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He was looking forward to nothing more than driving home, taking a scalding hot shower, and slipping into bed where he hoped you would still be sleeping peacefully, entirely unaware of the chaos he spent his nights wading through.

Keeping your relationship a secret had been your idea originally, though Jack had agreed without much resistance, knowing precisely how protective and intensely possessive your older brother could be.

Robby was a brilliant physician, but he viewed the emergency room, and everyone within it, through a lens of strict, professional compartmentalisation, and he guarded his family with a fierce, almost suffocating tenacity.

Jack knew that if Robby discovered his close friend and colleague was quietly slipping out of his younger sister’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, the fallout would destabilise the delicate balance of the entire department.

So, you had kept it hidden for four months, snatching quiet moments in empty breakrooms, lingering hand-brushes by the elevator banks, and long, warm nights wrapped up together away from the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The sudden, piercing blare of the telemetry alarms and the sharp, urgent rattle of the double doors being thrown open shattered the low hum of the morning shift change. Dana looked up instantly from her desk, her brow furrowing as the paramedics burst through the entrance, pushing a stretcher at a dead sprint.

Jack didn't think much of it at first, traumas rolled through those doors every twenty minutes, until he caught the sheer, pale panic on the lead paramedic’s face, and the distinct, sickening crimson pattern soaked into the white sheets draped over the gurney.

Jack stepped forward purely out of muscle memory, his voice raspy from a long night of shouting over sirens. "What have we got, guys?"

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, victim of a aggravated burglary at her residence forty minutes ago," the paramedic rattled off at breakneck speed, her heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. "Neighbour called it in after hearing a struggle and glass breaking. Stab wound to the left upper quadrant, deep laceration to the right forearm, massive blood loss at the scene."

Jack took two paces toward the stretcher to take the chart, his eyes dropping casually to the patient’s face to assess her airway, and in that split second, the entirety of his world shattered into jagged, unyielding pieces.

The color drained from his face so rapidly that Dana actually reached out a hand, thinking he was about to faint. The woman lying pale and motionless beneath the blood-soaked trauma blanket was you.

The breath left Jack’s lungs in a harsh, strangled gasp, his professional distance evaporating so violently that he stumbled forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they hovered over your bloodied, chest-stained clothes. "No... no, no, Jesus Christ—"

"Jack? What the hell are you doing?" Dana barked, her eyes widening as she grabbed his elbow, shocked by the total collapse of his usually unflappable demeanor. "Get back, let us transfer her! Shen, I need a trauma team right now! Call down to blood bank, give me four units of O-negative on the rapid infuser!"

Jack didn't hear her. The sterile, controlled world of the Pitt was completely obliterated, replaced by a terrifying, primal panic that choked the throat right out of him. He grabbed the side rail of your stretcher, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes wide and wild as he looked down at your face. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering weakly, your lips parted as you sucked in shallow, wet breaths.

"Look at me, hey, look at me," Jack begged, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual calm authority as he reached out and cupped your ice-cold cheek with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. "I'm right here. You're at the hospital, you're with me, you're going to be okay. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, stay open for me."

You turned your head toward his voice, your eyes unfocusing as you tried to track him through the thick, terrifying haze of shock. "Jack?" you rasped, a tiny, frail sound that nearly brought him to his knees right there on the blood-spattered floor. "Jack, it hurts so bad..."

"I know, I know, I’ve got you," he sobbed out, not caring in the slightest that half the nursing staff was staring at him in utter shock. He pushed alongside the paramedics, helping to physically lift your limp body onto the trauma bed.

The scene erupted into controlled chaos around him. Clothes were being cut away with shears, cardiac monitor leads were being slapped onto your icy skin, and the metallic thump of suction devices filled the small room.

Jack stood at the head of your bed, his gloved hands cupping your face, his head bent low so he was inches from yours, whispering desperate, broken promises against your hairline while Shen sprinted into the room, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Abbot, what is going on with you? Step back, I need space at the airway!" Shen yelled over the shrill, alarming beep of the heart monitor, which was ticking at a terrifyingly rapid rate. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's her," Jack choked out, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's Robby’s sister. Shen, please... "

Before Shen could even process the devastating weight of Jack's plea, the door to the trauma bay swung open with a bang, and Robby walked in, holding a tablet and adjusting his stethoscope around his neck, looking fresh and prepared for his morning shift.

"Hey, what's the noise down here? Dana said we had an unstable stab—" Robby stopped dead in his tracks. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked trauma shears, the bags of crimson red blood hanging from the IV poles, and finally landed on your pale, bruised face surrounded by monitoring wires.

"Y/N?" Robby’s voice was barely a whisper, a hollow, disbelieving sound that shattered the room. In three long strides, he shoved past a nurse, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as he grabbed the edge of the bed. "What happened?! What the fuck happened?!"

"Robby, listen to me—" Shen tried to interject, stepping between him and the bed.

"Get off me!" Robby screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of grief and rage as he looked at your open, bleeding abdomen where Shen was applying heavy, firm pressure with sterile gauze to slow the massive internal hemorrhage.

"Why was she brought in like this?!" Robby’s eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on Jack, who was still standing at the head of the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

Robby froze, his mind racing through the dark, frantic puzzle of the room. He looked at the way Jack was holding you, not like a doctor holding a patient, not even like a friend holding a colleague's relative, but with the terrifying, desperate agony of a man watching his entire life bleed out on a stainless-steel table.

Robby stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury. "Jack... why are you holding her like that? Why are you touching her like that?"

Jack didn't look up. He couldn't take his eyes off your face, watching your oxygen saturation levels dip dangerously low on the overhead monitor. "Robby, please, not right now," Jack pleaded, his voice thick and broken. "She's bleeding badly, she needs to go straight to theatre—"

"I asked you a fucking question, Jack!" Robby roared, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Jack’s scrub top, pulling him away from the bed with such violent force that the cardiac monitor cart rattled. "Why are you looking at my sister like that?! What is she to you?!"

"Robby, stop it!" Dana yelled, stepping boldly between the two grown men, her hands slamming against Robby’s chest to keep him from shoving Jack into the wall. "She is in hemorrhagic shock! Look at the fucking monitor, Robby! Look at your sister!"

"I love her!" Jack snapped, the secret ripping out of his chest like a jagged blade, his voice echoing loudly over the frantic, rhythmically failing beeps of the cardiac machine. "We’ve been seeing each other for months, Robby! I fucking love her, and she was attacked in her home while I was sitting here doing paperwork! So hit me, tear me apart, do whatever the hell you want, but do not make this about us while she is dying on this bed!"

Robby reeled back as if he’d been physically struck, his hands dropping from Jack’s shirt. His face twisted into a complex, ugly storm of betrayal, shock, and profound, terrifying panic. He looked from Jack’s blood-stained hands to your quiet, still face.

“You... you were lying to me? Both of you?" Robby’s voice shook, a bitter, wounded sound. "You were sleeping with my sister behind my back while—"

"Robby, her blood pressure is insane!" Shen yelled, his voice cutting through the rising argument like a scalpel. "We don't have time for a surgical team to come down, we need to open her right here or she goes into cardiac arrest in minutes!"

The harsh reality of the medical emergency slammed back into the room like a tidal wave. Robby blinked, the anger in his eyes instantly drowning in a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched your heart rate spike, the waveform on the screen flattening out into dangerous, erratic rhythms.

“No," Robby breathed, his voice small, vulnerable, and completely stripped of his usual arrogance. "No, no, no, look at me. I'm right here. You stay with me, do you hear me?"

"I need a thoracotomy tray and a laparotomy kit, right now!" Shen shouted, his hands working furiously to pack more gauze into your side. "Someone get on the suction! Robby, you need to step out!"

"Like hell I'm stepping out!" Robby yelled, shoving his way back to the side of the bed, his hands trembling violently as he reached for a pair of sterile gloves. "She's my sister! I am operating!"

"You cannot touch her, Robby, you know the protocol! You’re not doing shit either, Abbot," Dana sternly intervened, putting her body directly between Robby and the instrument tray. Her face was set like granite, though her eyes were filled with deep, maternal sympathy. "You will freeze or you will make a mistake, and she will die because of it! Out! Both of you, get out of this bay right now!"

"No!" both men barked in unison.

"I am not leaving her!" Jack yelled, his knuckles white as he grabbed a pair of gloves, his eyes fixed on Shen. "Shen, let me assist! My hands are steady, I swear to God my hands are steady!"

"Jack, look at yourself, you're shaking so hard you can barely stand!" Dana snapped, taking Jack firmly by the upper arms and physically pulling him away from the head of the bed. She looked at Robby, then at Jack, her voice dropping into a fierce, commanding tone that left no room for argument. "If you two care about this girl, if you love her at all, you will get the hell out of this room and let Shen and the trauma team do their jobs! Every second you stand here fighting like children is a second she doesn't have! Move!"

She didn't wait for them to comply, she aggressively pushed both men out of the sliding glass doors and drew the blue privacy curtains shut with a sharp, definitive snap.

The waiting corridor outside the main trauma suite felt like a cold, sterile tomb. The morning sunlight was just beginning to bleed through the high frost-tinted windows, casting harsh, pale light across the linoleum floor, but inside the hallway, time had ground to a complete standstill. The only sound was the distant, muffled shouting of medical commands from behind the blue curtain, punctuated by the steady, terrifying rhythm of automated alarms.

Jack stood leaning against the far wall, his hands buried deep in his curls, his body slumping down until he was on the floor. His scrub top was ruined, smeared with bright crimson streaks of your blood that had already begun to dry into stiff, dark patches.

Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like glass, his chest tight with a crushing, suffocating guilt. He should have been there. He should have insisted on driving you home after your shift two days ago, he should have checked your locks, he should have protected you. The image of your bruised skin and the frail, terrified sound of your voice calling his name kept repeating in a horrific, endless loop behind his eyelids.

A few yards down the hallway, Robby was pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging drawn blood into his own palms. Every time he turned around, his furious, bloodshot eyes landed on Jack sitting against the wall, and the bitter, hot rage inside him flared back to life, offering a brief, desperate distraction from the sheer, paralyzing fear that his little sister was dying on the other side of that glass.

Robby marched over, stopping directly in front of Jack. "Get up," Robby spat, his voice trembling with venom. "Get up and look at me, you coward."

Jack slowly lifted his head. His face was ghastly, his eyes hollow, dark, and utterly deadened by grief. He didn't offer any resistance, didn't raise a hand to defend himself. He just looked up at Robby with a hollow, broken expression. "Go ahead, Robby. Say whatever you want. It won't be worse than what I'm already telling myself."

"You lied to me!" Robby shouted, his voice echoing down the empty, quiet corridor, causing a few passing nurses to flinch and walk faster. "For months! I treated you like a brother, Jack! I trusted you with my life in this department, I took shifts for you, I let you into my home, and the whole time you were sneaking behind my back with my sister! You manipulated her!"

"I didn't manipulate anyone!" Jack rasped, standing up slowly, leaning his heavy back against the cold wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. "I love her, Robby! I didn't plan for this to happen! It started off slow, and then... Christ, she became the only good thing in my life! She asked me not to tell you because she knew you'd react exactly like this! She was terrified you'd make her feel guilty for just wanting to be happy!"

"Don't you dare put this on her!" Robby barked, stepping directly into Jack's personal space, poking a harsh, rigid finger into Jack's chest right over a dark bloodstain. "She is my little sister! My responsibility! She was hiding things because of you! You put her in danger!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Jack suddenly roared back, his composure snapping entirely as he grabbed Robby's wrist and shoved his hand away, tears spilling freely over his blood-stained cheeks. "You think I'm not sitting here wanting to tear my own skin off because I wasn't there to protect her?! I would have taken every single one of those fucking knives for her, Robby! I would lay down on that table and let them cut my heart out right now if it meant she gets to wake up! So don't you dare stand there and pretend you're the only one who cares whether she lives or dies!"

Robby stared at Jack, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream, but the sheer, raw agony in Jack's voice hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of Robby just a fraction, leaving behind the hollow, terrifying reality that neither of them had any control over what was happening behind those blue curtains.

Before Robby could fire back another bitter insult, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Dana walked out alongside Shen. Both of them looked thoroughly exhausted, their blue gowns splattered with blood, but their faces were calm, settled into that weary, professional relief that both Robby and Jack knew so intimately.

Jack was across the hallway in a fraction of a second, grabbing Dana's forearms with desperate, trembling hands. "Is she... is she alive? Please, Dana, tell me she's alive."

Dana looked down at his hands, then up into his terrified, bloodshot eyes, her expression softening into a gentle, reassuring smile. "She's alive, Jack. She's stabilised."

A long, ragged sob burst from Jack's chest as he slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands as the suffocating weight lifted off his lungs. Robby let out a shaky, desperate breath of his own, running both hands over his face, his shoulders slumping in profound, overwhelming relief.

"The blade missed the important stuff by less than a centimetre," Shen explained quickly, pulling off his surgical cap and wiping his damp brow. "Park and the guys are finishing up her sutures right now. She's going to be okay, guys. She's strong."

"Can I see her?" Robby asked immediately, his voice thick with emotion, stepping toward the trauma bay doors.

"She's being moved up to a different unit in a few minutes once she comes round from the anesthetic," Dana said gently, stepping smartly into Robby's path and laying a firm hand against his chest. She gave him a stern, motherly look that made even the senior attending doctor pause. "And before you step foot into that room, Robby, you are going to take a long, deep breath and leave your ridiculous ego at the door."

Robby blinked, taken aback. "Dana, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dana interrupted smoothly, turning her cool, unyielding gaze between Robby and Jack. "I have watched the two of you act like absolute idiots for the last forty-five minutes while that poor girl was fighting for her life. Robby, your sister just survived a horrific, traumatic assault. She does not need to wake up to her brother screaming at the man she loves. She needs peace, she needs rest, and she needs both of you to pull yourselves together and be adults."

Robby looked at Dana, his mouth opening to argue, but the sheer authority in her posture held him silent. He glanced over at Jack, who was still standing by the wall, wiping his face with the back of his wrist, looking entirely drained, hollowed-out, and deeply ashamed.

"Go up to the fourth floor," Dana added softly, her tone loosening into something kinder. "Clean yourselves up. Change out of those ruined scrubs. By the time you look like proper doctors again, she'll be awake in her room."

Your room was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp and the gentle, rhythmic pumping of the IV drip monitor. The harsh smell of the trauma bay was replaced by the clean, faint scent of lavender soap and fresh linens. You lay propped up slightly against two large pillows. A thick white bandage was wrapped securely around your right forearm, and beneath the heavy hospital blanket, your abdominal dressing sat quiet and intact.

When the heavy wooden door pushed open, you turned your head slowly toward the sound. The heavy pain medication made your head feel light, floaty, and distant, but the moment you saw Jack and Robby walking into the room together, the fog cleared just enough for your heart to ache with sweet, overwhelming relief.

Both men had changed into clean, dark scrubs. Robby walked in first, looking hesitant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual confident posture replaced by a cautious, quiet guilt. Behind him stood Jack. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his eyes were bruised with dark circles, his jaw tight with anxiety, hovering near the doorway as if he wasn't entirely sure he was permitted to be in the same room as you.

"Hey, kiddo," Robby whispered softly, walking over to the right side of your bed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his face softening into a look of pure, unadulterated big-brother affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a very large truck," you rasped, your voice scratchy and dry. You offered him a weak, tired smile. "Dana told me that you were making a scene down there, Robby."

Robby let out a soft, wet laugh, dropping his head for a second as a fresh wave of emotion hit him. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. I thought, God, I don't even want to say it." He took your uninjured hand, holding it tight between both of his. "The police caught the guy, by the way. He was a petty burglar who panicked when he realised the apartment was occupied. He's in custody. He won't ever come near you again."

"Good," you murmured softly, squeezing his hand weakly. Your eyes drifted past your brother's shoulder, locking onto Jack, who was still standing quietly by the door, staring down at his shoes, his posture heavy with guilt. "Jack, come here."

Jack lifted his eyes, looking at you with such a raw, desperate tenderness that it made your chest tighten. He glanced cautiously at Robby, then slowly walked around to the left side of your bed. He stopped a few inches away, looking as though he wanted to reach out and touch you, but was terrified of breaking you further.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stayed with you last night, I shouldn't have taken this shift—"

"Jack, stop," you interrupted gently, reaching your left hand out toward him. "Stop that right now. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Jack lowered himself to the floor, wincing at the discomfort. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles, tears slipping quietly from his eyes and wetting your skin. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, ignoring Robby's presence entirely now as he leaned his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. "When they brought you through those doors... I've never been so terrified in my entire life. I don't care about anything else. I just need you to be okay."

You ran your fingers through his curls, feeling the heavy, frantic racing of his heart slowly begin to settle against your side. "I'm okay, Jack. I'm right here."

Across the bed, Robby watched the two of you. He saw the way Jack held your hand not with possessiveness, but with a deep, reverent care that was entirely selfless. He saw the way your face relaxed the moment Jack touched you, the way the lingering fear in your eyes melted away into complete, absolute safety.

Robby let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling. "You two are absolute idiots, you know that?" he said softly, breaking the quiet emotional tension in the room.

Jack lifted his head from the mattress, looking over at Robby with a guarded, wary expression. You offered your brother a small, pleading look. "Robby, please don't be mad at him. It was my idea to keep it quiet. I didn't want you making things complicated at work."

"I am mad," Robby admitted honestly, though the harsh edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a weary, warm acceptance. "I'm fucking furious that you both lied to my face for months. I'm furious that I had to find out while my sister was bleeding out." He paused, looking directly at Jack, his dark eyes firm. "But... I saw you down there, Jack. I saw how you looked at her."

Jack stood up slowly, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around yours, meeting Robby's gaze across the bed without flinching. "I love her, Robby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for lying to you, but I am never going to apologise for loving her."

Robby stared at Jack for a long, silent moment, before a small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, leaning over to kiss the top of your head before stepping back from the bed.

"Well... at least I know if she ever gets hurt again, the attending doctor will be too terrified of failing to let her die." Robby walked toward the door, turning back with his hand on the handle. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get some decent coffee. Real coffee, not that shit in the breakroom. Jack, you're staying right here until I get back. And then we're going to have a long talk about boundaries."

"Understood," Jack said softly, offering a quiet, respectful nod.

Robby looked between the two of you one last time, his expression softening into pure relief. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't do it again." With a final, gentle click, the door swung shut, leaving the room in a warm, peaceful quiet.

Jack immediately leaned in close, wrapping his arms around you with extraordinary gentleness, careful to avoid your bandaged abdomen as he buried his face in the warm crook of your neck. You wrapped your uninjured arm around his back, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You really scared me, sweetheart," Jack whispered against your skin, his hands smoothing down your back with a soft, desperate rhythm.

"I know," you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and his familiar, comforting warmth. "I'm sorry. But I'm safe now. You've got me."

"Yeah," Jack breathed, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, his face lit by the soft golden light of the bedside lamp. He leaned in, pressing a slow, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips that tasted of salt, relief, and quiet promises for the future. "I've got you. And I'm never letting you go."

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"Come on, don't be like that," Walker pressed, stepping further into the room and blocking your exit route with a casual, looming posture. "Just one drink. I'm practically begging here. You can't spend all your free time hiding out in the tactical wing."

Before you could offer another sharp refusal, a quiet, heavy footprint sounded behind you. Suddenly, Bucky was there, slinging a warm, heavy arm over your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. Before you could even register the movement, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the side of your head.

"Hi, sweetheart. Is there a problem here, Walker?" Bucky asked, turning his cold, unreadable gaze onto the other man. His tone was deceptively casual, but the hard edge underneath was unmistakable.

Walker blinked, his confident smirk faltering into a look of genuine confusion. "No, Barnes, I was just—"

"Because if you need someone to review your tactical briefs with you," Bucky interrupted smoothly, his metal hand resting securely on your shoulder, "I'm sure Alexei is available. But my partner and I were just leaving for dinner. So, if you'll excuse us."

"Right. Yeah. Sure," Walker muttered, backing away awkwardly while raising his hands in defeat. "Didn't realise. Catch you two later."

Once Walker’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Bucky let his arm drop, though he stayed close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. He looked down at you, a faint, wry smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "He’s relentless, isn't he?"

"You have no idea," you breathed, leaning back against the cool metal of the lockers as your heart finally began to slow down. "Thank you. Though now he probably thinks we're..."

"Dating?" Bucky finished, raising an eyebrow. He leaned his back against the locker beside yours, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, Walker's the type of guy who won't respect a clear 'no', but he'll respect another man's territory. It's ridiculous, but it works. We could keep it up for a bit. Just until this mission cycle wraps up and he gets out of our way. Give you some breathing room."

You stared at him, trying to keep your voice entirely neutral despite the sudden flutter in your chest. "You're offering to fake date me?"

"I'm offering a tactical solution to an annoying problem," Bucky corrected softly, though his dark eyes held a strange, lingering warmth as he met your gaze. "Unless the idea completely repulses you?"

"No," you said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. "No, it's... it's a good plan, Buck. Tactical."

Except, of course, for the minor detail that you had been hopelessly in love with him for nearly a year.

Over the next few weeks, the line between an act and reality disintegrated entirely. It started with subtle, performative touch. Bucky taking your hand as you walked through the briefing rooms, or resting his palm firmly at the small of your back in the mess hall. But soon, the audience didn't seem to matter anymore.

"You're doing it again," you murmured one evening in his quarters, looking up from the laptop where you were filing mission reports. Bucky was sitting beside you on the sofa, his thumb lightly tracing small, absentminded patterns over your knuckles.

He didn't pull his hand away. "Doing what?"

"Holding my hand," you pointed out softly, your voice dropping. "Walker isn't even in the building tonight, Bucky."

Bucky went still for a fraction of a second. Then, his thumb resumed its slow, soothing motion against your skin. "Habit," he offered quietly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. "Besides... do you want me to stop?"

You swallowed hard, looking at the contrast of his rough fingers wrapped around yours. "No. I don't."

The breaking point finally came on a rainy Tuesday evening in the training room. After two hours of intense sparring, you were sitting on the edge of the mat, nursing fresh bruises and attempting to wrap a bandage around your strained wrist with one hand.

"Here. Let me," Bucky said, dropping down onto the mat beside you. His hair was damp with sweat, his breath coming in soft, steady even rhythm.

He took the elastic bandage from your fingers, his cool touch sending a shiver straight up your spine. He worked carefully, wrapping the fabric around your joint with incredible precision and gentleness.

"I talked to Yelena earlier," you said, breaking the heavy silence of the room. You watched the shadow of Bucky's eyelashes as he focused entirely on your hand. "She said Walker is going on some European mission on Friday. Should last a few weeks.”

Bucky didn't look up, his fingers carefully securing the metal clip of the bandage. "Good. You won't have to deal with him for a little while."

"Yeah," you whispered, feeling a sudden, suffocating knot of something tightening in your chest. "So... we don't have to keep doing this now. You're off the hook. No more pretending."

Bucky’s hands froze over your wrist. For a long, tense moment, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic patter of rain against the high windows. Then, slowly, he looked up. The guarded, calm composure he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate vulnerability.

"You think I've been pretending?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Bucky, the whole thing was your idea to get Walker off my back—"

"The idea was a cover," Bucky interrupted, his voice rising slightly before softening into a quiet confession. He shifted closer on the mat, his heavy shadow falling over you. His metal hand came up, his cool fingers resting gently against the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. "It was a selfish, desperate excuse to touch you. To stand close to you. To finally have a reason to hold your hand without terrified that I was crossing a line."

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Bucky..."

"I've been in love with you for months," he admitted, his eyes searching your face with a quiet, terrified honesty. "Every touch, every look, every single minute of this ridiculous fake arrangement... it was the most real thing I've felt in decades. If you tell me to walk away now, I will. But please don't tell me it was just an act."

A breathless, incredulous laugh escaped your lips, the sheer relief of it washing over you so hard it made your eyes sting. You reached up, placing your hand directly over his metal fingers resting on your cheek.

"You are such an idiot," you murmured, leaning into his touch. "You really waited for an obnoxious teammate to force us into a fake relationship before you told me?"

A faint, breathless laugh shook Bucky's chest, the tension melting out of his shoulders. "Does that mean you're not mad?"

"It means I've been in love with you for a year," you answered softly. "And if you don't kiss me right now, I'm going to start asking Walker for tactical advice."

Bucky let out a low groan, closing the tiny distance remaining between you. "Don't even joke about that," he muttered against your lips, before pulling you in and kissing you properly, slow, deep, and without a single pretense left between you.

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“What about this one?” You hold a simple black set up to your body. “Or is it too boring?”

Jesus Christ. It is boring, but somehow the thought of you wearing it still gets Steve going.

“It’s less boring than Allen,” Steve grins.

A tag scratches his skin as you smack him with one of the bras in your hand, “He’s a sweetheart.”

’A sweetheart’ isn’t the way Steve would describe Allen Barrows, but he bites his tongue. As long as you’re happy, he’s happy. The mantra becomes less true every time he repeats it. Each minute that passes brings you closer to the end of your shift when Steve will have to watch Allen whisk you off for a night he doesn’t deserve. 

“I should probably try these on before you hand me the whole store.”

Steve chuckles, trailing behind you to the dressing rooms tucked in the back of the store. He forces his eyes down to the floor after you slip into one of the stalls, pretending not to notice the gap between the curtain and the wall that gives him a perfect view of your reflection in the shitty mirror. It would be perverted to watch. But the store is almost entirely empty, and it’s not like you would notice, right? Steve gives in before he can talk himself out of it. Your tits are the first sight he’s met with, bare as you pick up the first bra he picked out for you. No one should look as perfect as you do. 

He tampers his growing erection by imagining your disgust if you caught him in the act, your rejection if he ever dared to make a move. Losing you isn’t worth it. The one person who truly enjoys his company, the best addition to his life since ’83. 

The dressing room curtain rustles leading Steve to avert his eyes again. You step out, avoiding his gaze as you awkwardly twirl in nothing but a bra and panties.

“What do you think?”

Steve coughs, trying to cover up his surprise, “You look great.”

You nod before slipping back behind the curtain, pulling it flush with the wall, taking away Steve’s preview. You’re in the dressing room for a few minutes longer this time. Those few minutes allow Steve’s mind to run wild. He’s considering hiding in a dressing room to jerk off when you step out again.

“This one is really hot,” you pause, adjusting the bra’s position on your chest. “You have good taste, Steve.”

“Finally, some appreciation,” Steve chuckles, his face burning; you must be aware of the effect you have on him. There’s no way you aren’t. “You look like a dream.”

You bow your head, staring down at the carpet. Steve moves in closer, sliding a hand around your exposed waist.

“Is this okay?”

He’ll stop if you tell him to, no matter how much he wants this. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “I was actually hoping this would happen.”

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” he cups your cheek in his hand, guiding your face to look back up at him.

You laugh and Steve thinks the sound adds 10 years to his lifespan, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Harrington.”

“If you cancel your date with Allen, you can show me everything. I’ll call him for you, scare him off for good. Want you all to myself,” Steve murmurs.

“I’ll call him. You could pay for this, though,” you gesture to the lingerie set you’re wearing.

Steve leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, stirring up every feeling that’s been growing inside him, “My wallet’s already set, honey.”

Gale Dekarios has a habit of counting stars when he can’t sleep. Not aloud, never aloud, unless someone asks (Gods, he loves it when someone asks), but in the quiet of his own mind, tracing constellations with his fingertips against the fabric of his bedroll. Tonight, the sky is a mess of clouds, so he counts the stitches in his tent’s ceiling instead. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

Outside, the fire pops softly, sending up embers that flicker like dying fireflies. Someone, probably Astarion, has left a half-empty bottle of wine near the coals, and the smell of it, warm and faintly sour, drifts on the breeze. Gale shifts onto his side, listening to the chorus of his companions’ breathing: Shadowheart’s measured exhales, Karlach’s occasional snort, Wyll’s steady rhythm. All asleep. All content.

Except, no. Not all. Not everyone is asleep.

There’s a rustle near the edge of camp, the sound of fabric shifting, then a quiet, frustrated sigh. Gale sits up, pushing his blanket aside. He knows that sigh. He’s heard it before, late at night when the others are lost to dreams, and the world feels too big.

Gale slips out of his tent, bare feet whispering against the dew-damp grass. The night air is cool, invigoratingly so, and he wraps his night robe tighter around himself as he pads toward the source of the sigh. There you are, sitting with your knees drawn up to your chest, fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of your neck, the ones he’s always thought looked like spun moonlight when the fire caught them just right.

“Darling,” he croons, crouching beside you. His voice is rough with sleep, warm as the embers still glowing in the firepit. “Still awake, I see.”

You startle, then relax when you recognize him. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admit sheepishly, picking at a loose thread on your trousers. The fabric is worn thin at the knees, and Gale makes a mental note to mend it for you later. “Mind’s too loud.”

“Ah, the dreaded insomnia.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “A most unwelcome companion.” When you don’t respond, he nudges your shoulder with his. “Come on, then. My tent’s far cozier than this patch of dirt, and I’ve just the thing to quiet that busy mind of yours.”

You hesitate, fingers stilling against the frayed fabric of your trousers. The offer is tempting, Gale’s tent always smells like old books and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon left too long in the sun, but the thought of being so close to him sends a flutter of nervous warmth through your chest. “I don’t want to be a bother,” you mutter, tucking a curl behind your ear only for it to spring free again in stubborn retaliation.

Gale huffs a quiet laugh, his breath visible in the cool night air. “Sweetheart, if you were a bother, I wouldn’t have offered.” He stands, offering you a hand, his palm upturned and waiting. There’s ink smudged along the side of his thumb, and the sight of it, so ordinary and domestic, makes something tight in your chest loosen. You take his hand.

His tent is exactly as you remember, cluttered in the way of someone who’s always thinking three steps ahead. Spellbooks are stacked haphazardly beside his bedroll, a half-finished letter to home, Waterdeep, peeks out from beneath a teacup, and a single candle flickers on a makeshift desk of overturned crates. Gale kicks a pair of socks out of the way with the heel of his foot, clearing a path for you. “Make yourself at home,” he says, waving a hand. “Though I’ll admit ‘home’ is currently somewhat… lived-in.”

You snort, settling onto the edge of his bedroll. “Lived-in is one way to put it.”

Gale kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against the spines of his spellbooks before settling on a well-worn volume with gilded edges. "Ah, here we are," he murmurs, flipping it open with practiced ease. The pages are dog-eared and annotated in his cramped handwriting, margins filled with scribbled thoughts and corrections. He clears his throat dramatically, adjusting an imaginary pair of spectacles. "Tonight's selection: The Ballad of the Moonlit Duel, a rather charming tale of mistaken identities and ill-advised wizardry. Unless you'd prefer something drier? Theories of Arcane Transmutation has a particularly soporific chapter on- "

"No, no," you interrupt, giggling softly. "The ballad sounds perfect." You tug at the hem of your sleep sweater self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of how it rides up when you sit. Gale notices, fucking of course he does, but he doesn't stare. Instead, he reaches for a blanket draped over a nearby stack of books and shakes it out with a flourish.

"Cold?" he asks, already tucking it around your shoulders with almost too much care. His fingers linger for a moment, warm against your collarbone.

You nod, pulling the blanket tighter. It smells like him, ink and ozone and something indefinably comforting. "A little, yeah."

Gale settles beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, but not so close that it panics you. He holds the book in one hand, the other gesturing absently as he begins to read. His voice is smooth, melodic, the kind of voice that could make a grocery list sound like poetry. Damn him. You let your eyes drift shut, listening to the rise and fall of his words, the way he lingers on certain syllables like he’s savoring them.

“And so the rogue, cloaked in shadow,” he reads, “crept toward the duelist, unaware that the moon had betrayed her silver silhouette…” His free hand finds yours under the blanket, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in absent comforting circles. You don’t pull away. Instead, you curl your fingers around his, anchoring yourself to the moment.

Halfway through the ballad, you shift, trying to find a more comfortable position. Gale pauses, glancing down at you. “Alright, darling?” he murmurs. You nod, but he’s already moving, adjusting the pillows behind you with a flick of his fingers, a touch of magic, just enough to fluff them into something more inviting. “Here,” he says, guiding you to lean back. “Better?”

You hum in agreement, sinking into the softness. Gale resumes reading, but his voice has softened, slowed, as if he’s tailoring the rhythm to the steady rise and fall of your breathing. His hand never leaves yours.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each word, the cadence of Gale’s voice weaving through the quiet like a lullaby. The tension in your shoulders melts away, replaced by the warmth of his hand in yours, the gentle pressure of his thumb tracing idle patterns against your skin. You’re vaguely aware of the blanket slipping down your shoulder, but before you can adjust it, Gale’s fingers are there, brushing the fabric back into place with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

“There we go, you can relax, Gorgeous…” he coos, pausing mid-sentence to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingers, tracing the shell of your ear before retreating, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. “You’re nodding off, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, fighting the pull of sleep. “M’not,” you mumble defiantly, though the words slur together. The candlelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his smile. He looks younger like this, unguarded.

Gale chuckles, closing the book with a soft thump. “Liar,” he teases, setting it aside. “But I’ll forgive you.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. His palm is warm against your skin, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “You’re beautiful like this,” he says quietly, as if it’s a secret. “All soft and sleepy.”

You want to protest, to scoff or roll your eyes, anything to deflect the warmth pooling in your chest, but exhaustion weighs heavily on your limbs, and Gale’s thumb tracing slow circles under your cheekbone is hypnotic. Instead, you nuzzle instinctively into his palm, a quiet sigh escaping you. His breath catches, just slightly, at the movement.

“Honey,” he murmurs, shifting closer. The bedroll dips under his weight as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, chaste but lingering, his lips warm against your skin. “Let’s get you properly settled, hm?” His hands slide down to your shoulders, guiding you to lie back fully, and you go willingly, boneless with drowsiness.

Gale arranges the blanket around you with a precision that borders on ceremonial, smoothing out every wrinkle before draping a second one that’s thicker, and woolen over your legs. “There,” he says, satisfied. “Now, unless you’d like me to resume thrilling tales of magical mishaps- ”

“Stay,” you interrupt, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding fast. The request hangs between you, vulnerable in its simplicity.

Gale goes very still. For a heartbeat, you think you’ve overstepped, that he’ll politely extricate himself with some scholarly excuse, but then his breath leaves him in a quiet rush, and his fingers tighten around yours. "Well," he says, voice rougher than before, "since you asked so nicely." He doesn’t move to pull away. Instead, he shifts carefully, stretching out beside you atop the blankets, his body a warm line against yours. His arm hesitates for a fraction of a second before settling around your waist, his hand splaying possessively across the curve of your hip.

"You fit, almost perfectly," he murmurs, surprised, as if he hasn’t spent months imagining this very moment. His nose brushes the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, campfire smoke and the faint herbal tang of travel soap. "Like you were made to slot right here." His thumb strokes idle circles through the fabric of your oversized sweater, tracing the curve of your waist. You shiver, and he misinterprets it, tugging the blanket higher. "Cold still?"

You shake your head, pressing closer. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath your ear, a counterpoint to the rustle of canvas in the breeze. "Just... never done this before," you admit. "Been this close to someone." The confession hangs between you, raw and unvarnished. Gale’s hand stills on your hip.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says softly. There’s no pity in his voice, only a quiet wonder that makes your throat tighten. His fingers resume their path, mapping the swell of your hip, the softness of your belly, with a reverence that steals your breath. "Then let me tell you," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, "you are wonderful to hold." His palm presses flat against your stomach, warm even through the layers of fabric. "Like holding sunlight. Or… no, that’s not quite right." He huffs a laugh, his chest vibrating beneath you. "Perhaps I’ll think of a better metaphor tomorrow when I’m not half unconscious. For now..." His arm tightens, pulling you flush against him. "Rest.”

Gale’s heartbeat is a slow, steady drum beneath your ear, his breath stirring the curls at your temple. The weight of his arm around you is solid, grounding—an anchor in the quiet dark. You trace idle patterns against his chest, fingertips skimming the soft fabric of his shirt, and feel him shiver.

"Tickles," he giggles sleepily, catching your wrist with playful gentleness. His fingers slip between yours, lacing tight. "Though I’ll hardly complain if it keeps your hands busy." There’s a smirk in his voice, warm and teasing. You huff, but don’t pull away.

The candle flickers, casting long shadows across the tent walls. Gale exhales, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. "You know," he says, quieter now, "I’ve spent years memorizing incantations, tracing every line of power in the Weave, but this?" His hand squeezes yours. "This is the first magic I can’t quantify."

You tilt your head to look at him. Firelight catches in his lashes, gilds the curve of his lower lip. "Poetic," you tease, though your voice wobbles.

Gale's smirk softens into something tender, his eyes reflecting the candle's glow like pools of molten honey. "Only for you," he croons, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His lips linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary, and you feel the warmth of it travel up your arm, settling somewhere beneath your ribs.

Outside, an owl hoots, low and mournful, but inside Gale's tent, the world has narrowed to the space between his breaths and yours. He shifts slightly, his thigh brushing yours beneath the blankets, and you freeze, suddenly aware of every point where your bodies touch. Gale notices, because of course he does, and his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your curls. "Easy," he whispers against your hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

You exhale, unclenching muscles you didn't realize were tense, and let yourself melt into him. Gale hums approvingly, his fingers massaging slow circles into your scalp. "That's it," he coaxes. His other hand finds the small of your back, rubbing soothing strokes up and down. "You carry so much tension here, sweetheart. Like you're always bracing for impact."