscenely, at the hair all mussed up from you pulling at it and fuck—you wanted him. In more ways than one.

“Take your shirt off,” you tell him—still sensitive but still aching with want. Your own hands shake as you grab the hem of your own top.

Layers of clothing come off quickly—your top, Steve’s shirt, his jeans, your bra and his boxers are all strewn over Steve’s living room.

“Should I get a—”

“No,” you say, eyes on his cock that was resting against his stomach as he sat down on the couch. You had seen Steve’s dick so many times that you had lost count and still, you could never get used to it. You didn’t think cocks could be beautiful until you saw Steve’s. It was long, ridiculously thick with veins that bulged along the shaft. Slightly curved in a way that was almost perfectly designed to hit all the right spots inside of you. The fat head of his dick was flushed red and already leaking with precum from having watched you come beneath his tongue barely two minutes ago.

Your eyes flicker up back to his and for a moment—there’s an understanding between you both. That you both understood that perhaps there was something more here. You were only sleeping with each other. There was nobody else.

Steve swallows and nods, hands finding your hips and squeezing before he tugs you down onto the couch to straddle him.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you, both hands cupping your face as though you were more precious than gold. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, (y/n).”

You bite back a smile, eyes shining a little at his sincerity. Your heart doing things in your chest you hadn’t felt in a long time. “And I meant what I said earlier,” you murmur, hips lifting up so you could grip his cock to guide it towards your entrance. “You’re the only one, Stevie. The only one for me.”

Steve whimpers—actually fucking whimpers—at your words. He’s not even inside you yet and he was already going to lose it. His lips find yours in a kiss that could have burned through flesh—filled with so many unsaid words. And when you finally sink down onto him, Steve whimpered again against your lips until you had taken all of him.

“You’re fucking amazing,” he tells you, hands gripping your hips so tightly that he was sure to leave bruises. “So fucking amazing.”

You hadn’t moved yet—just letting yourself feel that delicious stretch. Letting yourself just feel him, your hands moving over the skin of his shoulders before they move to cup his face. “You’re fucking amazing, Stevie.” You whisper back, leaning in to kiss him gently as you finally, finally move. You lifted your hips once before sinking back down onto him.

You feel him deep in your gut and he feels your walls fluttering around him. It was everything you both needed and more. You did it again—hips bucking up before you slam down onto him. Starting a rhythm that was slow but somehow more erotic and intimate than any sex that you had before.

You pull away from the kiss just to look at his face—just to watch him as his lips part and eyelids flutter.

You keep rolling your hips, the coil tightening inside you once again as his cock nuzzles your cervix over and over again. The feeling grew slowly—intensely. More intense than the last. And when you tip over the edge, Steve’s there to guide your hips, letting you ride it out as your cunt squeezed his cock mercilessly through your orgasm.

“Baby, I’m gonna—”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, head titled forward to rest against his and hands gripping his shoulders. “Come inside me, Stevie. Please.”

“Are you sure—”

“I love you, Stevie,” you tell him, eyes locked onto his as your fingernails gripped onto his shoulders. “I love you and I’m sure.”

Steve blinks up at you dumbly, brown eyes wide and face flushing and then—

“You—oh—fuck—shit—”

He buries his head into your shoulder as his hips jerk against yours. You feel his warm release coating your walls and you bite back a smile at that desperate whine that leaves his lips again.

It takes Steve two, three, maybe four seconds to adjust. To realise what you had just said was not a figment of his imagination. That he hadn’t imagined you declaring your love for him mid-fuck.

“Do you really—”

“Love you?” You ask, your fingers moving back through his hair before you gently tilt his head back to look up at you. “Yeah. I really do.”

Steve breathes out, his own hands still holding your hips like he never wanted you to leave. “I love you too. So much,” he tells you. “So fucking much, (y/n). So much I—”

You silence him with a kiss—one that was soft, sweet—everything you and Steve had never had the chance to be. A kiss that felt like a promise for a future that you two could carve out together.

You pull away enough to say, “Please stop talking and fuck me again, Harrington.”

Steve laughs, leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of your mouth.

“Only if I can take you out for real tomorrow night,” he says.

You pretend to think about it, humming as your fingers massage his shoulders.

“You’ve got yourself a date, Harrington.”

“Morning, doll,” Bucky murmured, his voice rich and warm like the coffee he carried. The sharp edges of his morning melted away the second he saw you standing there in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a little mussed, hands tucked in your sleeves. His whole face softened, like the violence of a few minutes ago was just smoke he could brush off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling shyly as he walked over and pressed a kiss to your temple. He smelled like cedar and the faint bite of cologne, a mix you’d long since decided meant home.

“Made your tea,” he said, nodding toward the counter. Sure enough, the mug was there, steeping just the way you liked. “Sit. Eat something for me, yeah?”

You obeyed, curling into the chair as he slid a plate with toast and strawberries your way. He perched on the edge of the table, still in his black dress shirt and vest from early meetings, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleam of his metal arm in the morning light.

“You’re free today, right?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life two minutes ago.

You nodded, chewing on a strawberry.

“Good. I want you to go out, doll. Shopping. Whatever you want. No limit.” He leaned in to kiss the top of your head, and you could hear the indulgent smile in his voice. “You’ve been holed up here too much.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. “Bucky, I don’t need anything—”

“Not what I asked,” he interrupted gently, but with the kind of authority that made your cheeks warm. “Humor me. Take Natasha with you. Let her carry the bags.”

You blinked. “Bags?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Plural. Go spoil yourself for me, sweetheart.”

---

Natasha Romanoff was the perfect bodyguard. Or maybe the scariest one. She leaned against the mall’s marble column in black jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses hiding her sharp eyes. Everyone who glanced her way looked twice, then decided they had somewhere else to be.

Meanwhile, you hesitated at the entrance of yet another gleaming luxury store, feeling like a kid sneaking somewhere you didn’t belong. The displays were immaculate—handbags behind glass, shoes lined like art pieces.

“You can go in,” Natasha said dryly behind you, arms folded. “You’re the girlfriend of James Barnes. They’ll probably carry you to the register if you ask.”

“That’s… worse,” you muttered under your breath, earning the faintest twitch of a smirk from her.

You wandered inside anyway, letting the sales associates swarm. They started listing the merits of different bags and scarves, but your heart wasn’t in it. The idea of spending thousands of Bucky’s money on a purse that would just sit in your closet made your stomach twist.

After an hour of store-hopping, you had… nothing.

Natasha raised an eyebrow as you walked past a fountain, hands still empty. “You’re going to break his heart, you know.”

“I’m looking!” you insisted, cheeks warm. “I just… don’t need any of this.”

Then, as if fate had a sense of humor, you spotted it.

A wall of squishmallows.

You froze in the doorway of the toy store, heart stuttering at the sight of the soft pastel sea of plush animals. There, on the middle shelf, was the one you’d been eyeing for weeks: a fat little lavender bunny with floppy ears and a permanent sleepy smile.

You drifted closer, fingers brushing the soft fabric like it was spun sugar. Price tag: $20.

Behind you, Natasha sighed, long-suffering. “This is what gets her attention. Not the diamond bracelet. A… blob.”

“It’s not a blob,” you whispered defensively, hugging the smaller version in your arms first. It was only $9.99, which felt safer somehow, but after a long stretch of indecision—cuddling it, putting it back, and staring at the bigger one—you finally picked up the larger bunny.

It was so soft.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, taking it to the register. Natasha trailed after you, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this was her life now.

Hours later, back in the car, your entire “haul” sat on your lap: one squishmallow. The driver’s rearview mirror reflected the barest twitch of his mouth, like he knew exactly how Bucky would react.

You clutched the plush closer and sank into the leather seat, shyly happy in a way that didn’t need anything more than this $20 marshmallow bunny.

---

Bucky’s evening had been a blur of phone calls and quiet threats. He’d wrapped up a meeting in his office, loosening his tie as he sank into the leather chair and finally glanced at the credit card notifications on his phone.

He expected a list of designer boutiques, a jeweler, maybe that cozy little bookstore he knew you loved. He’d practically begged you to go wild, and he wanted to see the proof in numbers.

Instead, there was just… one charge. $20.48 – Playtime Toys.

Bucky blinked. He stared at it like it might rearrange itself into something sensible. “Twenty… dollars?” he muttered under his breath, scrolling to make sure the statement wasn’t glitching. That was it. The entire day out, with Natasha as your guard, and you’d spent less than a single steak at his favorite restaurant.

He called his driver first. “Where’d she go today?” Bucky’s voice was calm but suspicious.

The driver chuckled quietly. “Couple clothing stores. Looked around. Bookstore for a while. Stationery shop too. She didn’t buy anything. Just… looked.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the toy store?”

“She found a stuffed animal, boss. Held the small one for a long time. Put it back. Eventually bought the bigger one. That was it.”

Bucky sighed and ended the call. He sat there for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He could practically picture you, wandering the mall like a shy little ghost, falling in love with a plush toy instead of anything remotely expensive.

He wanted to be exasperated. But mostly? His chest ached with something warm and stupidly fond.

---

The penthouse was quiet when he returned, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the living room. His steps softened instinctively when he spotted you curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

You were on your side, hair falling over your face, the TV murmuring some late-afternoon sitcom rerun. And nestled against your chest, clutched in both arms like a lifeline, was a plump lavender bunny squishmallow.

Bucky froze in the doorway, the sight hitting him like a punch. God, he was ruined for this. His cold, lethal world fell away entirely as he walked closer. You’d tucked your cheek against the plush, and he noticed—when he leaned down—that faint, familiar scent. His cologne.

He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, crouching beside the couch. “You sprayed my cologne on a marshmallow bunny, doll?” he murmured, brushing a knuckle over your soft hair.

You mumbled something sleepy, half-lost in a dream, nuzzling the squishmallow closer.

Bucky sat on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and just… watched you for a moment. The only person in his entire world who could fall asleep clutching a stuffed animal while he had men stationed with rifles on the roof.

He finally, gently, tugged the bunny from your arms. You stirred with a tiny whine, lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, bleary and soft. “Bucky?” Your voice was a whisper.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch and pulling you into his lap with one smooth motion. You melted against him instantly, head on his shoulder, the residual warmth of sleep making you pliant. He pressed a kiss to your hair. “We need to talk about your… shopping.”

You perked up faintly, confusion knitting your brows. “Shopping?”

He held the squishmallow up like evidence. “This. This is all you bought?”

Warmth flooded your cheeks. “I… I didn’t really see anything I needed…”

“Doll,” he said, voice low and thick with amusement and a hint of frustration, “I told you to spoil yourself. I gave you a driver, Natasha, my card… and you spent twenty bucks at a toy store?”

You squirmed in his lap, shy and defensive. “I like it. And… it was enough.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then let out a slow breath and shook his head, lips twitching. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“Sorry…” you whispered, eyes dropping.

“No, no, don’t you dare apologize.” His voice softened instantly, the steel melting into warm honey as he cupped your cheek. “I just… I want you to have things, doll. Pretty things. Comfortable things. Everything.”

“I don’t need everything,” you murmured, leaning into his palm.

He kissed your temple, his metal hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. “Then I’ll just have to keep trying until you take at least something from me that costs more than a marshmallow.”

You giggled quietly, burying your face in his neck. “It’s a bunny.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, hugging you tighter, the plush squished between your bodies. “My terrifying reputation out there, and at home my girl smells like sugar and sleeps with a bunny.” His thumb stroked along your jaw, and he whispered, “you’re mine, doll. And I’m gonna spoil you whether you like it or not. Starting tomorrow. No more twenty-dollar limits.”

“Bucky…” You whined softly, but your arms tightened around him anyway, secretly loving every second of his indulgent attention.

He chuckled low in his chest, already plotting which stores he’d personally escort you to next—because clearly, leaving you to your own devices had resulted in a lavender squishmallow and absolutely nothing else.

---

You woke to warmth. It was the slow kind—like sunlight through gauze, or fingers tracing your hip beneath the covers. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and your cheek was pressed into Bucky’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear.

His arm was slung low around your waist, all protective weight and heat, and you barely had time to stretch before his hand slid up to your ribs. “Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

You made a soft noise in reply, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck. He smelled like expensive soap and the clean spice of his cologne—the same one you’d sprayed, just a little, onto the squishmallow now sitting like a sentry on the couch across the room.

His chest rumbled under your cheek. “You smell like that damn bunny again.”

You smiled sleepily, too warm and soft to be embarrassed.

“You gonna let me do this properly today?” he asked after a moment. His voice was lighter now, teasing, but there was a thread of something real beneath it. “Let me spoil you?”

Your hand found his shirt—half unbuttoned, likely from some midnight phone call you’d slept through—and you nodded against him. “M’kay,” you mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and it lingered. “Good girl.”

---

You’d never shopped with Bucky before. Not like this. Sure, you’d trailed beside him during quick errands or sat with him while he bought suits—but this was different. This time, you were the purpose. The focus.

You’d barely made it out of the car before the first store employee spotted him.

The shift was immediate.

People noticed him the moment he entered any space. Not because he made noise—he didn’t. Bucky moved with the coiled calm of someone who knew the world would part for him whether he asked it to or not. His arm slid around your waist as you stepped into the first shop, and just like that, every sales associate in the building looked like they were preparing for royalty and war all at once.

You leaned into his side instinctively. “I think they know who you are,” you whispered as a woman in a sharp black suit all but sprinted to the counter to alert someone else.

Bucky smirked. “That’s the idea.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sweetheart.” He stopped you with a gentle squeeze around your waist. “We are not doing the bunny stunt again.”

You flushed immediately. “It wasn’t a stunt—”

“Mm.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss behind your ear. “Start picking things. Or I’ll start picking for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already steering you toward the displays, one hand low on your back.

The boutique was quiet and spotless, everything sleek and expensive. You gravitated toward a soft knit sweater first—cream-colored, slightly oversized.

Bucky watched you run your fingers along the hem, then plucked it off the hanger himself and handed it to an assistant. “This one. In three colors.”

You blinked. “Three—”

“Cream, navy, and that soft pink. You’ll wear that one at home.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter. He was already moving on.

By the third store, you had a growing collection of bags hanging from his metal arm—cozy sweaters, soft linen dresses, a pair of boots you’d admired silently until he caught the look in your eye and made the purchase without blinking.

You tried to be subtle about what you liked.

He noticed everything anyway.

When you paused too long at a shelf of delicate hair clips, he picked out two and handed them to the attendant with a nod. When your fingers drifted toward a candle with a vanilla-peach scent, it was quietly added to the growing pile.

And when you looked guilty every time he paid?

He leaned in close, speaking low so only you could hear. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip. “All of this? It’s for you. Always has been.”

You swallowed hard and didn’t trust yourself to reply.

---

By noon, you had four shopping bags of your own and six more hanging from Bucky’s arms, none of which he’d let you carry. You insisted on at least holding one—and he handed you the smallest, lightest one with a smirk.

“I’m gonna have to build you a closet just for gifts,” he muttered as the two of you walked through the marble corridor of the high-end mall.

“I don’t need a closet.”

“You need shelves. A dressing room. Hell, a second apartment.”

You gave him a look. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you spent twenty dollars on a plush rabbit like I haven’t buried people for more expensive things.” He turned to face you, stepping into your path and backing you up gently against a column. His arms caged you in without touching, just the looming warmth of his body in that damn black jacket he looked so good in.

You blinked up at him, flustered by the attention—and the grin playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, softer now. “Let me give you everything. You don’t have to be shy with me. Ever.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the bag you were holding. “I’m just… not used to all of this.”

“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his forehead brushing yours. “But get used to it. Because I’m never gonna stop.”

---

By the time you returned to the penthouse, you were exhausted, glowing, and more than a little overwhelmed.

Bucky insisted you go lie down while he had the packages brought in and sorted.

When you finally walked into the bedroom, the bags were neatly arranged in a corner—and your squishmallow was still sitting upright on the couch by the window, as if it had stood guard the entire time.

You smiled at it, then dropped into bed.

Moments later, the mattress dipped beside you, and Bucky pulled you into his chest with a content sigh. “You did good today, doll.”

“I bought stuff.”

“You let me buy stuff for you,” he corrected, arms curling tighter around your waist. “Progress.”

You tucked your face into his neck, voice muffled. “You still mad I only bought a bunny?”

“Still can’t believe it,” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll allow it.”

Bucky was always out, occupied by business, meetings, and who knows what else. You remember one night when he stumbled in bloodied and bruised, heading straight for the fridge to grab a water bottle as if he weren’t half dead.

“What’s wrong, dear?” you had stammered, heart racing. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?”

He didn’t even look at you, merely shrugging as he took a long drink. “I’m fine. And it’s not my blood. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He said it constantly, yet the nickname felt more like an insult than an endearment. He and his associates had meticulously arranged this marriage—plucking an innocent, upstanding citizen like you to give him the facade of a ‘regular’ man with a ‘regular’ wife.

And refusal wasn’t an option.

You don’t say no to the King of Brooklyn unless you have a death wish.

Despite the loveless nature of the arrangement, Bucky was kind enough to spoil you with riches you never asked for. He flooded the house with custom made dresses, jewelry, and shoes. He gave you security. He gave you silence.

You were less of a wife and more of an expensive accessory, polished and kept on a shelf.

Lately, however, the silence has been heavier and longer.

Bucky has been more on edge than usual, returning home in the gray hours of the morning looking utterly spent. On the rare occasions he actually climbed into bed, he tossed and turned, mumbling painfully in his sleep.

Despite everything, he was a decent husband by… mob standards, and your nature was too kind to remain indifferent to his exhaustion. You wanted to do something, anything, to help him ease that tension, even just a little bit.

So, for one night, you decided to do something you hadn’t done since he slipped that heavy diamond onto your finger. You were going to cook. No five star catering this time, no maids, no pretense. Just a homemade dinner, crafted by your own hands, in the hopes of showing him that someone in this cold and lonely house actually cared for him.

You spent the entire afternoon grocery shopping alone—no security, no chaperones, and no servants to carry the bags. You bought everything necessary for a steak and pasta dinner, including a bottle of wine. You weren’t exactly a sommelier, but you picked the most expensive bottle on the shelf, figuring that high price was a safe bet for quality.

You were already a bit disheveled, trying to organize the chaos of ingredients across the large marble counters, when you heard Bucky jogging down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear. He gave you the usual side glance—a quick acknowledgment before returning his focus to his business.

But the sight of the groceries sprawled messily across his usually sterile, pristine kitchen made him do a double take.

Bucky pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, his brow furrowed as he nodded toward the counter. “What’s all this?”

You nearly bumped your head against the cabinet as you looked down at him from the stepping stool— a necessity because he insisted on oversized cabinetry around the house despite never actually using it.

“Bucky!” you beamed, carefully stepping down. You were slightly out of breath, but you offered him a bright, friendly smile. “Good. You haven’t left yet.”

He blinked at you, not used to your sudden energy. “I’m sorry?”

“I want you to come home early tonight,” you repeated firmly. “I have something special planned for us. I want you back here no later than eight.”

Bucky just stood there, the phone still in his hand, looking a bit confused.

You narrowed your eyes, adding more bite to your tone.

“Bucky,” you said firmly. “As your wife, I am telling you to be home by eight.”

His shoulders eased just a little once your words finally registered in his already busy brain of his. You had never been this… firm with him, so you had no idea how he was going to react, or even comply.

To your surprise, he gave you a short and casual nod.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Sure. eight o’clock.”

Now, it was your turn to blink. You had never demanded anything of him before, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to be so… compliant. Almost submissive.

The tension left your body in a long, shaky exhale. “Okay, great. Well—”

Before you could finish, he held up a finger to silence you, snapping the phone back to his ear.

“Sam?” Bucky spoke into the receiver, already moving towards the door to snag his coat. “Yeah, you heard me. Settle the deal with Stark. I’m on my way.”

You watched as the doorman pulled the heavy front door open for him, and just like that, he was gone.

It had been a brief interaction, but he had actually agreed. You’d take the win. The plan had gone so smoothly that it felt almost too good to be true.

And, as you were about to find out, it was.

You spent the rest of the day elbows deep in the kitchen, juggling half a dozen video tutorials on how to properly sear a steak and season pasta water. At one point, you nearly overboiled the noodles into a mushy disaster, and the temptation to call the private chef and beg him to take over was almost overwhelming.

Since marrying Bucky, you hadn’t been required to lift a finger. But tonight, you were determined.

You wanted all of this to be a gift from you to him.

By half past seven, the heavy lifting was done. Bucky was due in thirty minutes. With the food warming and the table glowing under soft candlelight, all that remained was for you to go upstairs and make yourself presentable. You sent him a quick text.

Remember: be home at eight!

… He didn’t respond, but you didn’t let that dampen your spirits. He was a busy man, but he was also a man of his word. If the mob boss of Brooklyn told you he’d be home by eight, you simply had to trust him.

It was 8:05.

You were already seated at the table, your hands folded primly in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. Every few seconds, your head turned towards the front door, straining for the sound of a key in the lock or a car in the driveway.

Nothing.

No Bucky.

By 8:30, the house had grown suffocatingly quiet. No call. No text. Not even a ‘running late!’ notice from one of his men.

You remained in your seat, hands still resting in your lap until your fingers began to go numb. You tried to wage a war of logic against the rising lump in your throat.

It’s fine, you told yourself. He was likely stuck in traffic or tied up in an emergency meeting. After overhearing that intense phone call with Sam earlier, you knew the stakes were high. It was unrealistic, or maybe even naive, to expect the mob boss of Brooklyn to keep a strict dinner date as if he were the average man.

He was busy. He was important. That was all.

By 10:15, the pasta had become a cold, congealed mess, and the steak had lost its luster, the fat hardening into a dull white film. Still, you didn’t eat. You didn’t even move, except to reach for your phone.

You called him twice, and both times the line cut straight to voicemail.

By 11:00, the mental battle was lost.

You had spent the entire day preparing for this. He had looked you in the eye and given you his word, yet here you sat—unimportant and completely invisible to the man who had sworn his life to you when you exchanged vows. A single tear tracked through your makeup, and when you finally lost the strength to hold your head up high, a choked sob escaped your lips.

You felt utterly foolish—sitting in a thousand-dollar dress in an empty mansion, crying over a plate of cold noodles that probably tasted mediocre at best.

Deep down, a part of you knew you should have expected this. It had felt too good to be true from the start. But Bucky was a man defined by his word—a man who never missed a meeting, never abandoned a colleague, and never failed a mission.

He was always there for everyone else. Yet, he couldn’t return the favor to the woman he married? Not even for a single night?

Your eyes were puffy, your throat dry from crying, and your spirit completely spent. You reached out to blow out the last flickering candle, the smoke of burnt wax filling the air as you prepared to retreat once more to your cold and empty bed.

As you pushed back your chair, the heavy front doors swung open. You froze, the sound you had been praying for all night had finally arrived—five hours too late and all in the ways you never expected.

Bucky didn’t walk in with his head held high nor with straight shoulders like he usually did. He stumbled, bumping into the doorframe as he entered.

As a gush of the outside night air rushed into the foyer, it carried the suffocating aroma of expensive scotch and stale smoke.

He fumbled with his keys, tossing them onto the marble console table with a loud clatter that echoed in the foyer, making you flinch. His tie was yanked loose, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair—usually slicked back or kept—was a chaotic mess.

He let out a low, breathy groan, leaning his forehead against the cool wall for a moment of stability. You frowned, taking a single, cautious step closer to him.

“Bucky?”

Slowly, his head rolled toward you. His glassy, bloodshot eyes drifted over you, taking in your elegant dress before drifting past you and to the dining table—a graveyard of cold, congealed plates and full, expensive wine bottles

“Oh,” he let out a shaky breath, slurring on his words. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You furrowed your brows, frown deepening as you took in his drunken state. “Where have you been?”

Bucky forced himself to stand up straight, or at least a messy approximation of it, as he ran a lazy hand through his ruffled hair. He blinked repeatedly, his gaze blurry as he struggled to lock his focus on you.

“Was out… with t’boys…” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “The usual.”

You crossed your arms, the silk of your sleeves crinkling against your skin. You had been patient all night—torturing yourself with worry and excuses while he was out throwing back drinks.

Now that he was finally standing in front of you, smelling of a bar and completely inebriated, you felt the last already thin thread of your patience snap.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, your face getting hot.

You took a step toward him, your stiletto clicking against the floor.

“I’ve been waiting for you all night! And you were out there slinging back shots? I told you to be home by eight! And now it’s…” you glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall behind him, “It’s nearly midnight!”

Bucky blinked, the same way he had earlier that morning when you first asked for his time. He looked at you with a dull, dumbfounded confusion. He had never heard you swear, let alone seen you stand your ground like this.

Then, his face suddenly hardened, the drunken haze replaced by a cold, familiar look. The look he’d give to disobeying subordinates.

He took a swaying step closer, forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours, his presence suddenly filling the room in a way that felt threatening and suffocating.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury and exhaustion. “I spent the entire day in this kitchen. I went out and bought everything myself. I followed tutorials, I watched the stove for hours—I… I tried to cook for you for the first time since we met because I thought it might actually mean something to you! I waited and I waited. I texted you. I called you. And I got nothing!”

You choked back a sob, your chest aching.

“I am tired, Bucky… I am so incredibly tired of being invisible in my own home!”

Bucky scoffed, a cold, dismissive sound that only made the knife inside your heart twist even more. He took another step closer, the smell of scotch making your nose scrunch up in disdain.

“What do you think this is?” he growled. His words were slurred, yet the edge in his voice was undeniable. “Do you think I married you for some domestic fantasy?”

He stepped into your personal space until his polished dress shoes were toe-to-toe with your heels. He loomed over you, using his height to make you feel small, his shadow swallowing yours.

“For intimate, candlelit dinners and homemade pasta? I don’t need you to cook for me. We have staff for that. If you’re so exhausted, then go to bed. I’ll have the servants come in and clean up this mess in the morning.”

Your brow unfurled, your expression softening from rage into pure, raw pain.

You were hurt.

“… This mess?”

You looked at the table—the meal you had labored over, the domestic evening you were trying to build—and all he saw was a mess to be cleared away. The tears started again, hot and stinging, blurring your vision as you looked at the stranger who wore a wedding band that matched your own.

You couldn’t even look him in the eye anymore. You looked down at your expensive shoes, to your dress, which you now fiddled with as a sad coping mechanism for any semblance of comfort.

“Then what did you marry me for, Bucky?” you whispered.

Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. The cold steel in his gaze flickered, extinguished by a hollow look. He just stood there, swaying slightly, staring at you as if he had forgotten the answer himself—if an answer even existed.

You didn’t wait for him to find it.

You turned and retreated up the stairs, the sharp click of your heels against the marble being the only sound left in the house.

Behind you, Bucky was left standing alone in the foyer, the silence of the house feeling even emptier than it had before he walked through the door.

Later that night, Bucky sat alone in the dark of the living room. The expensive scotch and whiskey were finally losing their grip on him, leaving a dull, throbbing ache and a bitter clarity in their wake.

For two hours, he stared at the dying embers of the fireplace, the oppressive silence of the mansion closing in on him like a suffocating cage.

With a low, ragged groan, he dropped his face into his palms. “Fuck.”

He had killed, tortured, and ruined countless lives without a single ounce of remorse. He was a man built for violence, leading a world that didn't allow for mercy. Yet, he felt a visceral revulsion towards himself for hurting you—his own wife. The one person who asked for nothing but his presence.

This mess.

The memory of his own words made him physically shiver in disgust.

God, he thought, realizing his own cruelty. I’m a monster.

Finally, he forced himself to stand, his body feeling heavy and exhausted. He climbed the stairs, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he pushed the master bedroom door just barely to allow himself to slip inside.

The room was bathed in the pale, silver glow of the moon. You were asleep, but your breathing was hitched and uneven. Even in the dim light, he could see your puffy eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks—the map of a night spent in misery… because of him.

He slid into bed beside you, the mattress creaking slightly. He didn’t deserve to be near you, he knew that—yet he couldn’t resist.

He shifted closer, hesitantly curling his body around yours until your back was flush against his chest. When you didn’t stir, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. It was floral and soft, a contrast to the stench of smoke and stale alcohol clinging to his own skin.

Bucky remained there, holding you with a grip that was both protective and desperately selfish.

You had never raised your voice before. You had never sounded so broken, so small. He hated it. He was a terrible husband, an even worse partner, and though he couldn’t yet say with certainty that he loved you, he knew he cared.

He knew that if anything ever happened to you, he would lose his mind. He’d set the entire city on fire just to see your vengeance through.

He would burn the world for you.. yet he couldn’t give you a single evening of his time.

He knew he had to make it up to you, but his only language was money and power. He knew how to swipe a card and drown you in riches, but he realized now that diamonds couldn’t fix the look of defeat he’d seen in your eyes.

He didn’t know where to start, but he knew one thing for certain; he had to find a way to make you smile again.

By the time the sun was fully up, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee began to drift toward the master bedroom.

When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bed beside you was cold.

You weren’t surprised. The hollow space where Bucky should have been was a familiar sight, and you let out a long, weary sigh as you sat up. The house was quiet as always, except for the sound of sizzlling of bacon and the rich, roasted aroma of coffee drifting up the stairs.

The maids were a bit earlier than usual. They usually didn’t make breakfast until eight, yet you couldn’t complain. You hadn’t ate a single thing last night and you were starving.

You didn’t bother with makeup or styling your hair; there was no one to impress in an empty house filled with servants who kept to themselves. You simply threw on a silk robe, tied it loosely around your waist, and began the slow descent downstairs.

As you turned the corner into the dining room, you stopped short, your breath hitching in your throat at what you saw.

The servants were nowhere to be found. Instead, it was Bucky.

He was still wearing his dress slacks from the night before, though his white shirt was rumpled and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was hunched over the table, meticulously and… if a bit awkwardly, arranging a plate of eggs and bacon. He looked completely out of place, a broody man surrounded by orange juice and colorful fruits.

You stood by the entrance, motionless, watching a man who commanded the streets of Brooklyn struggle against a floral centerpiece. The bouquet hadn’t been there yesterday; the colors were too vibrant, the scent too fresh—he must have gone out at dawn to get them himself.

His large, calloused hands hovered tentatively over the arrangement. He nudged the vase an inch to the left, stepped back to inspect it with a cold, narrowed gaze, then stepped forward to nudge it back.

You had to bite back a smile.

There was one particular pink petal that refused to cooperate. Every time Bucky tucked it into the arrangement, it would wait exactly three seconds before drooping back down, mocking his need for order.

“Dammit,” he mumbled to himself, thinking he was alone.

He tried again, his jaw clenched and eyes focused. The petal drooped. He tried a third time, holding his breath as he took a cautious step back, willing it to stay. “Come on,” he whispered. “Just stay.”

When the petal slumped for the fourth time, Bucky’s shoulders tensed, his hands curling into frustrated fists at his sides. He looked like a man on the verge of a tantrum, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassed red. It was ridiculous. Here was a man used to getting everything he wanted, and he was being bested by a single flower.

An involuntary giggle bubbled up in your throat and escaped your lips.

He jumped at the sound, looking like a child caught red handed. He immediately unclenched his fists, his jaw dropping slightly as he shifted his stance, trying his best to look casual.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting away. He was deliberately avoiding staring at your messy hair—the strands he wanted to tangle his fingers in— or the way your silk robe hung against your body in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate.

“I—uh,” he stammered, catching himself in a rare moment of sheer embarrassment. He cleared his throat, regaining a fragment of his dignity.

“These flowers—they’re no good. The florist on 37th Street is no good. I’ll have someone handle it.”

Still giggling, you took a step closer, your bare feet quiet against the cold marble. You hugged yourself, pulling your robe a little tighter as you gestured toward the spread.

“Noted,” you said softly, your voice still a little raspy from sleep. “And... what’s all this? Breakfast you ordered from that place in Greenwich?”

As you drew nearer, however, the details of the food began to catch your eye. You saw the stack of pancakes—some a bit too pale, others charred a deep, smoky black around the edges. You noticed the fruit, which hadn’t been artfully sliced by a chef, but hacked into lopsided and uneven chunks.

There was a plate with sunny-side-up eggs and bacon meticulously arranged into a smiley face.

You tried to ignore how one of the yolks had burst, leaking yellow across the plate so that it looked more like a crying happy face, but the effort was undeniable.

Bucky followed your gaze to the plates, his ears turning a darker shade of crimson.

“No. Uh,” he muttered, waving his hand to the table dismissively as if there was nothing to show. He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air. “I made it. All of it.”

You frowned, looking around the suspiciously quiet room. “The staff wasn’t around to help?”

He looked up then, his blue eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that was almost too painful to witness.

“The staff? I sent them home for the morning,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want anyone else here. Just us.”

You looked back down at the table, avoiding his eyes as you mentally pieced everything together. “Bucky, if this is about last night—”

“It is,” he interrupted, his voice rough and urgent. He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out hesitantly before settling awkwardly on your shoulders. “It’s about… everything. The way I’ve been acting. The things I said to you. Me forgetting our dinner...”

“It’s nothing,” you whispered, still avoiding his gaze.

You looked down at your silk robe, fidgeting with the fabric just as you had with your dress the night before.

“It was unfair of me to expect you to always be available—”

“No,” he cut you off, his grip firming.

He turned your body so you were forced to face him. He took a deep breath, searching for words he didn’t even know how to use.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally. “I was a prick. I should’ve made time for you. I should have kept the promise I made. I shouldn’t have dismissed you like that.”

He sighed, his hands sliding up to cup your jaw. His palms were warm and calloused, tilting your head up so you had to look at him, despite how much your eyes still stung every time you faced him.

“I’m sorry for being a terrible husband, and I’m sorry for not being there for the dinner you worked so hard on.” His voice was shaky, his shoulders tense as if he were fighting back his own emotions. “Seeing you cry like that... I never want to see it again. I hated it. I hated that I was the reason for those tears.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. “I’m going to be better to you—for you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Bucky let out a short, nervous breath, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheekbones. “I didn’t even know where to start,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “But I figured a homemade meal might help... right? Even if it’s a disaster.”

You looked at the charred pancakes, the messily cut fruit, and the drooping yolk of the egg.

“It looks good, Bucky.” You smiled

He snorted, a lopsided, boyish grin breaking through his usual stoic features.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t know how to cook, so lower your expectations significantly.”

You laughed, the sound light and clear. It was a sound that made Bucky’s heart jump in his chest—a sign of life in a house that had been silent for too long.

“It’s okay,” you admitted, “I don’t really know how to cook either.”

Bucky chuckled softly in return, the two of you standing in the quiet of the morning as the laughter eventually died away. You expected him to pull away and start the meal, but he remained close.

He leaned in, and you watched as his gaze dropped to your lips. The air grew thick, and you subconsciously held your breath. It looked like he was actually going to kiss you—like, really kiss you.

You could almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips against yours, a gesture that you’ve always dreamed of since the day you two got married. The only time he had ever kissed you was during the wedding, but that wasn’t a real one.

If he kissed you right here, right now—this would be real.

But at the last second, he caught himself.

He pulled back just an inch, exhaling the breath he had been holding himself. He stepped over to the table and pulled out your chair, bowing his head slightly as he caught your gaze with a sheepish, strained smile.

“Let’s have a real breakfast, sweetheart,” he said. “As husband and wife.”

The title felt different this time. Sweetheart finally felt soft, intimate, and sincere.

It sounded like an actual endearment a loving husband would give his wife rather than an insult, his way of trying to show you the man he was trying to become.

You let out a shaky breath, mentally collecting yourself and offering him a soft smile of your own as you sat down.

“Okay.”

thank you so much for this request! it's not often that i write them, but i enjoyed writing this one. i hope you like it!

Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.

You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.

"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.

He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.

You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.

Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."

"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.

Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.

Valentine's Day.

You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.

It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.

He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.

Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.

His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.

There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.

"What?" he asks softly.

The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.

You blink. "What, what?"

"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.

Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."

He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.

Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."

That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."

"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.

"Still offended."

Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."

You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.

Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.

Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.

"You comin'?" he asks.

You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.

The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.

Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.

"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.

He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."

"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."

"I did not complain."

"You narrated your suffering?"

"That's different."

You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.

Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room. 

A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.

"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."

"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.

A few groans answer him. 

"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."

"Define product," you say.

"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."

Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.

"Buyer?" Steve asks.

"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."

"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.

"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."

Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.

"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."

"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.

"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."

Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."

Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."

You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.

Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."

Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."

"No promises."

The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.

"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."

Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.

The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.

Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.

"You good?" he asks.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.

"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"

"Always."

It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.

A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.

"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."

His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.

The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station. 

Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.

Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.

He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."

"Doin' what?"

"Starin' at me."

"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."

"It's a knife."

"It's your knife."

His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.

"Hold still," you say.

He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.

"All set," you murmur.

Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.

"Good," he says quietly.

For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.

Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.

The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.

Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.

From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."

"I mean it every year."

"It's never true, though."

He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."

She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."

Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.

"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.

A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.

The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.

You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.

"Thinkin'," he answers.

"Uh oh."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."

The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."

Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."

Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.

The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.

Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.

"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."

"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.

Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."

"You should try that more often." You say.

Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.

You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?

He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.

"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.

"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.

"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly. 

The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.

Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."

"No promises," Sam whispers.

You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.

You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.

"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."

Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."

"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."

"Nothing above so far."

You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.

The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.

"Ready?" you mouth.

He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.

The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.

Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.

"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.

"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."

"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."

You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife. 

The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.

You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.

You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.

"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."

"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."

A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.

Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.

He loves you. You love him.

The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.

It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.

"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."

"Copy," Bucky answers.

You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.

"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."

"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."

"Focus," Nat sighs.

"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."

You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.

"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."

You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.

Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.

A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."

Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.

"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.

"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."

You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.

Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.

"Let's move in, fast."

The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.

"Go," Bucky says, already moving.

You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.

He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.

"Cutting center," Bucky reports.

"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."

A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.

You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."

He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.

"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."

"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."

Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.

He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.

The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.

Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.

He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.

"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!" 

Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion. 

Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.

"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."

"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.

"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.

His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.

"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."

You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away. 

This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end. 

"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."

"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.

Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.

"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."

He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.

"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.

Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.

"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."

Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."

You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.

Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.

"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.

Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.

There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim. 

Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.

The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.

Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.

After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."

"It counts for a lot."

Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.

"You did everything right," Steve says.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."

"That doesn't mean you failed."

"It does to me."

Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."

What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.

"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.

Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."

Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."

"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."

The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.

"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."

Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"

Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."

The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.

The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below. 

They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.

Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.

"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."

No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.

"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."

Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.

Steve chimes in, "Status?"

Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."

Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"

"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."

Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."

Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.

---

The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.

Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.

"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."

He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.

For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.

He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.

"I'm here now," he whispers.

He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.

"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."

His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."

Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.

He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.

"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."

His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.

"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.

"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."

Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.

"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."

Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.

There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.

"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."

Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.

"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."

Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.

Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.

He lets out a breath, "Hey."

Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."

Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.

"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."

Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.

"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."

He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.

"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.

Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.

"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.

He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."

You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.

"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.

He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.

"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."

His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you. 

"Me too, Buck."

"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."

Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.

"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."

Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength. 

He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."

Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.

"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."

His brows pull together. "Notice what?"

"How it feels when you walk into the room."

He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.

"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."

Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.

"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"

You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."

And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.

"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.

"I don't care," he smiles.

The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.

His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers.

"Took you long enough, James."

"You're worth the wait, doll."

———

Part Two

Your hand pressed into the wound on your side. It gaped with a slow-warm intelligence, a second mouth opening and closing around your palm. Your breath steamed in uneven ropes as you struggled to blink.

In an unsettlingly clean way, you understood that if you closed your eyes you would not open them again, so you fixed them on the sky and let the snow find you, let it rest on your cheekbones where your skin still knew how to be skin.

The treetops were black wires against the white sky. A rook cawed once and then the forest went back to listening. You had always thought the snow would be silent if it came to this, a pillowed quiet, a gentle drift into nothing, but it was not. 

It crackled where it landed on your jacket, hissed where it touched blood. You could hear the far low groan of ice shifting in the ravine. Your breath whistled at the edges, a thin reed instrument you could not quite control. Somewhere to your right, your rifle lay half-submerged like a sleeping animal. The scope glass had frosted over. The magazine was still heavy. Useless now.

You tried the comm again because that is what you would do. Thumb found the push-to-talk and held it, out of habit if not hope. The headset answered with the same blunt silence, the same small stutter of static that might have been wind crawling along the antenna. 

You pictured the little red light on your vest, the one that had stopped blinking. You pictured the map in your head, the way Bucky had tracked it with a gloved finger over the hood of the truck, the way he had tapped the switchback that led to the outbuilding and said he would keep to your flank. 

He always did that. Quiet promises. No showy heroics. Just the fact of him at your side when things went bad.

It had gone bad at the bend, where the cut barrels ringed the slope, where the snow hid the old razor wire and the men inside the outbuilding were faster than they looked. You heard the shots the way you might hear bees. You had not felt the first hit at all, only a sudden looseness in your knees, the ground reaching up, the smack of your shoulder on ice that felt like a door closing.

The second hit had been a flower opening under your ribs. There was maybe a third, but you couldn't remember. After that there had been movement and then there had not. Someone had shouted. You had returned fire and the fire had not mattered because the world had already tilted toward this.

He would be coming. 

You believed that because it was true every other time. 

Bucky Barnes did not leave people behind. He did not leave you behind. 

He could move through a fight like a shadow that knew exactly what needed to be done. He could put his body where the bullets wanted to be. He had a way of speaking into your comm when you were about to do something reckless, a low note that slid under panic and clicked into place. 

You could hear it then like you always did, the memory of his tone more than the words. Steady. Breathe. Two more steps. On your six. He never told you to be careful. He never told you to wait. He met you where you were and made all of this survivable.

The cold creeped into the wound on your side like unwelcome fingers. You felt it as a clarity first, as a kind of antiseptic truth. Then you stopped feeling the edges of it at all. Your fingers had gone rigid where they cupped your side. 

You meant to dig in harder and there was no difference. You meant to curl your knees and they were heavy stone ovals under the snow. You had a thought about how you might look from above, the black of your suit like spilled ink, the red staining out around you like a map you had not intended to draw. 

You did not like that thought, so you watched the snow again and let it occupy you.

Footfalls would sound, you told yourself once more.

He made no noise when he wanted to, but for you he would call out first. Bucky had learned that after the first time a year back in Russian tunnels when you put a round into the wall an inch from his head. 

He had laughed later, head tipped back, teeth bright and quick in the dim light, but his voice had gentled when he came up on you after that. He would say your call sign before he said anything else. He would say it like a question with an answer built in. 

You heard it now the way you wanted to hear it. The syllables hit the frozen minutes and shattered, nonexistent.

You couldn’t turn your head, so you turned your eyes. The world rimmed in salt-white. The wind barely moved and yet every flake fell as if purposeful, one after another. You counted them as if counting could keep you awake. You ran out of numbers and began again, and the counting became a hum that anchored you to the moment of your breath and the moment after that. 

Your tongue had the taste of iron. Your throat felt lined with glass. You swallowed and the glass complained. You tried to cough and even that was too much. The cough lived inside your chest without moving the air.

On the edge of hearing, like a trick the brain plays when it catalogs what it misses, a radio chirped. You froze inside the body that could not move. The chirp became a crackle. The crackle opened like a curtain to a voice that was there and not there, a sound shaped like him.

You did not know if it was memory or mercy. You knew what he would say if it was real. You waited for the habit of him to arrive.

You had met Bucky Barnes in winter, which felt like a private joke you had never admitted out loud. He was winter the way a river is winter. Cold only to the touch. Underneath, the force of him moved dark and certain. 

He wore layers like armor and then shed them like a man shrugging out of a story he did not want anymore. He stood with his weight balanced as if ready to break into motion with a breath and he could be still for longer than anyone else. 

The first time he had handed you a thermos after a long, dead stakeout, his mouth had moved around the shape of a smile that pretended it was not one. That motion lived in your head even now, precise as a photograph. You let it play behind your eyes to distract yourself from the creeping quiet at your extremities.

Another minute slid past with the round edges that minutes have when they are running out. The treetops shifted. Somewhere distant, an engine coughed and went silent. You could not tell if that was the truck or a memory of a truck you had slept in once, shoulder to shoulder in the back while frost filmed the windows and the only warmth was breath and shared curses. 

Bucky had said you snored. You had said he slept with his eyes open sometimes and it creeped you out. You had wanted to touch his knuckles where his flesh hand rested on his thigh. You had not. You were very responsible about some things.

Now you wanted a miracle and all you had was snow. 

You wanted a hand to move the hair out of your face because it had stuck there, stiff with melted snow and blood, because it tickled in the way you could not reach. You wanted Bucky to cut through the tree line with that clean, predatory economy of his, to drop to his knees beside you and say your name like you had not wrecked him for weeks with an almost-confession you did not know you had made. 

You wanted his breath in your ear as he told you to hold on, and you wanted to because he would say it.

But you did not have that. 

You had the memory of his palm spanning your shoulder when he pushed you down behind a barrier two missions ago. You had the sound of his boots on concrete, always closer than you expected. You had the little ordinary things he did that felt like a prayer. He fixed the strap on your holster without comment. He handed you his spare knife when yours went skidding. He stood in the door while you fell asleep and then left to watch the hallway whenever the two of you were stuck in a safehouse.

He never made it feel like a favor. It was just that he was there.

You thought about how he would be angry at himself for not being faster, how he would scuff the snow with the heel of his boot while he gathered you up, how he would look at your face first and then at his hands to check for what he had missed. 

He would allow himself that one loss of composure, that tiny tic of self-cruelty, and then force it down because there was work to do. He did not yell when it mattered. He moved. He made use of whatever he had.

He had you. And that had always surprised you more than it should have.

You let your eyes slide to the right as far as they would, just enough to catch the slope where the path cut through. You imagined the curve of his body as he dropped into a run. You imagined the precision of the vibranium arm, the way the plates caught light and gave it back in sharp pieces.

You had once watched him at a bench under a bad flickering bulb, oiling the joints with the concentration of a man tending a garden. You had wanted to ask what it felt like. He had looked up at you as if he had heard the question anyway. He had said it felt like a hand. He had said it felt like the rest of him. You believed him.

Snow settled in the hollow of your throat. It itched like a memory you could not place. You wanted to laugh because it was so stupid, to be bothered by that while the center of you opened into the cold. 

Your breath clouded and thinned. You tried to flex your fingers and the signal did not travel. You tried to say his name and the sound stuck to your teeth. The wind shifted and brought you the faintest scent of gunpowder and sap. The outbuilding door slammed somewhere behind the drift and the sound was very small from here, like a door closing in another house in another life.

You knew you should keep fighting. You knew the list of things to do, the order in which to do them. You had given that brief yourself like a bedtime story before ops. Breathe. Pressure. Elevation. Communicate. Stay awake. Count. Catalog your surroundings. Find a landmark and fix on it. Feed yourself tasks so the panic has no room to move in. 

You had been good at it because you were stubborn and because you wanted to keep coming back to the people who made the fight make sense. You wanted to keep coming back to him and the unspoken thing that sat between you like a live wire taped neat and tucked out of sight.

He had said your coat looked ridiculous that morning. He had said it in a way that meant he liked it. You had rolled your eyes and said his needed patching and he had allowed the insult because you were the one who did the patching. He had watched your hands move the needle through the fabric with a stillness that felt like being seen.

 If you closed your eyes now you could see that exact thread shining between your fingers. If you closed your eyes now…

No. Your eyes stayed open. They burned. They watered. The world doubled at the edges and then sharpened again like a lens trying to find you. You focused on the nearest branch where a clot of snow thickened and slid in slow motion, fell without a sound, punctured the layer beside your ear. You tried again to drag breath past the weight in your chest and the breath went in like a reluctant guest.

When he looked at your headset later he would press it to his ear as if that could pull your voice back through. You saw that so clearly it might as well have been happening beside you. He would check the wiring, not because he did not know but because his hands needed a job. 

He would track the blood you had left against the white and it would lead him here. He would call for you then, low and sure like he could will it into an answer. He would kneel and the snow would creak and the world would tilt back toward the side where you lived.

You wanted that. You had never wanted anything the way you wanted that.

The wind picked up. A veil of snow dusted across your face and your eyes blinked clean on reflex. It was getting darker in a way that had nothing to do with time. The clouds had thickened into a single sheet and the line of the hill melted into it. 

You thought for a split second that you heard his boots. You thought for another that you saw a shadow detach from the trees and start down the path. You held yourself ready for the relief that would follow, for the way your body would answer that presence by remembering itself.

It was only the wind playing with the shape of the trees. It was only the little mean tricks the cold does as it settles into you.

You told yourself a story anyway, because that had always been how you kept the worst edges from cutting too clean. You told yourself he was close enough to hear your heartbeat. You told yourself he was swearing in that quiet way of his, the syllables clipped, the heat under them banked. 

You told yourself he had the med kit out and the tourniquet ready. You told yourself his breath clouded the air above you and you turned your face into it because it was warm. You told yourself you would give him hell for taking so long and he would give it back, eyes crinkled at the corners, mouth a line he could not stop from lifting.

Your story could not move your blood. It could not knit flesh. It could only hold you in place while the world kept snowing.

Pain flared once, brilliant as a flare against fog, and then folded into itself and left a ringing quiet. You breathed into that quiet and felt something in you unspool, a slow ribbon, warm where it left.

If he had been here, you would have leaned into his chest while he got the bleeding under control. You would have let the lines of him hold the lines of you together. You would have listened to the steady drum of his heart like a metronome you could set yourself to. He would have said your name then. Not your call sign. Your name. He would have said it like a fact, like an anchor thrown into deep water that hits bottom and holds.

You thought you saw a figure again and you let yourself believe it this time without interrogating it. The snow had a way of making lies tender. You watched the shape come closer in the long patience of someone who had run out of choices and found, to your small surprise, that there was no fear in you at all. Just the strange, clean relief of not needing to move. 

If it was him, he would kneel. If it was not, you would not have to know.

If he was coming.

You took another breath because breath was a thing you could still do. The snow touched your lips like hands would. Your vision narrowed its aperture. For a heartbeat the world clicked into focus with such precision it hurt. Every needle on the firs was an individual thing. Every flake was a star with a private trajectory. Every memory of how he looked at you slotted into place behind your eyes like rounds into a magazine. 

You felt the heat of your blood where it pooled under your palm. You felt the stiffness of the fabric where it froze at the edges. You felt the small ceiling of sky press down and you pressed back by staying.

The figure did not resolve. The comm did not spark to life. The snow kept falling because that is what it does. You tasted iron. Your tongue was heavy. Your throat had learned silence and did not want to unlearn it. 

You thought of the way he held the world together when he could. You thought of how he would hate this. You thought of his hands, one flesh, one forged, both equally careful when they touched what mattered. 

You let those thoughts sit with you in the snow like companions. You let them be enough to keep your eyes open one minute more. Then another. You let them be the warmth you did not have, the promise the moment did not offer, the echo of a voice that had so often been the last thing between you and the dark.

Hold on, you heard, whether from memory or mercy you did not know. Hold on.

You did, the way you always had, with your teeth even when your hands had nothing left in them, with your attention fixed like a blade on the next small thing you could ask your body to do. 

Breathe. Watch the snow. Wait for the sound of him. Refuse the easy closing.

The snow on your lashes blinked, and when your eyes opened, it was dust floating in the gym's fluorescent light.

You were still on your back, but the sky had become a ceiling, low and stained and hummed through with old wiring. The cold pressing into your spine softened into the thin ache of concrete that had stored years of footsteps. Your breath no longer streamed white; it fogged in front of your face in little bursts that smelled like recycled air and metal. 

Somewhere nearby, a door slammed, the sound familiar in a way the crack of gunfire had never been.

You knew this room. You knew this version of the world like the inside of your own mouth. The compound. Early days. Before anyone trusted you with anything that mattered; before you believed them when they did. 

You watched the dust drift between you and the light overhead and realized you were not lying on snow anymore but on the mat inside the gym, chest heaving, lungs burning from the last set.

"You good?"

Bucky’s voice came from just beyond your line of sight, lazy as if he already knew the answer and didn't trust it. 

You turned your head and there he was, sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, forearms resting across them. Hair damp at the temples, a darker ring on the collar of his shirt where sweat had soaked through. Dog tags winked once when he shifted, catching the light like a tiny, private snowfall.

"Pretty sure I'm dying," you had rasped, and the way your voice sounded then layered perfectly over the way it sounded now, raw and edged with something you hadn't named yet.

He huffed, that almost-laugh he did when something amused him but he refused to give it the satisfaction of a real reaction. The corner of his mouth tilted. His eyes dragged over you, fast and brief, like a scan for damage first and always.

"If you were dying, you wouldn't be whining about it," he said. "You'd be quiet. Terrifies me, remember?"

You remembered. You remembered the way he'd said it once after a mission, when you came back bleeding and making jokes, and his shoulders dropped like someone had cut a wire. Quiet, for him, meant missing. Meant gone. Meant tombstones with names that never should have had dates carved underneath. 

He preferred noise. Preferred the way you swore when you took a hit, the way you grumbled when he pushed you too hard, the way you argued about tactics with hands moving in sharp little arcs.

You hadn't understood how much that meant, back then. You only knew the look in his eyes now, in this hallway, as he watched you fight for breath after another training session you insisted on taking too far. The look that said he was cataloging you into the part of his brain where things he couldn't lose got stored.

"You should've let me stop two rounds ago," you said, still trying to drag air into lungs that didn't want to expand.

"You said don't go easy on you," he reminded you, shrugging one shoulder. "You wanna take it back, now's the time."

"Not in front of a witness." You gestured weakly at the doorway to the gym, where the heavy bag still swung on its chain. "Gotta maintain my image."

He snorted, finally, a real sound. It scraped warm along your spine, an internal reflex you didn't have a name for yet. His metal hand flexed once against his knee, the plates catching the light in that soft ripple that fascinated you no matter how many times you saw it.

"Your image," he said slowly, "is the person that doesn't back down when a guy like me tells them to call it for the day."

Guy like me. You heard it the way he meant it, heavy with every history he still wore like old scars under his shirt, the ones no serum could smooth out. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, hands shaking, and looked at him full-on, your vision still rimmed in spots.

"A guy like you is the reason I'm not dead already," you said. "So if I wanna keep up, I can't tap out every time my muscles cry about it."

He watched you while you said it. Didn't look away. That was new; for months he had skated around full eye contact like it would reveal something he hadn't agreed to show. Now his gaze stayed on you, steady, thoughtful. 

The blue of his eyes was darker here than it looked under the harsh lights of the briefing rooms. Closer, you could see every line at their corners, the little tightness that settled in when he was thinking too much.

"You keep talking about being dead," he said quietly. "Kinda makes me wanna wrap you in bubble wrap and lock you in a closet."

"Kinky," you had shot back, on instinct more than intention.

Silence, then, followed by a slow blink and a breath that might have been a laugh if he'd let it. He shook his head at you, hair falling into his eyes for half a heartbeat before he smoothed it back with his flesh hand.

"You're impossible," he said. "Get up. Hydrate. Before I end up explaining to Steve why you passed out in the hallway."

You remembered the way his hand had hovered for a moment before it caught your forearm to help you to your feet. The warm hand first, a firm grip, fingers bracketing bone. The metal one resting loose on his knee, deliberately not touching. As if he had made some kind of private rule about where each belonged when it came to you.

You let him haul you up, your legs wobbling, shoulder bumping his chest when you overshot your center of gravity. For one heartbeat you were pressed up nearly against him, every breath you took syncing with his, your cheek inches from his sternum. You remembered the way his heart had felt like a steady drum against your skin, even through layers.

He smelled like soap that had nothing to do with who he was and everything to do with who he was trying to be now. Coffee and gun oil ghosted under it. Something citrus, faint.

"Careful," he had murmured, reflexive, hand tightening on your arm.

"That's your job," you'd said, and then the hallway, the gym, the dust all shifted as if the whole compound inhaled and exhaled at once.

The air changed temperature. The fluorescent buzz smoothed itself into the softer hum of an old refrigerator. The light over your head yellowed, warm and uneven. Your back didn't ache from concrete anymore but from the unforgiving springs of a cheap mattress. The smell of metal and sweat thinned into the smell of rain hitting pavement outside a cracked window, exhaust and wet asphalt and cheap takeout.

You blinked, and you were on your side in a safe house bed, blanket tangled around your legs, shirt twisted, heart doing something reckless in your chest. The room was small, all peeling paint and mismatched furniture, but it felt too big with just the two of you in it. 

The storm outside smeared shadows across the ceiling. A leak tapped somewhere in the corner. The warmth in the air was borrowed from an ancient space heater rattling in the corner.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to you. His metal arm reflected faintly in the gloom, the delicate seams between plates tracing their own geometry. He was rolling his neck like it hurt, head tipped back just enough to show the strong line of his throat.

You shouldn't have been awake. You should have been sleeping off the mission, letting the adrenaline seep out of your muscles. But he had been too quiet when you came in, too neat with his movements, and your body had learned to wake up when quiet wrapped itself this tight around him.

"You're thinking loud," you said, voice soft in the thick, late hour. The words arrived in this room and in the snow at the same time, as if they had never left your tongue.

He half-turned, enough for you to see the line of his jaw, the way his mouth pulled when he tried to decide whether to deny it. He didn't. He just shrugged one shoulder, the muscles there jumping, the metal arm resting on his thigh like an animal at ease.

"Can't sleep," he said simply.

"Nightmare?"

You watched the way his hand—flesh this time—tightened on his knee. The flicker at the corner of his eye. He didn't answer and that was answer enough. Your chest ached in that familiar way it did when you thought about all the nights he had lived through that had no decent ending.

"C'mere," you said, like you were offering him a glass of water instead of the mess of your own heart.

He hesitated exactly long enough for you to know this wasn't simple. And you knew it wasn’t. 

Finally, he shifted, the mattress dipping under his weight as he turned toward you. The room was too small to pretend this was casual; when he lay down on top of the blanket, it was with a care that bordered on reverent. 

He shoved his boots off, like he was taking at least one step toward comfort but refusing the rest. The metal arm stayed angled away from you at first, braced against the headboard, like a part of him was holding himself up off you even while the rest sank down.

You rolled onto your back to make room. The old bed squeaked. Your shoulder brushed his. The contact felt like it should have set off alarms. You stared up at the cracked plaster above you, tracing the faint water stains with your eyes.

"You know," you said, after the silence nested too comfortably in the room, "you are allowed to sleep. The world keeps spinning without you supervising it."

"Does it?" His voice was quieter here than it was on the field, as if the walls might tell on him. "Pretty sure every time I let my guard down, something goes sideways."

"The heater's the only thing going sideways tonight," you replied. "And if it explodes, at least we'll go in our sleep. Real mercy kill."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a frustrated exhale; with him, they were almost the same. You could feel the vibration of it through the mattress, through the few inches between you. 

His gaze flicked over to you in the dark, catching just enough of your features to make them real: the curve of your cheek, the line of your mouth, the way you stared stubbornly at the ceiling as if refusing to look at him too much might save you from something.

"You got a real cheerful streak, you know that?" he murmured.

"I work with what I have." You let your hand rest near his on the blanket, not touching but close enough that the heat of him gathered in your palm. "You wanna talk about it?"

The storm outside filled the pause. Rain hit the window like thrown gravel. Somewhere far off, a car rolled through water, the sound dopplering away. He breathed in, slow and precise, like a man approaching a minefield.

"Same old," he said. "Faces I don't remember. Things I did. Things I didn't do."

"And me?" you asked, before you could tell your tongue to mind its business. "Do I show up in there yet?"

You had meant it as a joke. Light, deflecting. You had not expected the way it landed between you with weight. 

His head turned, full-on now, eyes finding yours in the half-light. There was something like surprise in them and something like resignation, like he'd been waiting for you to ask and had hoped you wouldn't.

"No," he said simply. Then, after a beat, "You show up after."

"After?"

"Yeah." He let his gaze drop to the line of your shoulder, your throat, the rise and fall of your chest. "After I wake up. After I remember where I am. You're there. You sound annoyed. Tellin' me I'm hogging the covers or snoring or…something." He swallowed. "It's not like the dreams. It's quieter. Easier to breathe."

You could have said a dozen things. Any of them might have broken the fragile, careful balance of the moment. So you picked the least dangerous one and hoped it was enough.

"For the record," you said, voice softer than you meant it to be, "you absolutely snore."

"Yeah?" He huffed again, mouth curling despite himself. "You keepin' notes?"

"I'm a professional," you replied. "I observe. I report. I'm very thorough."

His fingers moved then, just a fraction. The metal ones, where his arm had been anchored to the headboard. They flexed like they wanted to close around something. Maybe around your hand. Maybe around his own throat. 

You shifted your hand the smallest distance, letting the back of your fingers brush the cool plates where his wrist rested near your head. The contact was brief, accidental on the surface. It lit up a whole system in you that had nothing to do with nerves or blood and everything to do with the careful way he drew in his next breath.

"Gonna put that in the report too?" he asked, but his voice had gone lower, roughened at the edges.

"Only the important parts," you said. "Bucky Barnes: snores, hogs blankets, represses emotions, has decent hair."

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now, real and reluctant. He let the metal hand turn under yours so your fingers could rest in the thinner seam between plates, the place where warmth leaked through from the machinery underneath. You felt that warmth travel up your arm, lodging somewhere inconvenient behind your ribs.

"Decent?" he repeated. "That's the best you got?"

"Don't push your luck," you murmured.

The room held onto that, tucking it into its corners, into the creak of the bed, into the whisper of rain on glass. You had laid there, side by side, not touching more than that point of contact, and felt the entire axis of your life tilt by degrees you couldn't measure. 

Outside, someone in the world was dying, someone was being born, someone was making coffee, someone was stealing a car. Inside that little room, the biggest thing happening was two people lying very still, pretending breathing wasn't a confession.

The bed beneath you now, in the snow that had become the gym that had become this safe house, gave one long, low groan, and you blinked again.

The warmth of his arm under your fingers cooled, the hum of the heater faded into the distant, steady roar of engines. The rain against the window turned into the shudder of metal walls under heavy wind. The mattress pitched, and you were strapped into a seat instead, shoulder harness biting into your chest. The air tasted like high altitude, thin and filtered, tinged with jet fuel and sweat and something like anticipation.

You looked up at the interior of the quinjet around you, all matte black surfaces and exposed wiring, the faint blue glow of instruments painting everyone in cold light. Across the aisle, Bucky sat with his forearms braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor between his boots. Gloves on this time. Strap secured. Weapon at his feet. The set of his shoulders said he was thinking too much. Again.

"You look like you're about to bolt," you said over the engine noise, because you had never really learned how to leave him alone when he folded into himself like that.

He lifted his head, eyes dragging up to meet yours, and the motion happened here in the jet and out there in the snow where you imagined it, where you waited. The duality of it made your lungs stutter. He frowned at you, familiar and fond.

"Remind me which one of us jumped out of a plane without a parachute once?" he called back, mouth quirking.

"Peer pressure," you shouted. "Terrible influence in my life."

"You volunteered," he said. "I remember."

"You asked," you shot back. "There's a difference."

He gave you that look then, the one he reserved specifically for you, where exasperation and something softer wrestled to a draw. His gaze flicked over you quickly, checking gear, checking weapons, checking the line of your mouth like it could tell him if you were lying about being okay.

"You don't gotta prove anything," he said, the words bending around the roar of the engines but still reaching you clearly. "Not to me."

"Maybe I'm not doing it for you," you said, but it came out gentler than you intended. "Maybe I like jumping out of planes."

"You're a menace," he muttered, but there was a hint of pride threaded through it. "You stick to the plan this time, yeah?"

"I always stick to the plan."

He arched a brow.

"Most of the plan," you corrected. "Some of the plan."

His eyes closed briefly, like he was making a wish he didn't believe in. When he opened them again, they were steady, all business, that sharp, clear soldier-killer-operative gaze that saw everything and revealed nothing. Except—when it landed on you, there was that fraction of a degree softer, that fractional tilt of world where you fit.

"Just…" he said, pausing, the word hanging between you. His hand lifted, then dropped, as if he'd thought about reaching for you and changed his mind at the last second. "Come back."

It wasn't an order. It wasn't even a request. It was more like a fact he was trying to negotiate with the universe directly. You felt something in your chest catch on it, like cloth snagged on a nail.

Before the feeling could settle, he added, "I am not writing a report on this mission if you die halfway through. That's paperwork I don't need."

"You too, Barnes," you replied, trying to keep it light.

He shook his head, lips twitching. Then, quietly, not quite over the noise but close enough that your brain filled in the missing pieces, he added, "Not planning on going anywhere."

The jet bucked slightly, turbulence or a shift in altitude. You remembered the lurch in your stomach, the way your fingers curled around the strap of your harness. You remembered thinking, let him be right. Let him be right this time.

The engines roared louder. The jet blurred. The straps bit a little deeper into your shoulder, then loosened like someone had cut them. The black interior faded to gray, then to white. The air thinned and sharpened. The metal floor under your boots dissolved into snow again.

You blinked back into your own body, the one lying on the slope, blood soaking into cold earth. The flash of his face in the quinjet flickered like a film frame over the blank sky. For a second you saw both at once: him across from you under humming lights, and the emptiness above you now where his silhouette should be.

The snow brushed your cheek. Your breath hitched, shallow, then steadied again in its fragile rhythm. Your mind, stubborn thing, refused to stay in the present for long. It reached for him again and found him somewhere else, somewhere softer.

The compound kitchen this time. Late enough that the overheads were dimmed. The fridge hummed louder than seemed reasonable. The world had shrunk down to the island countertop, the half-empty mug in front of you, and the way he leaned against the opposite edge like he owned the space without meaning to. 

He wore a t-shirt that had seen better days, a line of text you couldn't quite make out in the low light, and sweatpants that told you he'd likely been asleep before a nightmare yanked him out of it. His hair was a riot, sticking out in directions that made him look younger, almost, if you ignored the tired etched into the corners of his mouth.

You had been raiding the cabinets for something with sugar in it, bare feet cold on the tile. The mission was over, debriefs done. Your formal mask was off. You were holding a spoon in one hand and a jar of Nutella in the other like they were standard-issue equipment.

"You know they make actual food here," he'd said from the doorway, surprising you but not really. He had a way of appearing wherever you were like the universe had assigned him the job of shadowing you.

"This is actual food," you answered, dipping the spoon. "It's got nuts. And…ella."

"That's not how that works." He pushed off the doorframe and came closer, eyes narrowing at your haul. "You plan on sleeping ever again, or you just gonna ride that sugar high 'til you pass out?"

"Bold of you to assume I sleep now," you said. "Besides, you drink coffee like it's a religion. At least my terrible coping mechanism tastes like chocolate."

He made a face like he wanted to argue and couldn't quite find a foothold. After a second, he extended a hand, palm up, expectant.

"What?" you asked.

"Gimme the spoon," he said.

"Get your own."

"I'm not stickin' my fingers in there like an animal," he replied. "Now share before I tell Sam you got caught double-dipping in the communal snacks."

"Coward," you muttered, but you handed over the spoon anyway, heart doing that stupid flip it did when he took something from you like it was the most natural action in the world. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, warm and callused. He didn't seem to notice. You absolutely did.

He took a scoop and made a face like he wanted it to be terrible and it foolishly, traitorously, wasn't. The spoon clicked against his teeth. He handed it back with a little nod.

"Okay," he admitted. "Could be worse."

"High praise," you said. "I'll take that glowing review to my grave."

The word lodged in the air between you in this kitchen the way it was lodging in your throat in the snow now. Grave. You had meant it as nothing, throwaway hyperbole. A joke. As you always did. You hadn't known how literal it would feel later when cold seeped into your bones.

He set the jar down on the counter, closer to you than to himself. His metal hand rested on the edge, the fingers leaving tiny crescents in the laminate where the pressure concentrated. You watched his knuckles turn faintly white in the flesh hand.

"Don't talk like that," he said, quietly enough that the fridge almost drowned it out.

"Like what?" You took another scoop, feigning ignorance.

"Like your grave's a funny punchline all the time," he said. His eyes were on the spoon, not on your face. "Like you're not…" He exhaled, searching for the word. "Like you're not important."

Something inside you stilled. You leaned your hip against the counter, letting the spoon hover halfway to your mouth.

"Bucky," you said, because his name felt like a hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying. "I'm not—"

"I know what it looks like out there," he cut in, finally meeting your gaze. "I know how quick it can go bad. I know you think if you joke about it all the time, it won't get to you. But it gets to me."

The honesty in it landed like a blow. You swallowed, the taste of chocolate turning faintly metallic at the edges. The kitchen seemed too small to hold all the implications of that sentence.

"It gets to you," you repeated, because you needed to be sure you heard him right.

He nodded, once. Barely. "Yeah."

"Because…?" you prompted, the word gentle as you could make it.

He made a small, frustrated noise, like the problem wasn't what he felt but the fact of being asked to name it. His fingers tapped once on the counter, a little staccato rhythm. Finally, he shook his head and settled on the simplest version, the one that carried the least risk but still told the truth.

"Because I don't want anything else on my conscience," he said quickly. "And that includes you."

It wasn't the whole truth. You heard the missing pieces in the space between syllables. But it was enough to send a flush creeping up your neck, enough to make your chest feel like it had grown too small for your ribs.

"Well," you said softly, the jokes falling away one by one until only sincerity remained, raw and exposed, "for what it's worth, I don't particularly wanna end up dead either. So." You lifted the spoon in a mock toast. "I'll do my best not to traumatize you and ruin dessert for everyone."

He snorted again, but his eyes softened. You watched the tension in his jaw loosen by fractions. He reached over and, without comment, took the spoon back from you, scooping one last bit before setting it deliberately in the sink.

"Alright, that's enough," he said. "You'll be bouncing off the walls."

"Jealous?" you asked. "You could join me in the sugar high, stay up all night. We could make a whole thing of it."

He shook his head at you, fond and exasperated. "Go to bed," he said. "We move early."

"You bossing me around again?"

"Somebody has to," he replied, already turning toward the door. Then he paused, glanced back over his shoulder. "And hey," he added, tone lighter, almost tentative. "Try to get some actual sleep, okay? Just because you're up doesn't mean you gotta…think the whole time."

You stared at him, caught off guard by the care in the suggestion. "You too," you said, because it felt like something you owed him. "No brooding in the dark. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor," he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Field medic," you shot back. "Close enough."

"Goodnight," he said, and it sounded heavier than the word should, like it was doing more work than just ending the conversation.

He left the kitchen smelling like sugar and something fragile. The overhead light buzzed once and then steadied. You had stood there a moment longer, hand wrapped around the jar like an anchor, feeling the shape of his concern settle over your shoulders like a jacket you weren't sure you had earned.

Now, in the snow, with your blood seeping out into the earth and your body growing too heavy to own, that jacket felt like the only thing keeping your mind from sliding off the edge. Every memory of him layered over the last—gym, safe house, quinjet, kitchen—until they formed a continuous film, running frame by frame behind your eyes. 

You felt the shove of his hand between your shoulder blades when he pushed you behind cover. You heard the crack in his voice the one time he said your name like a plea instead of a warning. You saw the way his face had changed the first time you came back from a mission you were supposed to be too far away from, how shock melted into relief so intense it nearly knocked him to his knees. 

All of it lived inside you now, playing on a loop as the present thinned around the edges.

You didn't want to die.

The snow kept falling. The sky kept being indifferent. But in your head, you were still in all those rooms with him, still laughing, still arguing, still pressing fingers to scars and pretending you weren't memorizing their map. You were still hearing his voice cut through static, through nightmare, through the heavy, dragging exhaustion of a life you hadn't expected to survive this long.

You realized, with a strange, quiet clarity, that if this was the last thing your brain chose to circle around—the shape of him in doorways, the weight of his gaze, the way his hand felt when he chose to touch you and when he chose not to—it wasn't the worst road to go out on.

You took another breath, thin and rattling and precious. The white above you blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Suddenly it was dark. You must've closed your eyes. Somewhere in the overlapping layers of your life, he was still sitting on the edge of your bed, still arguing with you in the quinjet, still stealing your spoon or mug in the kitchen. Somewhere he was still saying your name like a promise, even if he never meant you to hear what sat under it.

The corridor of memories snapped like someone cutting film.

All of it tore away in one sharp, white-hot jerk, and you were back in your body like slamming into a wall. Cold vaulted up your spine. The snow on your face was real again, not dust or rain or flickering fluorescence. Your lungs forgot how to work for a second, then clawed for air that burned going in.

Sound arrived in pieces.

First, the muffled crush of boots in snow somewhere above you. Then the ragged, too-fast drag of someone breathing hard, closer than your own, overlapping it. A voice, too low and blurred to make out at first, like the comm when it had started dying—static wrapped around syllables, desperation chopped into fragments.

Then, all at once, the volume snapped up. The world caught.

“—no, no, no—”

The words landed right above you, sharp and terrified and half-swallowed, and if you hadn’t known better you would have thought they belonged to someone else.

The weight in your side changed. Something pressed harder against the wound, firm enough to drag a rough sound out of your throat. It hurt in a way that felt almost bright, almost clarifying. Your eyes flew open on reflex.

Sky. Still white, still falling. But there was a shape cutting into it now, leaning over you, blocking some of the snowfall. A shadow with a familiar outline. Broad shoulders in dark gear, hair half-plastered to a sharp, pale face framed in the blurred halo of his breath.

Bucky.

You stared up at him through lashes crusted in frost and whatever your brain had left of coherence tried to reorder itself around the reality of him actually being here. He wasn’t a memory version this time. He wasn’t lit by kitchen fluorescents or quinjet LEDs. He was right there, real, close enough that flakes were catching in his hair and melting on his skin.

His eyes found yours like they’d been looking for that exact thing and nothing else.

“Hey,” he said, too loud, too rough, like the word scraped its way out of his chest. “Hey. Look at me. Stay with me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The nickname cracked something in you that pain hadn’t touched. He didn’t toss that one around easy. It slipped in the spaces when he was tired, when his guard thinned. Hearing it here, now, felt like your name and something more, stuffed into one, pressed into your ribs.

You tried to say his name and your tongue—or maybe your whole mouth, your whole fucking face—didn’t get the message. It came out in a broken exhale, more air than sound. You weren’t even sure it made it past your teeth.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a heartbeat like he was checking, like he was reading the shape of what you’d tried to say.

“Yeah,” he breathed, quieter, like you’d managed it anyway. “It’s me. I’m here. I got you.”

His hands moved at your side, all business, the familiar, efficient brutality of field triage. The pressure on your wound redoubled, making the edges of your vision bloom black and crowd in. You felt the firm, unyielding plates of the metal hand digging in over your own useless fingers, the warm clamp of his flesh one above it, like he was trying to compress not just skin and muscle and ruptured vessels but the entire situation down into something he could actually handle.

You made a sound. You didn’t mean to. It wasn’t a word, just a hoarse, wet choke that twisted up and out of your throat. The cold had lined you on the inside; every breath felt like you were inhaling razor wire.

“I know,” he said immediately, the words snapping down over your noise like a shield. “I know, I know. Hurts like hell. That’s good. Means you’re still with me.”

You focused on his mouth because his eyes were too much—too full, too bright, too terrified. You could see the line of concentration there, the way his lips flattened when he was doing a dozen calculations at once. Distance to extraction. Time to bleed out. Temperature. Your weight. His own stamina. Probability curves. You knew that brain. You’d watched it grind through worse.

He shifted his weight and your world rocked with him. The snow beneath you squelched, a wet sound that had nothing to do with melt. He peeled your hand away from your side—somehow, at some point, your fingers had gone numb enough that they didn’t even try to resist—and replaced it with a balled-up compress from the kit. Pressure. Constant. Unrelenting.

“Lost you on comms,” he said, hands working while his mouth did. “Went dead right as you hit the bend. Static, then nothing. You know what that does to a man with my track record?” His voice cracked once, just a fracture in the middle of a sentence that he pretended wasn’t there. “Drove me fuckin’ crazy trying to pick a signal outta snow and concrete.”

His movements were fast but controlled. Tourniquet pulled tight above the wound. Seal slapped over an entry you couldn’t see. Somewhere, he’d ripped your jacket open; you didn’t remember when. The cold had burrowed into every exposed inch of you, but where his hands were, it was just heat, just pressure, just the fierce, stubborn insistence of him refusing to let anything leak out that he hadn’t given permission to.

“Thought—” He cut himself off, jaw locking. You saw the muscle jump there, the tendons stand out. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Fuck. You weren’t where you were supposed to be. Trail was half-covered. You bled all over my damn map, sweetheart.”

There it was again. A soft name in a place it didn’t belong, said like he didn’t have time to filter anything. You latched onto it the way your body tried to latch onto oxygen.

You could hear other noises now, too. Distant, on the periphery. Voices over his shoulder—Sam, maybe, or whoever else had made it to the treeline with him. Footsteps crunching, the whine of a quinjet engine ramping up in the far-blue distance. Someone on comms yelling coordinates. But all of it sounded like it was happening underwater. He was the only thing in crisp focus.

Your lips moved again. It felt like dragging them through wet cement. You were trying for something simple. Two words. You came. It was a stupid thing to say, redundant and childish, but it was the only thought that had enough weight to make it to your mouth. You had pictured him not making it over and over in the snow. The fact of him kneeling here, cursing under his breath and leaving dents in the earth with his knees, felt like it needed acknowledging.

It came out a fragile stutter of consonants and air. “Y—you… c—”

His head dipped, forehead nearly touching yours as he leaned in, like he could catch the sound before it froze.

“What?” he said, and the word was gentler than anything had any right to be out here. “Say it again. I got you. I’m right here, I can hear you.”

You tried. You dragged breath in past the thick, heavy thing sitting on your chest and shaped it as best you could. “You… came.”

It barely existed. Not even a whisper, more like the ghost of one.

But he heard it.

Of course he did. This was the man who could pick out the click of a safety in a firefight. Who heard the difference between your footsteps and anyone else’s in the hallway. His eyes flared, a flash of something raw that made your pulse jump weakly in your throat.

“Yeah,” he said, voice going rough again in a whole new way. “Yeah, of course I came.” He let out a shaky, humorless huff. “Took you long enough to notice, layin’ here making snow angels in your own damn blood.”

You blinked up at him, slow and stupid, and for half a second his mouth actually curved. The expression was a mess: relief trying to be a joke, fear trying not to be a sob, anger at himself coated in that familiar exasperation he used to keep from unraveling.

“Had to make, you know,” you rasped, every syllable sandpaper. “Dramatic… entrance.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Almost made a dramatic exit, too. Overachiever.”

He slid his hand under your head, lifting it just enough to wedge something rolled—his jacket? your pack?—beneath it to keep you from sinking deeper into the cold. His fingers were warm against the back of your neck. Calluses pressed into skin. You felt the precise care in the way he moved you, every angle measured so he didn’t jostle the hole in your side any more than he had to.

“Stay with me, okay?” he said, and the steadiness in his tone did not match the frantic glitter in his eyes. “I know you’re tired. I know. But you don’t get to tap out on me now. We’re not done arguing about proper nutrition or whatever dumb thing you’re gonna pick next.”

You wanted to tell him you’d absolutely fight him about nutrition, about sleep, about whose turn it was to wash the damn mugs in the kitchen. You wanted to point out that if he’d wanted you to rest, maybe he shouldn’t have made breathing around his presence so difficult. Instead, all that came out was a small, wrecked noise that could have been a laugh in a better world.

“S’rry,” you breathed, though you weren’t sure what for. For bleeding on the snow. For dropping comms. For scaring him. For not being stronger. For all of it and none of it.

His face hardened, not at you but at the word.

“No,” he said, sharp and immediate. “No ‘sorry.’ You hear me?” He shook his head once, snow scattering from his hair onto your cheeks. “You got nothing to apologize for. I should’ve been closer. I should’ve—”

He cut off again, like he’d hit a wall inside his own head.

Should’ve. You knew the rest of that sentence without hearing it. Should’ve checked the bend myself. Should’ve stood in front of you instead of trusting the angle. Should’ve known the comms were about to die because everything that could go wrong tended to when he had something to lose.

You wanted to tell him to shut up. That it wasn’t his fault. That you never listened to perfect plans anyway. That if he’d been any closer, maybe the bullet would’ve gone into him instead, and that was a timeline you refused with a kind of exhausted certainty that surprised you.

Your lips tried to shape his name again, but your throat rebelled. Your lungs were working so hard on the simple inhale-exhale loop that adding consonants seemed rude.

He saw the effort and leaned in like he could carry some of it for you.

“I know,” he said, soft. “I know what you’re tryna say. Save your breath for yelling at me later, okay?”

The metal hand kept pressure on the wound with relentless, uncomplaining force. The other was everywhere at once—checking your pulse at your throat, brushing wet hair away from your face, adjusting the angle of the bandage, reaching back to gesture furiously at whoever was behind him.

“Med evac, now!” he snapped, hand coming quickly to his comms, without looking away from you. “I don’t care if you gotta land that bird on one engine, Wilson, you get it down here.”

“We're landing, as fast as we can” Sam’s voice crackled through faintly, far and tinny to your ears but apparently in his. “You just keep them breathing.”

“Working on it,” Bucky muttered, more to himself than the comm, his hand moving back to you.

You felt his thumb drag once along your jaw, an absent, grounding touch like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. There was a smear of red across his knuckles now, not all of it yours; he moved like he’d already gone through dozens of other people to get to you.

“Eyes on me,” he said. “Don’t look at the sky. Don’t look at the snow. That’s my job. Yours is just…” He hesitated, searching. “…just stay here.”

“I… am… here,” you mumbled, every word a separate, clumsy attempt. The syllables frayed at the edges, but you got them out.

“That’s right,” he said quickly, like he was rewarding a kid for doing something hard. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

The phrase detonated quietly between you. He seemed to hear it a second after he said it, because his mouth pressed into a thin line—and for half a breath his eyes flicked away, like he needed to look at anything else.

My girl. You would have replayed it a thousand times in your head if you’d had the spare oxygen. As it was, all you could do was let the resonance of it hum through the spaces pain hadn’t filled yet.

You swallowed, the action slow and foreign. It felt like the first time you’d tried to use your voice after a bad smoke inhalation mission—everything scraped, everything resisted. “Thought…” you managed, vowels dragging. “You… didn’t… like… paperwork.”

He blinked, thrown. “What?”

“Reports,” you slurred, vaguely proud of yourself for getting the word mostly intact. “If I… didn’t… come back… you’d… have… to…”

“You are not, not dying because I hate forms,” he said, incredulous, and for the first time since he’d appeared, something like real, rough amusement flickered through his panic. “Jesus. Only you would try to guilt-trip me from a bullet hole.”

“Tactic,” you whispered. Your chest hurt from this much talking, but you couldn’t make yourself stop. It felt important to crowd the air with anything but silence. “Weapon… of choice.”

“Yeah, well, it’s working,” he said. His hand slid from your throat to your cheek, thumb pressing lightly at your cheekbone as if to keep your eyes open by sheer force. “Don’t you dare check out on me, you hear? I’m not done givin’ you shit for this. You went off alone, comms dead, no backup on the blind side—”

“Backup…” you wheezed before thinking. “S’pposed… to be… you.”

He flinched like you’d hit him. Just a tiny jerk, barely there, the kind someone who didn’t know him would’ve missed. You felt it in the way his fingers tensed.

“It was,” he said, voice dropping low and rough, like gravel under tires. “It is. I’m here now. I’m sorry.”

You might have reminded him of his own rule about apologies. You might have told him you didn’t blame him. Instead, your body chose that moment to curl in on itself, a cough tearing up from somewhere deep. It felt like your lungs turned inside out. Pain stabbed through your side like a hot, clean blade, and for a second everything white-ed out, the world narrowing to a rushing in your ears.

You would have rolled if you could move. He stopped you before the impulse even finished firing.

“Whoa, hey, easy—easy,” he said, bracing you with one hand splayed against your sternum, the metal still clamped at your side. “You gotta breathe gentle, sweetheart. Little sips. In and out. Don’t fight it. Atta girl.”

His voice did something to the panic clawing at your chest. It cut through the animal urge to thrash, to escape the burn, and threaded command through the chaos instead. You clung to it. In. Out. The breaths were shallow, ragged, but they happened. Your vision stuttered, then steadied enough to find his face again.

“There you go,” he murmured, relief bleeding into the words. “There you are.”

You saw it then, in the tiny lines around his eyes, in the way his mouth kept trying to settle and couldn’t: he was terrified. Not the kind of fear that froze. The kind that sharpened everything until it cut him from the inside.

“Couldn’t—” You swallowed, tasted blood. Your eyes pricked. “Couldn’t… hear you.”

“At the bend?” he asked, knowing exactly what you meant. “Yeah. I know. Comms fried. Whole channel went dead. I was callin’ you for twelve full minutes, felt like two goddamn years.” His jaw clenched. “By the time I got eyes on this slope—”

He glanced down at the trail you’d left, the carved red path in the snow. You watched his throat work like he had to physically swallow something.

“—I thought I was too late,” he finished, quietly. “Thought I was gonna be diggin’ you out, not patching you up.”

“Almost,” you croaked, because honesty had never really left you a choice. “I… thought… you weren’t…”

“I know what you thought,” he said, and there was a rawness in his tone you’d only heard a handful of times. The night he’d told you about the first time he woke up in HYDRA hands. The time he’d confessed, in a roundabout way, how many names he woke up with on his tongue.

He leaned in closer, until his nose almost brushed your temple. You could feel the heat of his breath on your ear, the trembling in it he was trying so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “For that. For that feeling. For every second you lay here thinking you were alone. You weren’t. I swear to you, you weren’t. I was coming. I was… I’m here now.”

Your vision blurred—not from blood loss this time, but from something hot that had no business existing in this cold. You blinked hard, lashes sticking.

“Didn’t… want…” You had to stop, breathe, gather what little strength you had left. “Didn’t want… you… to see.... if I...”

His head drew back a fraction so he could see your face. His brows pulled together.

“See what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Like this,” you whispered. It sounded pathetic out loud, but there it was. “You’ve… seen enough.”

The words hung between you, heavy with all the images you knew lived behind his eyes. War. Blood. The bodies he’d made and the ones he’d failed to save. You weren’t arrogant enough to think you’d be some special exception to that catalog. Still, the idea of your shape joining that crowd in his head made something in you rebel.

His expression shifted, something fierce and almost offended tearing through the shock.

“Hey,” he said sharply, fingers tightening just enough on your jaw that you had to look at him. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You hear me? You don’t get to take choices away from me ‘cause you’re trying to protect me.”

You would’ve laughed if you had the breath for it. “Hypocrite,” you rasped.

He barked out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a choked sob. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I know. But I mean it. You think I want my last image of you to be a fuckin’ radio going quiet? An empty patch of snow? No chance.”

His thumb stroked once along the hinge of your jaw, almost reverent. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every line, every fleck of color in your eyes, every shape your mouth made—even while those eyes fluttered and that mouth barely moved.

“If this is what I get,” he said, voice low and rough, “if this is the moment I gotta hold on to if everything goes sideways, then I’m gonna be here for all of it. You don’t get to protect me from that. That’s not how this works.”

The if in that sentence sat in your chest like a stone. He’d said if, not when. He believed in some version where you walked away from this. You wanted that too. You wanted it so badly it felt like a second wound under the first.

“Bucky,” you whispered, and this time your mouth cooperated, got all the letters out.

His eyes shut for a second, just one. When they opened, they were bright in a way that had nothing to do with the snow.

“There you go,” he said, like you’d done something heroic by managing two syllables. “That’s me. I’m here. Look—” He shifted his grip, lifting your hand with his, guiding your fingers clumsily to press over the back of his metal knuckles where they pressed into your side. “You feel that? That’s me. Not going anywhere.”

The metal was warm, almost hot, from the constant work. Under your numb fingertips, the faint whir of servos thrummed, steady as a heartbeat. You latched onto it, on the pressure of his hand and the solidity of his arm, as if the contact alone could tether you.

“You’re… gonna be okay,” he said, like he could bully the universe into compliance. “We’re gonna get you on the jet, we’re gonna get you to a med bay with actual walls and not these goddamn trees, and then I’m gonna sit in the corner and glower at every doctor that comes near you until they’re too scared to discharge you before I say so.”

“Gonna… scare… them,” you breathed, a ghost of a smile twitching at your mouth.

“Good,” he said promptly. “They should be scared. You’re my favorite pain in the ass. I’m not lettin’ anyone half-ass your care.”

Favorite. The word slid in under your ribs. It fit with my girl in a way that made your chest throb for reasons that had nothing to do with trauma.

Somewhere behind him, closer now, you heard the heavy thump of the quinjet’s ramp hitting snow. Voices rose, clearer. Sam calling his position. Someone else—maybe a med tech—barking orders. The world expanded slightly, the edges of your focus dragging outward to include more than just Bucky’s face.

He didn’t look away.

“Okay,” he said, more to himself than you. “Okay, they’re here. We’re gonna move you now. It’s gonna suck. You’re allowed to hate me for it. You can yell at me later. Right now, you go limp, you hear? Don’t fight it. Let us do the work.”

“Bossy,” you muttered, the word slurring.

“Yeah,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta be. You’re terrible at following suggestions.”

Hands slid under you—Bucky’s, solid and sure, and another pair you couldn’t place. Maybe Sam’s. Maybe the medic’s. The moment your body lifted off the ground, pain screamed through you in an electric wave so intense your vision went fully white. You didn’t even realize you’d cried out until you felt your throat rasping.

“I know, I know,” Bucky’s voice cut through, right at your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your head lolled against something firm and warm. You realized it was his chest when the rhythm of his heartbeat crashed into your ear—fast but steady, a pounding drum against your skull. The world tilted as they carried you, the snow-sky trade flipping: white above, then sideways, then replaced by the dark maw of the quinjet’s cargo bay.

“Watch the IV line—no, we don’t have one yet, goddammit—just get them in and shut the door!” someone yelled.

The ramp clanged under booted feet. The air changed, the outside cold trading places with the metallic warmth inside. The thrum of the engines deepened, vibrating through the floor, up through Bucky’s legs, into your bones.

He didn’t put you down right away. Even when they reached the stretcher, he lowered you onto it like he was afraid you’d shatter. His hands never fully left you—palm on your shoulder while the medic worked, fingers brushing your wrist when they inserted a line, the metal still hovering near your side as if he’d punch anyone who got the tourniquet wrong.

“BP’s in the toilet,” a voice said somewhere to your left. “They need volume now. Who did this dressing?”

“I did,” Bucky snapped.

“It’s solid,” the medic said immediately, no challenge in it. “Good work. Let’s build on it. Hey—” A face swam into your peripheral. “Stay with me, alright? Can you squeeze my hand?”

You tried. Your fingers twitched weakly. The medic smiled like you’d just done a backflip.

“There we go. Keep that up. What’s their name?” they asked, presumably to Bucky.

He answered without hesitation, your name landing heavy in the air. Hearing it like that, in his voice, made you ache. Made you want to live out of sheer spite, just to hear it like that again without blood in your throat.

“Okay, Y/N,” the medic said. “I’m putting something in your line that’s gonna feel really warm. That’s normal. Gonna help your blood remember what it’s supposed to be doing. You’re doing great.”

Warmth spread up your arm, alien and strange, different from the dull, dead cold of the snow. This was sharper, focused, purposeful. It raced to your chest and blooming there, chasing some of the heavy fog back from the edges.

Bucky hovered at your head, his body between you and the rest of the world. He was a wall you’d never been more grateful for. He kept one hand braced on the stretcher as the jet shifted, like he didn’t trust the laws of physics to handle it alone.

“You still with me?” he asked, leaning into your line of sight again. His face was closer now than it had been on the ground, every freckle, every scar, every crease up for inspection. “C’mon. Gimme somethin’. Blink if you’re planning on ignoring my orders for another few years.”

You blinked. It took effort. Felt like pushing against a heavy door. But you did it. Once. Twice.

His mouth kicked up in a breathless, disbelieving grin that looked like it hurt him to make.

“That’s my girl,” he said again, softer. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“You… like…” you tried, the words slurring beyond recognition even to your own ears.

“Yeah,” he said, not even bothering to pretend he didn’t understand. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I do.”

You didn’t know which part of that he was answering. Your weird half-formed accusation. Your blink. Your existence. It didn’t matter. The warmth of it threaded with the medicine in your veins, tangling until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

The medic rattled off numbers. Someone said something about ETA to the facility. The engines roared, then steadied as the jet leveled out. The pressure in your side settled into a brutal, throbbing ache rather than an active, tearing burn. Each breath hurt, but it was less like drowning now and more like treading water with bricks tied to your ankles.

“You’re doing good,” Bucky murmured. “Proud of you.”

You almost rolled your eyes at him. Proud of you, like you’d done anything but lie here and bleed. But you could hear what he meant under it: thank you for not dying. Thank you for still being here where I can see you. Thank you for not adding another ghost to the pile.

“Can’t… get rid… of me…” you forced out, the words thin but there.

The edges of the world dimmed again, but it was different this time. Less like slipping away into cold and more like someone gently turning the lights down. Your body had reached its limit. You could feel it in the way your limbs refused every command, in the heavy pull at the back of your eyes.

Sleep, your bones whispered. Just for a second. Just to stop holding everything together so hard.

You must have let some of that show, because Bucky leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice had gone soft and dangerous, the way it did when he meant every word. “Listen to me. You wanna close your eyes, you can. You earned that. But you remember—this isn’t you checking out. This is you letting us carry some of this for a while. You get to rest because we’re not lettin’ go. You understand?”

You stared at him, at the lines of his face, at the snow still melting in his hair, and thought, wildly, that if this was the last thing you saw, it wouldn’t be the worst. But something stubborn and mean in you, something that had survived things it shouldn’t have long before you’d ever met him, reared up at the idea.

“‘Kay,” you breathed, because it hurt to argue even in your own head. “But… you’ll… be… there.”

It wasn’t a question. It felt like one anyway, hanging between you.

His eyes went glassy at the edges. He nodded once, like swearing an oath.

“Yeah,” he said. “You wake up, I’ll be the one you’re pissed at for letting the nurses poke you. I promise.”

You held his gaze for one more beat. Two. You watched his mouth press into a line that was half determination, half fear. You felt his thumb stroke along your cheekbone again, slow and almost absent, like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.

Then, finally, you let your eyes slip closed.

You woke up to the sound of something insisting you were alive.

A steady, thin beeping cut through the dark first, clinical and patient. It met the dull throb in your chest and the heavy ache in your side and negotiated with them, beat for beat. Light came next, too bright even behind your eyelids, pressing red against them like someone had laid the sun on your face. Your mouth tasted like cotton and metal and the ghost of plastic. Your throat ached deep, as if something had been there that didn’t belong and had been yanked out in a hurry.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. Your limbs felt wrong—too heavy, too far away—as if someone had put your bones in the wrong gravity. Even trying to tell your fingers to twitch was like shouting down a long, empty hallway.

You cataloged what you could without opening your eyes. The air was warm and dry, smelling faintly of antiseptic, recycled ventilation, and the weird, overboiled tang of hospital food you hoped wasn’t for you. Sheets brushed your forearms, stiff and too clean. 

Something tugged at the inside of your elbow—IV line, taped down. A cuff squeezed your bicep in steady pulses. There was weight across your midsection, not crushing but firm: heavy bandage, maybe a brace. Something cold and foreign sat against your ribs on one side, the ache around it deep and pulsing. Chest tube, your training supplied, clinical and calm. Good. Bad. Both.

You were in a med bay. Facility, probably—one of the ones with real walls and humming machines and doctors who glared at Avengers like they were walking malpractice suits.

You were not in the snow. You were not staring up at a white sky and waiting to find out if the last thing you saw would be nothing.

The beeping ticked on, counting heartbeats you had been very close to not having.

You pried your eyes open. Slowly. The world came in a messy blur—light overhead, pale ceiling. Peripheral shapes of monitors and hanging bags. The room swam once, then steadied. Your vision sharpened in increments until you could track lines and edges again.

To your right, in a hard plastic chair shoved as close to the bed as physically allowed, was Bucky.

He looked wrong in med bay lighting. Too human and too haunted at the same time. The overhead fluorescents bleached the color from him, highlighting every shadow under his eyes, every line carved into his forehead. 

His hair was a wreck, pushed back in a way that spoke of frustrated fingers and zero regard for mirrors. Stubble darkened his jaw. He was slouched forward, elbows on his knees, metal hand braced around his own wrist like he needed the grip to stay anchored.

His eyes were closed. For half a second, you thought he was asleep. The idea of Bucky Barnes letting his guard down enough to actually sleep in a chair next to you made your chest lurch. Then you saw the way his thumb kept tracing the line of your wrist where your hand lay in his, skin to skin, as if he needed the movement. 

Not asleep.

Your throat tried to clear itself and immediately regretted it. The cough you meant to be quiet scraped up like broken glass. You choked on it. Every muscle between your neck and hip spasmed in miserable protest. Pain flared white-hot along your side, radiating out from the bandaged hole like someone had poured acid into your nerve endings. Your lungs seized, then dragged in air too fast, too shallow. The monitor at your head sped up, a frantic little staccato.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open instantly.

“Hey—hey, whoa,” he said, already on his feet, the chair skidding back with a harsh squeak. “Easy.”

He was at your side before you’d even finished the first broken inhale. His hand left your wrist only long enough to hit the bed control, raising the head a fraction so you weren’t flat. The movement made your side scream again. You winced, teeth grinding together, fingers clawing at the sheet.

“Buck,” you rasped. Or tried to. It came out like someone dragging a shovel over gravel.

His gaze dragged up to your face. When your eyes met, a whole storm passed through his expression in about half a second—shock, relief, anger, something so raw and bright it almost hurt more than your side.

“Yeah,” he said, voice gone rough, like he’d been yelling or not talking at all for too long. “Yeah, it’s me.”

He put his flesh hand around the back of your neck, not lifting you, just steadying, thumb careful against the tender tendons there. The contact grounded you in a way the machines couldn’t. Your pulse thudded under his fingers, frantic but real.

“Slow,” he added, softer, eyes never leaving yours. “Breathe slow. They gave you some fun stuff. Your lungs are gonna feel all kinds of weird about it.”

You tried to listen. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Each breath dragged over the sore spot in your chest where the tube sat, but it settled, inch by inch, into something more manageable. The monitor agreed, its panicked blip easing back into a steadier rhythm.

“Where…?” you managed, glancing around, though moving your head even that much made black spots flirt at the edges of your vision.

“Med facility,” he said. “Off-grid. Good docs. Good equipment. Terrible coffee.” He hesitated a beat. “You’re okay.”

The word hung there. Okay felt like a stretch. You felt like you’d been run over by a truck, stripped for parts, then stapled back together. Your side burned in a deep, wet way that said serious internal damage, not just a flesh wound. The bandage pulled uncomfortably with every breath. Your chest ached in time with the IV pump.

But you were not dead.

You blinked, trying to fit that fact into your skull. Your brain snagged on another question instead.

“How… bad?” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. You watched him decide between lying and not. The lines around his eyes tightened. He hesitated for a moment, dragging the chair back with his free hand and sitting back down.

“Bad,” he said finally, because he respected you too much to sugarcoat. “Bullets went in shallow, but it hit all the wrong shit—ricocheted, tore through part of your liver, nicked your lung. Lots of blood. You gave the surgeons a real workout.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt like sand. “And I…?” You had meant to ask something flippant—did I win? do I at least get a lollipop?—because that was how you handled this stuff. The effort of forming the words stripped the humor out of them.

“You made it,” he said. No joke in his tone. Just flat, stubborn certainty. “They had to transfuse you, patch you up from the inside out, shove a tube in your chest to help you breathe. They were talking about percentages for a while. I didn’t like their math.”

You pictured him, pacing like a caged animal outside an OR door, counting every second with his teeth. It did something ugly to your heart.

“How long…?” you asked.

He glanced at the cheap wall clock in the corner like it had offended him personally. “You’ve been out, off and on, for…about four days. Longer if you count the part where you were half-conscious in the snow and arguing with me.”

The fact that he was measuring time in arguments almost made you smile. Almost. Everything in your face hurt when you tried.

“Sorry,” you said automatically, because the idea of him stuck in this room that long, with nothing to do but watch monitors and think, made guilt crawl under your skin.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp. “What did I say about that?”

You frowned, brain moving slow through the fog.

“No ‘sorry,’” he reminded you, voice softening but not backing off. “You did your job. Didn’t exactly throw yourself in front of a bullet for fun.” He paused. “At least I hope not, ‘cause that would really ruin the ‘you’re not expendable’ speech I’ve been rehearsing.”

You huffed a tiny sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t felt like your ribs were full of knives. “You… rehearsed… a speech?”

He shifted his weight, suddenly looking almost…sheepish. It didn’t sit naturally on him, like the chair under him. “Yeah, well. Had some time on my hands.”

You let that sink in: Bucky Barnes, former brainwashed assassin, current pain-in-your-ass, sitting in a too-small med bay chair for days, crafting a lecture about your value. Because of course he did.

“You… didn’t have to…” you started.

“Yeah,” he cut in, “I did.”

The firmness in his tone made your breath stutter. His hand at your neck tightened fractionally, thumb resting in the hollow under your skull.

“You remember,” he went on, staring at you like he could pin your attention in place, “all those times you joked about not making it? About your grave? About going out in some blaze of glory?”

Heat flushed under your skin, embarrassed and defensive all at once. “That’s…just how I cope, Buck.”

“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know about coping mechanisms.” His mouth twisted. “But seeing you lying in the snow after following a trail of your blood, looking at you half-frozen and half-gone, hearing you wheeze about how I ‘came’ like you were surprised I showed up? That wasn’t coping. That was…”

He broke off, eyes closing for a second. When he opened them again, they were too bright.

“That was you actually thinking I might not get there,” he finished, quieter. “That I might not come. And that? That’s not a joke I can live with.”

You stared at him, throat thick. You remembered it all too vividly: the snow, the silence, the distance between where you were and where he might have been. The way your brain had quietly considered the possibility that he wouldn’t make it in time, and how you’d tried to make peace with that by replaying him in your head.

“I didn’t…” you started, then stopped. Honesty tasted like antiseptic and fear. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

He let out a humorless scoff. “Newsflash: I’ve seen worse.”

“That’s exactly the point,” you said, voice scraping but gaining a little strength. “You’ve seen too much. Done too much. I didn’t want to be another—” You gestured weakly, the IV tugging. “Another body on the ground somewhere in your head.”

His jaw clenched. You watched the tendons jump.

“You’re not,” he said, firmly. “You’re not a body on the ground. You’re—”

He cut himself off again, looking abruptly away, like the words had gotten too close to something he hadn’t decided whether to say. His metal hand flexed at his side, fingers curling and uncurling with a faint whir.

“You’re loud,” he muttered instead, after a second. “Annoying. Stubborn. You steal my coffee. You hide my knives as a ‘trust exercise.’ You call me on my bullshit. That’s what you are in my head. Not…this.”

“Loud,” you repeated, trying to keep your mouth from shaking. “I almost died and that’s the best you can do?”

He shot you a look, exasperated and fond and utterly, painfully familiar. “Don’t start,” he said. “I’ve been nice to you for like seventy-two hours straight. I’m exhausted.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if they weren’t already fighting to stay open. “This is you…being nice?”

“This is me not putting you in a medically induced coma myself so I can yell at you without anyone interrupting,” he said dryly. Then the humor drained, leaving something softer behind. “This is me telling you I’m glad you’re still here to piss me off.”

Silence settled between you for a moment, thick and humming. The monitors filled it with a steady, background reassurance: you’re here, you’re here, you’re here.

“You stayed,” you said, because it felt necessary to name it. “The whole time.”

He shrugged, as if he were answering a question about the weather. “Yeah.”

“You could have…slept. Showered.” You sniffed faintly. “You smell like jet fuel and bad coffee.”

“Romantic,” he murmured. “Look, they came in and poked you, and cut on you, and yelled about blood loss. You coded once.”

You blinked. “I…what?”

“For about eight seconds,” he said, voice going flat in that way it did when he forced his emotions into a box. “Heart stopped. They shocked you. You came back.” He inhaled slowly. “I did not feel like going to take a nap after that.”

Eight seconds. A tiny rip in time. Long enough for him to stand in a doorway and watch your monitor flatline. Long enough for every bad thing that had ever happened to him to line up behind that moment and wait its turn.

You swallowed hard. “Bucky…”

He shook his head once, like he could physically dislodge whatever memory you were about to apologize for.

“Doc says you’re past the worst of it,” he said. “Liver’s patched. Lung’s reinflated. They’ll pull the tube in a day or two if your numbers behave. You’re gonna hurt like hell for a while. You’re gonna hate physical therapy. You’re probably gonna try to skip half your meds and pretend you’re fine.”

“That sounds…accurate,” you admitted.

“And I,” he continued, “am going to be here, making your life miserable, making sure you do none of that.”

“You gonna…hover?” you asked, the word weaker and more hopeful than you meant it to be.

He huffed, eyes flicking heavenward like he was asking for patience. “I’m gonna make sure you don’t pull your stitches trying to prove something,” he said. “If that qualifies as hovering, then yeah.”

You let your gaze roam over him properly now, taking in the details you’d missed in the initial foggy panic of waking. The dark crescents under his eyes. The dried smear of something on his sleeve that looked like blood but might not be yours. His shoulders were hunched in that way that told you he’d been braced for bad news, arms crossed so tight over his chest earlier he might have left bruises on his own ribs.

He looked like something a storm had chewed up and spit out. And still, he was here.

“You look like shit,” you said, because that’s what you did when things edged too close to unbearable.

His mouth actually curled. “You always this charming after almost dying?”

“You always this…clingy after saving someone?”

“Only the ones who make fun of their own funerals,” he said. “Gotta keep an eye on you. Can’t trust you not to try and skip out on your own wake.”

A memory flickered: the kitchen, the jar of Nutella, the way his face had gone hard when you joked about taking what he said to the grave.

“Guess I’m not as funny as I thought,” you murmured.

He exhales through his nose, slow. “You’re funny,” he said. “You kill me sometimes. But maybe ease up on the death jokes for a bit, yeah? They hit different when I’ve watched you bleed out.”

You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat. “Too soon?”

His gaze softened, the edges of his eyes crinkling in a way that always made you feel like the air had thickened. “Way too soon,” he said. “Gimme, like, ten years. Then you can start with the graveyard material again.”

You tried to laugh, then winced as the movement tugged your side. He caught the wince like it was his own.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “No more…grave jokes. At least for a while.” You paused. “Maybe… just favorite patient jokes?”

He blinked, something flickering in his expression that wasn’t just relief. “You’re not my patient,” he said, almost automatically.

You raised a brow, or tried to. “I'm not?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction, as if some invisible weight had shifted. His metal fingers flexed against the bed rail, a tell you’d learned to read like a paragraph.

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly.

The words slipped out too honest, too bare. He didn’t look away this time. He let them sit there between you, like a live wire.

Your pulse monitor ticked up a notch. You felt it. You were sure he heard it.

“Bucky…” you started again, for what felt like the hundredth time, and this time you didn’t know what you were apologizing for or trying to say. You only knew that the room felt too small for everything pressed into your ribs.

He beat you to it.

“Thought I was gonna lose you,” he said, the words coming out low and fast, like if he didn’t get them out now, he never would. “Out there. On that hill. In here. Eight seconds on a flatline feels a lot like every other time I watched somebody die. And I—I can’t—”

His voice cracked, just once, violently. He sucked in a breath like it hurt.

“I can’t go through that with you and pretend you’re just another teammate,” he finished hoarsely.

Your heart did something painful and grateful at the same time. “Good,” you whispered. “Hate to be…generic.”

He let out a strangled laugh that sounded a little like he might cry. “You’re the least generic person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You drive me up the wall. You scare the hell out of me. You make me…want things. For myself. That I thought I was done wanting.”

You stared at him, words gone.

“When I couldn’t reach you on comms,” he went on quietly, eyes fixed on the line of your shoulder now, like looking directly at your face might be too much, “all I could think about was every stupid joke you’ve ever made about not making it. About going out. About it not being a big deal. And I was—I was furious. At you. At me. At every bastard who ever made you think that maybe you were…not worth staying for.”

Your throat tightened. “Bucky—”

He looked up then, finally, and the intensity in his gaze pinned you to the bed more effectively than any strap.

“I would miss you,” he said. No hesitation. No deflection. “I do. When you’re gone for an hour on a run, I feel it. When you’re not in the kitchen at 2 a.m. raiding the cabinet, I notice. When you’re not bitching about my music or falling asleep on the couch with a book on your face, the whole place feels…wrong.”

The monitor tattled on you, speeding up again. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re in my day even when you’re not there,” he said. “So don’t you ever think for one second that I wouldn’t move heaven, hell, and every goddamn city left on this earth to get to you.”

You blinked hard, the world blurring in that way that had nothing to do with drugs.

“I only joked like that,” you managed, voice small, “because…if I said it serious, it would sound pathetic. Needy. Like I wanted…more than I should.”

His expression shifted—something pained and tender all at once.

“You’re allowed to want more,” he said. “Especially from me.”

That last part hung there, thick as smoke.

“You…want more?” you asked, because apparently you’d almost died and your brain had decided to stop filtering anything.

He let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “Maybe,” he said. “Yeah.”

He raked his flesh hand through his hair, like he was bracing for impact.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said. “Didn’t go out and decide, ‘hey, let’s catch feelings for the one person on this team who actually has standards.’ It just…kept happening. Every time you rolled your eyes at me. Every time you patched me up without making it a big deal. Every time you made some awful joke about us going out in a blaze of glory but still checked my six before your own.”

He shook his head slightly.

“I kept telling myself it was just…combat attachment,” he said. “Buddy cop bullshit. Shared trauma. Whatever label made it easier. But the second you went quiet out there, it wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t about losing an asset. It was—”

He swallowed. The word stuck. He pushed it out anyway.

“It was personal,” he finished.

You lay there, heart pounding unhelpfully fast, trying to process the fact that Bucky Barnes was confessing he cared about you more than made sense, in a tone that suggested he’d been fighting it every step of the way.

“Funny,” you whispered, “that you think I have standards.”

His mouth twitched. “You do,” he said. “They’re just weird.”

A breathless laugh escaped you. It hurt. You didn’t care.

“You know,” you said, “I kept…joking about dying because…honestly, I thought that’s how it’d be. Quick. Messy. No warning. That nobody would…care enough for it to really…matter after the fact.”

His fingers tightened on your neck again, gently but firm enough to yank you back from that cliff.

“Wrong,” he said, simply. “On all counts.”

You believed him. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the fact that you’d seen the look on his face in the snow, the way his hands had moved over your wound with a desperation he hadn’t allowed into his voice. Maybe it was the way he was standing here now, like the only thing keeping him upright was the fact that you were.

“Bucky,” you said, letting his name hold everything you couldn’t fit into sentences yet. “I…didn’t plan on this either, you know.”

“On what?” he asked, voice cautious.

“You,” you said, because there was no point dancing around it anymore. “Getting under my skin. Making it…hard to breathe, and not just because I have bullet holes in my side.”

A soft, disbelieving breath of laughter escaped him.

“You’re really gonna make jokes in the middle of this?” he asked.

“That’s how you know it’s me,” you murmured.

He nodded, eyes damp at the corners. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You wet your lips, gathering what scraps of courage you had left. “I didn’t want to…say anything,” you admitted, “because I figured…if you didn’t feel the same, I could just…keep joking about dying and never have to deal with it.”

He winced, like he’d been physically hit.

“That,” he said, “is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you have. And you’ve had some terrible ones.”

“Hey,” you croaked. “I survived. Mostly.”

“Yeah,” he said. “In spite of your best efforts.”

You let your head sink a little deeper into the pillow, exhaustion pulling at your edges. The IV pump clicked. The monitors hummed. Somewhere outside the door, a cart rattled by, tires squeaking. The world felt weirdly distant, like you were wrapped in glass. The only thing that felt real was the way his thumb kept moving in slow circles against your skin, like he needed that contact as much as you did.

“So what now?” you asked softly. “We…pretend this didn’t happen? Go back to making morbid jokes and hiding in safe house kitchens?”

He took a breath, slow and deliberate, like he was bracing to step onto a minefield.

“No,” he said.

The word settled in your chest like a warm weight.

“I can’t go back to pretending I don’t…” He trailed off, searching for the right phrasing, as if every word was a potential trap. “That I don’t care this much. That you’re just another mission file. That I’d be fine if you didn’t come back one day. I’ve done enough pretending in my life.”

“Me too,” you admitted.

His gaze softened, something like pride flickering in it.

“So we don’t pretend,” he said. “We…figure it out. Slowly. Carefully. When you’re not on enough meds to take down an elephant.”

You snorted, the sound dissolving into a wince. “Are you…asking me out…or scheduling a…feelings debrief?”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Little of both, maybe,” he said. “I’m sayin’…when you’re cleared, when you’re not held together by staples and sheer spite, I’d like to take you somewhere that isn’t a safehouse or a warzone. Get coffee that isn’t from a shitty machine. Maybe sit in a park like normal people and argue about something stupid.”

“Sounds dangerous,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Terrifying. I’ll bring backup.”

“Sam?” you asked.

“Hell no,” he said. “He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

You smiled, small and wobbly. “I’d like that,” you said, and the simplicity of the words nearly undid you.

His shoulders loosened, just a fraction. You saw the tension bleed out of him like air from a too-tight balloon.

“Okay,” he said, like the decision had been a battle and he was finally letting himself believe he’d won. “Okay.”

The room seemed to breathe with you then. Everything felt a little less sharp, a little less precarious. The pain was still there, deep and insistent, but it had context now. It had a shape that wasn’t just fear.

“You know,” you murmured, because your brain refused to stop offering up mortifying honesty, “if this had gone the other way…you would’ve been the last thing I thought about.”

His face went very still.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I could see it on the hill. You were looking right through me like you were seeing everything all at once. I figured at least some of that was my charming face.”

“Always,” you whispered. “Annoying to the end.”

He huffed, but there was no bite in it. Only relief.

“Do me a favor?” he asked.

“Depends,” you said.

“Next time you wanna test-drive dying,” he said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm to hide the shake under it, “don’t.”

You nodded, or tried to. “I’ll…put in a formal request,” you said. “File it with…whoever’s in charge of…mortality.”

“I got connections,” he said. “Guy with a hammer owes me a favor. I’ll see what I can do.”