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“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You turn.

The man standing there is large. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with an easy confidence that probably makes most people instinctively defer to him.

You’re not most people.

“Fine,” you say flatly. “I won.”

His eyebrow rises. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe respect. “At the same time?”

“One got the jump on me while I was fighting the first.” You turn back to Katheryne. “So as I was saying—”

“The commission requires three people,” the large man interrupts. “For a reason.”

You give him a look. “And you are?”

“Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.”

Most people would be embarrassed. Apologetic. Deferential.

You just nod. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m not excusing you.” But he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds… amused?

“I’m telling you that commission is too dangerous to take alone.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You’re getting it anyway.” He crosses his arms, and you notice he’s trying not to smile. “You’re good—I can tell that much. But good gets you killed if you’re reckless about it.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You’re trying to take a three-person commission solo. That’s reckless.”

You glare at him.

He gazes back, completely unmoved, and now he is smiling.

Katheryne clears her throat. “Perhaps a compromise? There’s a similar commission, lower rank, still challenging—”

“Fine.” You snatch the posting. “This one.”

Varka’s smile widens. “Smart choice.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

You turn to leave.

“Hey,” he calls after you.

You glance back.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. “Why?”

“So I know what to call you when I inevitably have to save your reckless ass.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “It’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see.”

You leave without giving him your name.

(He finds out anyway. Katheryne tells him within the hour. He asks three times to make sure he heard it right.)

(You definitely don’t think about how his arms looked when he crossed them. Or how his smile changed his entire face. You absolutely don’t notice these things.)

The commission pays well.

You try not to think about blue eyes and an irritating smile while you work. You fail.

When you return to the city two days later, the sun is setting and you’re covered in dirt and blood. You’re walking over the bridge when—

“Heading out?”

Of course.

You don’t turn around. “Just got back.”

Varka falls into step beside you anyway, looking entirely too fresh and clean for someone who’s supposedly been working all day.

His stride is easy, unhurried, and you’re very aware of him. He could probably carry your pack and you without breaking a sweat.

“Successful commission?”

“Obviously.”

“No near-death experiences?”

“Not a single one.” You glance at him. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved, actually.” His smile is warm. “Though I did have a bet going with myself about how long you’d last before needing rescue.”

“How long did you give me?”

“Two days.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Exactly.” He’s grinning now. “I’m very good at reading people.”

Despite yourself, you almost smile. “You’re very irritating, is what you are.”

“I’ve been told that.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where are you headed?”

“Guild. Report the commission.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Free city. Walk where you want.”

“That’s not a no.”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

He walks with you anyway, making easy conversation about nothing important. The weather, festival preparations, a merchant who’s trying to sell him “authentic Fatui memorabilia” that’s obviously fake.

You find yourself listening. Occasionally responding.

“You know,” he says casually, “you’ve got guts. Most people wouldn’t take commissions like that alone. You must really enjoy the thrill of it.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He blinks. “The danger. The fight. Some people are drawn to—”

“I don’t do this for thrills.” Your voice is sharp.

His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—”

“I do it because someone has to. Because if I don’t, people die.”

The words come out harsher than you intended.

Varka goes very still.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was stupid of me. I made an assumption.”

You start walking again. Varka catches up, falling into step.

“You’re trying to protect people,” he says. “Same as me. I should’ve seen that.”

You glance at him. His expression is serious. No defensiveness. Just understanding.

“Yeah,” you say finally.

He nods once. Doesn’t push. The tension eases slightly.

When you reach the Guild, he stops.

“Well,” Varka says, “this was nice.”

“You have a strange definition of nice.”

“Spending time with interesting people? That’s my definition exactly.” His eyes are warm. “See you around.”

He’s already walking away before you can respond. You stand there for a moment, watching him go. Then you shake your head.

You see him again two days later. And three days after that. And then it stops being surprising when he just shows up. The pattern continues. You take commissions. He appears. You work together with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who barely know each other.

(Except you’re starting to know him. The way he fights. The way he laughs. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.)

Two weeks later, he shows up again.

“You know,” you say, blocking a treasure hoarder’s strike, “don’t you have Grand Master things to do instead of slacking off?”

“Probably.” Varka disarms another hoarder with casual efficiency. “But this is more interesting.”

“Following me around?”

“Protecting Mondstadt.” He grins at you over the hoarder’s shoulder. “And getting to do it with you.”

He pauses, and something in his expression softens. “Enjoy spending time with you.”

You fumble your next parry.

The hoarder takes advantage, lunging forward, and Varka’s there instantly, intercepting the blade.

You catch a glimpse of his arms as he blocks. The way his muscles shift under his sleeves, controlled strength that could probably break someone in half but he’s using it to protect you—

Focus. You need to focus.

“Careful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the hoarder.

Later, after the fight, you watch him sheath his claymore. There’s a scratch on his forearm that wasn’t there before, and you have the absurd urge to check if he’s alright.

He fought three hoarders without breaking a sweat. He’s fine.

You’re still looking at his arm when he nudges your shoulder.

“You alright? You seemed distracted there for a second.”

“Fine.” Your face feels warm. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.” You busy yourself cleaning your blade. “Thanks. For the save.”

“Anytime.” His voice is soft. “That’s what partners do.”

“We’re not partners.”

“Aren’t we?” He gestures at the defeated hoarders. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You don’t have a response to that.

— ✦ —

A month after your first meeting, you’re tracking Abyssal activity when he appears.

(You heard him coming. You always hear him now. You’ve learned the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s trying to be quiet.)

“You’re getting predictable,” you say without turning around.

“Am I?”

“Every time I go after Abyssal monsters, you show up. Commission or not,” you mutter, refocusing on the tracks.

He’s quiet for a moment. “You track them outside of Guild work?”

“Someone has to.”

“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s dangerous.”

“Don’t care. Someone has to keep them away from the cities.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Guess you need someone protecting you then.”

You swallow hard. “What are you doing here, Varka?”

“Maybe I’m just very good at timing.” He crouches beside you, examining the tracks. “Or maybe I worry.”

That makes you look at him. “Why?”

“Because you hunt them like it’s personal. Not just for the mora.” His voice is gentle. “And personal makes people reckless.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You absolutely are.” But he’s smiling. “You’re like a firecracker. All explosive energy and no hesitation.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Sure it is. Firecrackers are exciting. Dangerous.” His eyes meet yours. “Beautiful when they go off. Hard to look away.”

Your breath catches. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly—

“The tracks go northeast,” you say abruptly, standing. “We should move.”

“Right. Northeast.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just keeps looking at you with that soft expression.

“Varka.”

“Yeah. Moving. I’m moving.”

But he’s still smiling as he follows you.

Four days later, you’re following a track near the Thousand Winds Temple when you hear his footsteps. Again.

You stand, facing him. “I can handle this alone.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why—”

“Because you don’t have to.” There’s frustration in his voice now. An edge you haven’t heard before. “You keep doing this. I’m right here and you just—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he repeats. Quieter this time.

You blink at him. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

He looks at a loss. Like he doesn’t know what to say. What to do with his hands.

It’s so unlike him that you actually feel bad. “Look,” you say finally. “You’re all strength and efficiency. And you like making use of your skills instead of just being in your office. I get it.”

Varka’s expression shifts. Something lighter creeping back in. “You could’ve just said you like it when I help you out.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “Must be the adrenaline talking.”

“Right. Adrenaline.” But he’s almost smiling now. “From all the standing around examining tracks.”

“Very intense track examination.”

“Clearly.”

He crouches beside you, examining the traces. Closer than necessary. “Not easy to rely on others,” he says quietly. More statement than question.

“Works better like this.” You keep your eyes on the tracks. “Simpler.”

“Simpler,” Varka repeats. “Right.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. But he doesn’t push.

Seven weeks in, at Dadaupa Gorge, the fight gets messy. The Hilichurl camp is larger than expected.

You’re outnumbered, outflanked, and one of them has a crossbow—

Varka's improvised shield takes the bolt meant for your head.

“Behind you!” you shout.

He spins, catches your attacker with his shoulder, sends them flying like they weigh nothing. You’ve seen him fight before, but there’s something about watching him move that makes your breath catch.

He’s close enough now that you can see the sweat on his brow, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion.

You force your eyes back to the fight. You barely dodge the next strike. You cover Varka's flank as three more rush in.

The fight is chaotic. Messy. Dangerous. And you’re both laughing.

“This is insane!” you call out.

“I know!” Varka sounds delighted. “Isn't it great?”

“Are you actually enjoying this?”

“You're smiling too!”

You are smiling. You can’t help it.

Fighting beside him feels like you’ve been doing this for years. Like you know exactly where he’ll be, what he’ll do, how he moves.

The last Hilichurl swings wild—you dodge left, it clips your shoulder, throws you off balance—

You crash into Varka. He tries to catch you but the momentum sends you both down. You land on top of him, straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest to catch yourself.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your heart is still pounding from the fight. Adrenaline singing through your veins. Blood rushing in your ears.

And now you’re acutely aware of everything.

The way his chest rises and falls hard beneath your palms. The heat of him even through armor. The way his hands have landed on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your faces are inches apart. His eyes are very wide. Very blue.

“Hi,” you manage. Your voice comes out breathless.

“Hey.” His comes out rough. Almost wrecked.

You should move. You can’t seem to make your body cooperate. Neither can he, apparently, because his hands are still on your hips and he’s just staring at you.

“You good?” His voice is lower than usual.

“Yeah. You?”

“Honestly?” His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Not sure.”

Your breath catches. The adrenaline from the fight is mixing with something else now. Something that makes your skin feel too tight and your pulse jump for entirely different reasons.

“You’re—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re still on top of me.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure you noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

Something flickers in his expression. Heat and surprise and want all tangled together.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips. You feel it everywhere. “If you wanted to pin me,” he says, voice rough, “there are easier ways.”

“I didn’t—I fell—”

“I know.” His mouth quirks, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. “But if this is a new combat technique, it’s very effective. I’m thoroughly distracted.”

“Varka—”

“Can’t think straight right now,” he admits. “You should probably move.”

“Probably.”

You don’t. Neither does he. His thumb brushes against your hip, and it sends heat racing up your spine.

“Firecracker.” His voice is strained. “You’re killing me here.”

That breaks the spell. You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall again, heart still hammering.

He catches your arm, steadying you, and when you glance at his face he looks flushed. Breathing hard.

You notice the scratch on his forearm then. Fresh, bleeding slightly. Without thinking, you catch his wrist, turning his arm to see it better.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” But his voice comes out rougher than usual.

Your fingers brush over the scratch and the older scars beneath it.

His breath hitches. You look up sharply, but he’s not pulling away. Just watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

“You take a lot of risks yourself,” you mutter, still holding his wrist.

“Have to.” His voice is steady. Confident. “Besides, I’m good at what I do.” There's no arrogance in it. Just fact.

Your thumb traces the edge of one scar. Longer than the others, almost stretching across his whole forearm.

“Quite the battle map you’ve got.”

His mouth quirks. “That obvious, huh?”

“Tells a story.” You glance up at him. “Lots of them, looks like.”

“Yeah, well.” He tries for lightness. “Comes with the job. Can't lead from the back.”

“Mondstadt’s very own hero,” you say.

“Something like that.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “External scars tend to do that. Give people a heroic impression.”

Something flickers in his expression then. Brief. Complicated.

External. The word hangs there. You almost ask. Almost.

“You take calculated risks though,” you say instead, thumb still resting on one of the scars. “Not like me. You think things through.”

You glance up at him. “I admire that. Admire you for it.”

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

He clears his throat. “You’re growing soft on me, firecracker.”

“You wish.”

He laughs. That low, rumbling sound that you’re starting to recognize. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You keep me on my toes.”

Something in your chest does a complicated flip.

But he’s already shifting, gently pulling his arm from your grip. Not rejecting the touch, just closing the moment.

“We should—” He gestures vaguely toward the city.

“Yeah.” You let him go. “We should.”

His hand finds your shoulder briefly. Warm. Steady.

Neither of you moves for another few seconds.

When you finally do start walking, there’s a new awareness between you. The way he stays close. The way you’re hyper-conscious of every accidental touch.

Everything’s shifted. And you both know it.

— ✦ —

A few days later, Varka catches you before you can leave the city again. “Angel’s Share,” he says. “Tonight. Just drinks. Just us.”

“Varka—”

“Please.” The word is simple. Sincere. “I want to understand. And I think you want to tell someone.”

You shouldn’t say yes. You do anyway.

The tavern is warm, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. You sit in a corner booth, and for a while neither of you speaks.

Then Varka sets a drink in front of you. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But I want to understand why you hunt them like this. Why it’s personal.”

You stare at your glass for a long moment.

“My parents,” you finally say. “Years ago. Abyss order attack.”

His expression shifts—understanding, sympathy.

“We were traveling. Coming back from visiting family.” Your hands clench around the glass. “It was supposed to be safe. The road was well-traveled, close to town. The enemy never came that close to villages”

“But they did.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is flat. “They did. We saw them too late. Mages. Hilichurls. They came out of nowhere.”

You stop. Breathe.

“My parents told me to run. Get to town, get help. I didn’t want to leave them but my father—” Your throat tightens. “He made me promise. So I ran.”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers yours on the table. Warm. Calloused. Surprisingly gentle for its size. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and you’re suddenly very aware of every point of contact.

“By the time I got back with the guards, it was over.” You have to force the words out. “My mother was… she’d tried to crawl toward town. Trying to get to safety. But she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father fought them. Gave her time to try to run. There were five mages and he was alone and—” Your voice cracks. “I should have stayed. Should have fought with them instead of—”

You stop. Your eyes are burning.

“If I’d been stronger, if I’d stayed and fought, maybe—”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“Hey.” Varka’s voice is gentle. “It’s not your fault.”

“I left them—”

“You did what they asked. What any parent would want.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You survived. That’s what they wanted.”

You wipe at your eyes roughly.

“That’s why,” you say. Your voice is thick. “That’s why I hunt them. Why I track them even without commissions. They came too close to town that day. Too close to people. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen again.”

Across the tavern, a bard starts playing. Soft strumming that gradually builds into something familiar. An old Mondstadt tune you've heard before but never really listened to.

A few people join in, humming along. The words drift over the conversation:

“When the wind calls you wandering...”

The melody is warm. Steady. Not quite cheerful. Not quite sad. Something in between. Comforting in its familiarity.

“Because you’re protecting people,” Varka says quietly.

“Because I won’t let anyone else lose their family like I lost mine." Your jaw tightens despite the tears. "I won’t let them get that close again."

“Follow the wind that’s whispering, the northern wind from far…”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Looking at his drink. Turning the glass slowly. “And you still care,” he says finally. “After everything. Could’ve been easy to just shut down. Get cold. But you didn’t.”

Something in his voice makes you look up.

“Lot of people rely on me,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes. “Knights. Citizens. Whole damn city. Not much room for…” He stops. “For anything else.”

He glances up then. Brief. Vulnerable. Your breath catches. He clears his throat. Looks away.

The song swells around you. Voices blending together, something about steady winds and finding your way even when you’re lost.

“Your parents would be proud,” Varka says quietly, nearly lost under the music. “What you’re doing—it takes incredible strength.”

“Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you...”

The chorus fades. Returns to gentle strumming. Your throat tightens again.

“I’m proud of you,” he adds. "For what that’s worth.”

You look up at him. His expression is open. Warm. Full of understanding. “Thank you,” you whisper. "For listening.”

“Always.” His hand is still covering yours. “Anytime you need to talk. I’m here.”

Something in your chest loosens.

The music continues in the background. Familiar now, wrapping around the conversation like a blanket. You don't pull your hand away.

For the rest of the evening, you talk. About lighter things, easier things.

Varka tells you stories about the knights, about Mondstadt, about the time he accidentally started a food fight at an important dinner. He tells you about his past, and you can't help but imagine a younger Varka.

You tell him about little things. People you met on your travels. Encounters you are still fond of. Experiences that taught you something about life or yourself.

You laugh more than you have in months.

When you finally leave, his hand lingers at the small of your back as he walks you out.

The night air is cool. Welcome after the warmth of the tavern. You walk in comfortable silence for a while.

Then Varka glances at you. “You doing okay? That was a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” And you mean it.

You walk a few more steps. “You know,” you say, “most people get uncomfortable when I talk about it. They either avoid the topic completely or try to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I should move on.”

“That help?”

“Not really.”

“Didn’t think so.” He's quiet for a moment. “Grief doesn’t work on other people’s timelines.”

You glance at him. “You sound like you know something about that."

“Lost people too. Different circumstances, but...” He shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”

“So,” you say after a moment, deliberately lighter. “Do you always walk random Adventurers home? Or am I special?”

He grins. “Of course you’re special. Most Adventurers don’t try to fight several Mitachurls alone.”

“I won that fight.”

“One time.”

“Every time.”

“Keep telling yourself that, firecracker.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. Just laughs. “See, this is what I mean,” he says.

“What?”

“This. You giving me shit. Making me laugh after a long day.” He's smiling, but there's something genuine underneath. “Does me good.”

“What, having someone insult you?”

Varka looks at you, and there's something warm in his expression. “Makes me feel alive.” He clears his throat.

At that moment, you reach the corner where you usually part ways. Neither of you moves.

“This was nice,” he says.

“It was.” And you mean it.

“We should do it again.”

“Varka—”

“As friends,” he adds quickly. “If that's what you want. Or as—” He stops. “As whatever you want.”

You look at him. This large, kind, persistent man who's somehow worked his way into your life. Who listened without judgment. Who makes you feel less alone. Who you apparently make feel alive.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

His smile is warm. “I’ll take it.”

— ✦ —

Three months in you’re walking back to the city after a fight, the sun setting behind you, when Varka glances over.

“You ever think about doing anything else?” he asks. “Besides commissions?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Settling down. Taking a break. Living life instead of constantly fighting.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Fighting is living. For me.”

“Because of your parents.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it.” His voice is soft. “But you can’t hunt the Abyssal creatures forever.”

“Watch me.”

He laughs quietly. “Stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s very you.” He pauses. “Just don’t forget there’s more to life than revenge.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” He gestures between you. “Working together. Talking. Spending time with people who—” He stops. “With people who care about you.”

Your heart does something complicated.

“Varka—”

“I know. Too much. Too fast.” But he doesn’t sound apologetic. “Just think about it.”

The shift happens gradually.

His hand lingers when he helps you over rough terrain.

He stands closer than necessary when you’re reviewing maps.

He finds excuses to see you even when there are no commissions. Bringing food, checking if you’ve eaten, asking if you want to spar.

And he flirts. Openly. Shamelessly.

“You know,” he says one afternoon, watching you sharpen your blade, “you’re really good with your hands.”

You don’t look up. “That’s what makes me a good fighter.”

“Also what makes you distracting.”

“How is me sharpening a blade distracting?”

“Everything you do is distracting.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.

“But especially that. Very focused. Very precise.”

You can feel your face heating and look down. “Don’t you have paperwork?”

“Probably.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Better view.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

You make the mistake of looking up again. He’s backlit by the window, and the afternoon light catches in his hair, highlights the line of his shoulders.

There’s something unfairly appealing about the way he’s standing there, completely relaxed, just watching you.

“You’re—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You’re very distracting too.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Distracting, huh?”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “I didn’t—that's not—”

“No, no. Don't take it back.” He’s grinning now. Fully grinning. “I’m listening. Distracting how?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That—” You gesture vaguely at him. “Standing there all... like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what you're doing.”

“Just standing here.” He’s clearly enjoying this. “Tell me. How am I being distracting?”

You look back down at your blade very quickly, then back at him. “The... the stones by the cathedral are very nice this time of year.”

Varka blinks. “What?”

“Stones. Cathedral. Nice. Pretty. You should look at them instead.”

His expression does something complicated. Confusion and delight and fondness all at once.

“You just tried to redirect my attention to cathedral stones."

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re very interesting stones.”

“They’re not.”

“Sure they are. Very stone-like.”

He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says.

“I’m not flustered.”

“You just recommended I look at rocks.”

“Stones.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Rocks are different from stones. Rocks are rougher. Stones are—” You stop. “Why am I explaining this?”

“Because you’re flustered and deflecting.” He’s fully smiling now. “And it’s working. I’m thoroughly distracted by your stone categorization system.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He pushes off the wall. “But I’ll go look at the stones if it makes you feel better.”

“It would.”

“Alright.” He pauses at the door. “For the record? Still more interested in you than any stone. No matter how stone-like it is.”

He leaves.

You sit there, blade forgotten, face burning.

Stones. You talked about stones. This is getting out of hand.

— ✦ —

The weeks that follow establish a rhythm you didn’t plan but can’t seem to break. You take commissions. He appears.

Sometimes he has a reason—patrol routes that conveniently overlap with your targets. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with excuses, just shows up with that easy smile and asks if you need a hand.

You always say no. He helps anyway. (You're secretly glad.)

You fight together in Wolvendom. Clear hilichurl camps near Springvale. Track treasure hoarders.

People start noticing. Adventurers at the Guild exchange looks when you both walk in together. Knights nod at Varka with barely concealed smirks when you’re spotted training near the city walls.

You pretend not to notice. So does he. But when you’re both in Mondstadt at the same time, you end up at Angel’s Share.

It becomes a habit.

It's late evening when you walk into the tavern and find him already there, sitting in your usual booth.

He looks up when you enter. Smiles.

There’s already a drink waiting across from him. Your usual.

Your feel all warm.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You slide into the seat, fingers curling around the glass. Still cold. He ordered it recently. Like he knew you’d show up.

For a while, you just sit. Comfortable silence. The warmth of the tavern wrapping around you, the soft murmur of conversation and music in the background.

Then Varka glances at you. “Windblume Festival’s coming up,” Varka says, turning his glass slowly.

“Mm.”

“You going?”

You shrug. “Haven’t decided.”

“You should come.” He’s watching you now. “It’s beautiful. Music, dancing, flowers everywhere.”

“Not really my thing.”

“Relaxation and joy?” His mouth quirks. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be terrible for you.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table.

He grins. “Come with me.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“To Windblume. Come with me.” He says it easily, but there’s something careful in his expression. “We could walk around. Listen to music. I could show you the good food stalls. It’ll be—”

“Like a date?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.

The same bard from before is playing tonight. You recognize the melody immediately. That song about the wind. But this time it's different. Slower. Softer. Almost intimate.

No one's singing along. Just the gentle lute weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation, the melody familiar and grounding.

Your breath catches. “Varka—”

“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know you’re focused on your mission. I know you don’t want distractions. But I—” He stops. Breathes. “I like you. A lot. And I keep hoping maybe you feel the same.”

The music shifts to that gentler refrain. Something about home not being a place but a person.

“This is complicated,” you manage.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re the Grand Master—”

“And you’re an Adventurer. So what?” His hand finds yours across the table. “We're also two people who work well together. Who trust each other. Who enjoy each other's company. Who—” He stops himself.

“Who could be good together,” he finishes. “If you wanted to try.”

The bard’s fingers dance across the strings. Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat beneath the words.

You’re acutely aware of his thumb brushing across your knuckles. Of how close he is across the table. Of the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.

Your heart is hammering. You should keep the distance you’ve maintained. But his hand is warm over yours, and his eyes are soft, and he's looking at you like you’re something precious.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit quietly.

“Neither do I.” His smile is gentle. “But we could figure it out together.”

The music seems to fade into the background. Or maybe you just stop hearing anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The space between you feels impossibly small.

“Varka—”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

You should say no.

“Yes.”

He leans across the table and kisses you soft and slow, like he’s been thinking about it for months. (He has.) His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and wondering.

“So,” he murmurs. “Windblume?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Windblume.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I already told half the knights we’d be there together.”

“You did what—”

“I’m an optimist.” His grin is unrepentant. “And I was really hoping you’d say yes.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He kisses you again. Quick and sweet and full of joy.

The bard finishes the song. Starts another. But that melody lingers. When you finally leave the tavern that night, Varka walks you partway home.

(You still don’t tell him where you live. Some habits are hard to break.)

At the corner where you usually part ways, he catches your hand. His thumb traces across your knuckles. A gesture that’s becoming so familiar. Comforting. But now it also makes your pulse jump.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at the statue? The one near the gates. Afternoon, around three?”

Your heart skips. “Why?”

“Because I want to see you.” He says it simply. “And because we should probably talk. About this. About us.”

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Three o’clock. At the statue.”

His smile is brilliant. “It’s a date.”

“Varka—”

He kisses you before you can finish. “See you tomorrow, firecracker.”

You watch him walk away, heart full and terrified in equal measure. Tomorrow, you think. I can handle tomorrow.

You arrive at the statue at quarter to three. (You’re not nervous. You’re not. This is just talking. Figuring things out. It’s fine.)

Three o’clock comes.

No Varka.

That’s fine. He’s probably just running late. He’s the Grand Master. Things come up.

Three-fifteen. Three-thirty. By four o’clock, you’re still standing there, feeling increasingly foolish. By four-thirty, something in your chest starts to hurt. He’s not coming.

You wait until five. Then you leave.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Maybe he got called away. Maybe something came up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the kiss was a mistake and he realized it and didn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you misread everything.

You don’t go back to the gates. You don’t go to Angel’s Share. You take commissions without talking to anyone. Everything, not just fighting commissions. You train. You try not to think about it.

(You fail.)

— ✦ —

By day ten, the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.

You find yourself walking to Angel’s Share without consciously deciding to. The tavern is busy. Warm. Familiar.

Charles sees you come in, and something flickers across his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.

“Been busy.” You slide onto a barstool. “Just water tonight.”

“Right.” He sets the glass down. Then hesitates. “There’s, uh… there’s a message for you. From Varka.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“He left it about a week and a half ago. Said if you came in, to give you this.” Charles pulls out a folded piece of paper from under the bar.

Your hands shake slightly as you take it.

The handwriting is unmistakably Varka’s. Bold, slightly messy, rushed.

Firecracker, Got called to Liyue. Something came up—had to leave immediately. Tried to find you this morning but you weren’t at the Guild, and I realized I don’t know where you live.

Left this with Charles in case you come by. I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe two.

Don’t take any stupid commissions while I’m gone. —V P.S. - Still want to take you to Windblume. Don’t forget.

You read it three times.

He didn’t just leave. He tried to find you. He left a message. And you weren’t here to get it.

For ten days, you’ve been thinking he abandoned you, when really—

“You okay?” Charles asks.

“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. “I’m—yeah.”

You sit there, holding the note, feeling like an idiot.

Don’t forget.

An hour passes. Then two.

You’re still sitting there, nursing the same glass of water, when the door opens.

Your heart leaps—

Varka walks in. He looks tired. His armor is dusty and his hair is disheveled and he’s the best thing you’ve seen in ten days.

He scans the room—

His eyes find you.

Stop.

For a moment neither of you moves.

Then someone calls his name. A group of knights in the corner, waving him over.

He glances at them. At you. Back at them. He goes to the knights.

You stare at your glass.

The minutes crawl by.

You should leave.

You stay.

Across the room, Varka sits with the knights, but he’s not drinking. Not really talking. Just present.

He looks as miserable as you feel.

Another hour passes.

The knights eventually leave.

Varka stays.

You’re both sitting in the same tavern, fifteen feet apart, not talking.

It’s ridiculous.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You stand. Cross the room. Slide into the seat across from him.

“You’re back,” you manage.

He doesn’t look up from his glass. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

This is wrong. He’s never this distant, never this quiet.

“I got your message,” you say, holding up the paper.

“When?”

“Tonight. Just now.”

His eyes lift to the note. Something flickers across his face. Relief? Hurt? You can’t tell.

“When did you get back?” you ask.

“Three days ago.”

Your stomach drops.

“I haven’t been coming here,” you admit. “I thought you just… left. Without saying anything.”

“I tried to find you that morning.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Couldn’t.”

“I know. I read—”

“I don’t know where you live.” The words come out blunt. Almost accusatory.

You blink. “What?”

He finally looks at you fully, and there’s something raw in his expression.

“Your apartment. I don’t know where it is. Spent a week in Liyue thinking about you. Got back, wanted to see you, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His jaw tightens. “Came here every night hoping you’d show up.”

Every night. He’s been here. Waiting. And you—

The confession lands between you like a weight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be.” But his voice is strained. “Should’ve asked before. But we kept running into each other and I didn’t think—” He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “Point is, I didn’t know. And it bothered me.”

The air between you shifts. Some of the tension bleeding out.

You take a breath. “Come on.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Come with me.”

You walk in silence through Mondstadt’s streets.

He follows without question.

You stop outside the door.

“Here,” you say. “This is where I live.”

He looks at the building. At you. Back at the building. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Do you… want to come up?”

“No.”

The word is gentle but firm.

At your expression, he adds quickly: “Not—not because I don’t want to. But because if I come up, I’m going to—” He stops. “I need to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

“This. Us.” His hand finds yours. “I’m not going to rush this. Not going to mess this up because I’m impatient.”

“Varka—”

“I’m a knight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “I’m supposed to be honorable. Patient. Do things properly.”

Then, quieter, he adds: “You regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“The kiss.”

Your breath catches. “No,” you say. “Do you?”

“No.” He steps closer. “But I’ve been gone for days thinking about it. Wanting to—” He stops. “Can I—”

You kiss him before he finishes asking.

This time there’s nothing tentative about it.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

You make a sound—surprise or need or relief—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of your neck and you feel his pulse hammering against your palm where your hand has found his chest.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I missed you,” you admit against his mouth. The words slip out before you can stop them.

His forehead drops to yours. “I was going crazy. Not knowing where you were. Not being able to find you.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your waist. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time but no less intense.

Your fingers find their way into his hair and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat racing through you. When you finally break apart for the second time, you’re both flushed and breathless.

“Grand Master!”

You both jerk apart.

A knight is running toward you, out of breath.

“Sorry—urgent—there’s been an incident—”

Varka’s jaw tightens. He looks at you. At the knight. Back at you.

“Go,” you say. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s your job.” You squeeze his hand once. “Go.”

He searches your face. Then nods reluctantly.

“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk. Properly.”

“Okay.”

He kisses you once more. Quick and fierce.

Then he’s gone, running toward headquarters with the knight.

You stand outside your apartment, touching your lips, heart hammering.

Tomorrow, you think.

But something twists in your chest.

The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way your whole body responds when he’s near.

The way you spent ten days thinking about him. Missing him. Aching for him.

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t just liking him. This isn’t just attraction or enjoyment or companionship.

You’re in love with him.

The realization hits like a physical blow.

You’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. Never had time for it, never saw the point when you had a mission, a purpose, a—

But now there’s Varka.

Varka who shows up. Who stays. Who looks at you like you’re something precious.

Who kissed you like you matter.

Who keeps getting pulled away by duty because he’s the Grand Master and that’s who he is and you knew this, you knew this—

Your chest feels too tight.

You don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be someone who loves someone who has responsibilities to an entire city, who could be called away at any moment, who—

You need to think.

Need space.

Need to clear your head.

At dawn, you see the commission posting.

Stormbearer Point. Camp spotted.

You stare at it.

You should wait. Should ask Varka to come with you.

But the thought of seeing him right now, of having to look at him and pretend everything’s fine when you’re still processing this crushing realization—

And he’s busy anyway. Always busy. He’s the Grand Master—he has responsibilities that don’t include accompanying you on every commission.

You can handle this.

You’ve been handling Abyssal monsters for years.

You grab the posting.

— ✦ —

Bennett crashes through the headquarters doors, wild-eyed and terrified.

“Grand Master—need help—”

Varka is on his feet immediately. “Bennett? What happened?”

“Commission—went wrong—there were Mitachurls—multiple Abyss Mages—they’re—”

His blood turns to ice. “Who’s with you?”

Bennett names you.

Varka’s already moving, grabbing his sword from the wall.

“Sir, should I alert—”

“No time.” His voice is clipped, focused. “How long ago?”

“Not long—I ran as fast as—”

Every second counts.

“Where?”

“Stormbearer Point, near the cliffs—”

Varka is out the door before Bennett finishes.

He hits the street at a run.

(Later, Jean will ask why he didn’t wait. Why he didn’t bring knights. Why he went alone.

He’ll say it was the fastest option. That he knew the route. That backup would’ve slowed him down.

All true.

But the real reason—the one he doesn’t say—is that it had to be him.

Because it was you.)

The clearing is too quiet when Varka breaks through the tree line.

His eyes sweep the scene. Fallen Hilichurls and Abyss Mages, scorched earth, broken weapons scattered across trampled grass.

And you.

Standing in the center of it all, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to your side.

Relief floods through him so fast it nearly makes him stumble.

“Hey!” he calls, running toward you. “You alright? Bennett said—”

You turn toward his voice.

That’s when he sees your face.

Too pale. Eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—soaking through your fingers where they press against your ribs.

“Varka,” you say, and your voice sounds distant. Confused. “What’re you… doing here?”

“What am I—” He’s moving faster now, closing the distance. “You sent word you might need backup—”

“Did I?” You blink slowly. “Oh. Right. Got a bit messy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He’s close enough now to catch you if you fall. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes won’t quite focus on his face.

“’m fine,” you mutter. “Just need a… minute…”

“Sure. You’re fine.” His hands hover near your shoulders, careful not to jostle you. “That's why you’re bleeding through your clothes?”

“’s not that bad.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s assessing you rapidly. The blood, the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your legs. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Dunno. Few minutes? Half an hour?” You frown. “What time is it?”

His stomach drops.

“Alright. We’re sitting you down—”

“No.” You shake your head and immediately regret it, swaying dangerously. “Still got… gotta check if they’re all…”

“They’re all down. I checked on my way in.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You did good. Now let me—”

“Varka, I’m fine—”

Your knees give out.

He catches you before you hit the ground, arms banding around you with desperate speed.

“Easy—I’ve got you—”

His heart is hammering against your cheek. He’s breathing hard. From the run, from the fear, from the relief of catching you.

“Sorry,” you mumble against his chest. “Legs stopped… working…”

“Yeah, that happens when you lose blood.” He’s lowering you carefully to the grass, hands supporting your head, your back. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”

You blink up at him, and there’s something almost dreamlike in your expression.

“You came,” you say, like you’re surprised.

His chest tightens. “Of course I came.”

“Thought you were… in meetings…”

“Meeting can wait.” He’s already reaching for his pack, pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. “You can’t.”

Your hand catches his wrist. Weak grip, but determined.

“’m okay. Really. Just… dizzy.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly as he starts checking your injuries. “But you will be. Just let me work.”

He works methodically.

Years of battlefield experience make his movements efficient, clinical. Checking pulse points, assessing wounds, prioritizing treatment.

Gash on your arm. Superficial. He binds it quickly.

Bruised ribs. Painful but not critical.

The wound on your side where your hand had been pressed. Deep, still bleeding, but manageable.

He’s packing it with cloth, hands steady, when he notices your pant leg.

Dark. Too dark.

Wet.

His hands still.

“When did this happen?” His voice comes out rougher than he intends.

“What?”

“Your leg.” He’s already cutting the fabric away, and—

Oh.

The gash runs from mid-thigh nearly to your knee. Deep. Still bleeding sluggishly. The kind of wound that would’ve dropped most people immediately.

“How are you even—” His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking. “How long have you been walking on this?”

“Didn’t really… notice…” You’re squinting down at your leg like you’re seeing it for the first time. “Huh. That’s… not good.”

“No.” His voice cracks. His hands still for just a moment, like he’s forcing himself to keep moving. “It’s really not.”

He presses cloth to the wound. “You’re okay,” he says. To himself. To you. “You’re going to be okay.”

“’m sorry—”

“What were you thinking?” The words come out sharp.

You blink slowly at him.

His jaw is tight. “You could have—” He stops. His hands are shaking harder. “You could have died.”

“Varka—”

“I found you bleeding. Barely standing. Do you understand—” His voice cracks. “Do you understand what I thought when I saw you like that?”

You try to respond, but the words won’t come. Your vision is blurring.

Is that tears or is everything going fuzzy again?

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out small. Broken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

A tear slides down your cheek.

He stops. Stares at you.

Then his whole expression crumbles.

“Shit. No. I’m sorry.” He shifts closer, hands gentler now. “I’m sorry. You’re in shock and I’m—”

Another tear falls.

“Hey.” His voice is softer now. Rough with emotion. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You’re crying, but you’re not sure why. The fear, the pain, the adrenaline finally crashing—

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumb brushing away tears. “You’re safe now.”

He's focused. And tense. You see how tight his jaw is, the way he keeps checking your pulse.

“Hey.” Your hand finds his arm. “Varka. I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” The words come out sharp. “You’re really not.”

“But I will be. Right?” You’re trying for reassuring and landing somewhere around slurred. “You said… you said I will be…”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Talk to me,” he says. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”

“Commission went… sideways.” You’re watching his face instead of his hands. “More Hilichurls than… expected. Abyss Mages. And a Mitachurl. Strong one.”

“Did you fight them alone?”

“Didn’t have much… choice…”

“You could’ve run.”

“Couldn’t.” Your voice is getting quieter. “Had to stop them…”

His hands still for just a moment.

Then he continues bandaging, but his voice is rough when he speaks.

"You stubborn, reckless, incredibly brave firecracker."

“That a… compliment?”

“No.” But there’s something that sounds almost like a sob caught in his throat. “It’s me trying not to lose my mind right now.”

You blink slowly. “You’re...scared.”

“Terrified.” He doesn’t hide it. “When I saw you standing there bleeding—when you collapsed—”

He stops, breathes. “Yeah. Terrified.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just stay awake.” He finishes with the bandage and immediately shifts to check your pulse again. “Keep talking to me.”

“’bout what?”

“Anything. Everything. Just keep those eyes open.”

So you do.

He finishes bandaging in silence, hands steadier now.

— ✦ —

The sun is dropping toward the horizon.

Varka glances at the sky, then at you, then makes a decision. “We’re not making it back to the city tonight,” he says. “Not with you like this.”

“I can walk—”

“No.” It’s not harsh, just absolute. “You’re not putting weight on that leg until you feel better. We’re staying here.”

“Where?”

“I’ll figure it out.” He’s already looking around, cataloging options. “There’s a rock outcropping over there. Defensible. Out of the wind.”

“Varka—”

“Not arguing about this.” He looks down at you, and his expression is gentle despite the firmness in his voice. “I’m keeping you safe tonight. That’s what’s happening.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

He works quickly—gathering branches, building a simple lean-to against the rocks, making a space that’s warm and dry and protected.

Then he comes back for you. “Alright. Arms around my neck.”

You comply, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.

“Don’t jar the leg,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.” And he does. Steady. Careful.

He settles you inside the shelter, back against the rock, and immediately starts building a fire.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Little bit.”

His cloak is around your shoulders before you can blink.

“Varka, you need—”

“I’m fine.” He’s arranging blankets, positioning you more comfortably. “You’re the one losing body heat.”

The fire catches. Warm light flickers across his face.

He settles beside you. Close enough to monitor, close enough to reach you if anything changes.

For a moment he just sits there, staring at the fire, jaw tight.

Then his shoulders drop slightly. Like something in him is finally letting go of the fear now that you’re stable.

He pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, holding you steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But I’m going to anyway.”

You don’t argue.

For a while there’s just the crackle of fire and the sound of breathing.

Then Varka starts talking.

“You know what the worst part was?” His voice is low. Rough. “Seeing you standing there and thinking you were about to fall, and knowing I was too far away to catch you.”

“But you did catch me.”

“Barely.” His arm tightens slightly. “Another second and you would’ve hit the ground.”

“’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” He presses his face briefly against your hair. “Just don’t do this again. Please.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“I know.” A rough laugh. “It’s what you do. But maybe next time don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to call for help?”

“Noted.”

“How you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Tired.” You pause. “Safe.”

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re here. So… safe.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

“Not letting anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

You lean into him, and he adjusts to support your weight more comfortably.

“Varka?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for coming. For staying.”

“Nowhere else I’d be.”

Time becomes strange.

You drift.

Sometimes you’re lucid. Aware of the fire, of Varka’s solid presence beside you, of the pain that’s settled into a dull throb.

Sometimes you’re floating. Disconnected, confused, words coming out wrong.

Varka talks through all of it.

Later—or maybe just minutes, you can’t tell—you’re drifting when Varka’s voice pulls you back.

“You know what happened last week?” he says.

“Kaeya convinced me to help him with inventory in one of the wine cellars. Made me believe I still owed him one.”

You make a vague sound.

“Should’ve known it was a trap. Man is always up to something.” There’s warmth in his voice now.

“Got down there and realized he’d ‘accidentally’ locked us in. Said we weren’t getting out until I told him about ‘the Adventurer who has the Grand Master running around Mondstadt like a lovesick puppy.’”

Normally you’d react to that. Tease him. Say something.

You don’t.

He continues anyway. “Tried to break down the door. Jean heard the noise, came to investigate. Very calm. Very professional. Right up until she saw me covered in wine because Kaeya had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a bottle trying to dodge my attempt to strangle him.”

Silence.

His hand stills in your hair for a moment.

“The look on her face,” he continues, voice a little more forced now. “Like she was reconsidering every leadership decision that led to that moment. Pretty sure she’s still thinking about bringing it up in a dignified way.”

Nothing.

“Hey.” His voice shifts—less storytelling, more concerned. “You still with me?”

“Mmm.”

“Come on, firecracker. Give me something. Tell me the story’s boring. Tell me Kaeya’s a scoundrel. Tell me anything.”

“’s boring,” you mumble.

“Liar. That story’s hilarious.” But there’s relief in his voice. “Though you’re right about Kaeya being a scoundrel.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

Silence falls again.

His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there's tension in the movement now.

“You're scaring me,” he admits quietly. “You're not talking. You're not arguing. You're just—” His voice roughens. "Just stay with me. Please.”

“'m here.”

“I know. But I need you to stay here.” His arm tightens around you. "Keep talking to me. Even if it's just to tell me to shut up.”

“Won't tell you... to shut up.”

“Why not? You usually do.”

“Like... your voice."

He chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Mmm. 's nice. Warm.”

His hand is trembling slightly as it cups your face. “You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”

“I know.” Your voice is getting quieter. “'cause you're here.”

“That's right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Time passes. You're not sure how much.

The pain starts to dull. The dizziness eases slightly, then gets worse again. You drift.

Varka keeps talking. About anything, everything, his voice a steady anchor.

Then something shifts.

He's not talking anymore. He's humming. Quiet. Almost unconscious. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

You recognize the melody through the haze. That song from the tavern. The one about wind and wandering, about following the north wind home.

His voice is rough, unpracticed, but steady. Familiar. Safe.

Eventually, the fog lifts enough that you can follow thoughts again. The pain settles into something manageable.

You shift slightly, and your head finds his shoulder.

“Varka?”

The humming stops. “Right here.”

“That song...”

“Mm?” He sounds surprised, like he didn't realize he was doing it. “The one from Angel's Share?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn't get it out of my head,” he admits quietly. “You looked... peaceful. When it was playing. Thought maybe...”

He doesn't finish. But you understand. He remembered. Noticed it comforted you. Used it to keep you here. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

He starts humming again. Softer this time.

When the wind calls you wandering...

“You're really warm,” you murmur.

“That's the point.” His voice is soft, relieved. “Keep you warm. Keep you with me.”

The melody continues. Gentle. Grounding.

“'m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice is fierce. “You better not.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. “Feeling better?”

“Little bit." You are. The fog is lifting. “Still dizzy. But better.”

“Good. That's good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Just don't do it again.”

“Can't promise that.”

“I know." His laugh is rough. “But I can hope.”

You lean into his warmth, and his arms come around you more securely.

The humming fades, but the melody stays. Wrapped around you like his cloak. Like his arms. Like safety.

“Tell me another story,” you murmur.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The wine cellar one was good. Even if you tell it boring.”

“Knew you were listening.” But he sounds delighted. “Alright. Think I got something...”

And then he starts talking again.

His voice rumbles through you, steady and warm and alive.

You hold onto the sound. And somewhere underneath it, you can still hear that melody.

Slowly, slowly, you start to feel like maybe you really will be okay.

Later, you're mumbling something that doesn't quite make sense.

“...can't believe you... came all this way...”

“Course I did.”

“Could've... sent someone else...”

“No time. Wasn't sending anyone else anyway.” His hand strokes your hair gently. “It was you. Had to be me.”

“Why?”

The question hangs in the air.

His hand stills for a moment. “You know why," he says quietly.

You're floating again. The words come out before you can stop them.

“Love you... too much to die...”

His breath catches audibly. “What did you just say?”

"Didn't mean... to say that...” You're fading, words slurring. “Wasn't supposed... to tell you... yet...”

“Hey.” His hand cups your face gently, turning you toward him. “Stay with me. What did you just say?”

But you're already drifting off, eyes closing.

"Damn.” He sounds wrecked. “You're gonna tell me this now? While you're half-conscious?”

He pulls you closer, and you feel his forehead press against yours.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright. We're talking about this. But later. When you're actually awake enough to remember saying it.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

“And for the record?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I love you too. So you have to wake up properly so I can tell you that when you'll actually remember it.”

He starts humming again. So quietly you might be imagining it.

Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you.

The melody wraps around you. Steady as his heartbeat. Warm as his arms.

Following you down into sleep like a northern wind guiding you home.

— ✦ —

You wake to sunlight and the smell of smoke.

Your body aches everywhere.

But you’re warm. And alive.

And Varka is right there, sitting beside you, looking like he hasn’t slept at all.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”

“Did I… sleep?”

“On and off. You talked a lot.” His mouth quirks. “Said some interesting things.”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “What kind of things?”

“We’ll get to that.” He’s already checking your pulse, your bandages, assessing.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I fought a mitachurl.”

“You did.” He helps you sit up carefully. “And won. Somehow.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He hands you water. “Drink. Slowly.”

You do. It helps.

“Leg?” he asks.

You shift slightly and wince. “Hurts. But… better than last night.”

“Good. We’re getting you to a healer today.” He’s packing up the camp with efficient movements. “I’m going to carry you part of the way. When you feel steady enough, we’ll walk slowly. But you’re not putting full weight on that leg yet.”

“Varka, you can’t carry me the whole—”

“I can carry you as far as needed.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’ll take it slow. Rest when you need to. But we’re getting you treated today.”

The journey back is slow. Careful.

True to his word, Varka carries you for the first stretch—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, moving with steady purpose through the terrain.

“You can put me down,” you mumble against his shoulder after a while.

“Can I?”

“I can walk.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” But there’s warmth in his voice.

Eventually, when the path levels out and you insist, he sets you down carefully. Keeps one arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, his other hand ready to catch you if you stumble.

“Still with me?” he murmurs every few minutes.

“Still here.”

“Good. We’ll rest when you need to.”

You do need to rest. Twice. But each time he’s patient, never rushing, just sitting with you until you’re ready to continue.

By the time the healer’s house appears, you’re leaning heavily on him, exhausted.

The healer—a woman named Greta—takes one look at you and immediately gets to work.

Varka hovers.

“Sir, I need space—”

“I’m staying.”

“The wounds need cleaning, it’ll hurt—”

“I’m. Staying.”

Greta looks at you. You shrug slightly.

She sighs. “Fine. But sit down and don’t get in my way.”

He sits.

But his hand finds yours, and he doesn’t let go through the entire process. When Greta irrigates the leg wound and you gasp, his grip tightens.

When she stitches and you bite back a sound, his thumb strokes across your knuckles.

“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

Finally, Greta steps back.

“Well. You’re lucky.” She’s washing her hands. “That leg wound was deep. Another few hours without treatment and we’d be having a different conversation.”

Varka’s face goes pale.

“But,” she continues, “you’ll heal. Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for two weeks minimum. And someone needs to monitor you for the next few days.”

“I’ll do it,” Varka says immediately.

You blink. “Varka, you don’t have to—”

“I’m doing it.” He looks at you, and there’s no room for argument in his expression.

“Not negotiable.”

Greta‘s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Alright then. Change the dressings twice daily. Make sure they eat. Rest. Plenty of fluids.”

“Got it.”

“And get some sleep yourself. You look exhausted.”

“I will.”

(He won’t.)

He takes you back to his place.

“Varka, I have an apartment—”

“Which is up three flights of stairs.” He’s helping you through the door. “You’re not climbing stairs on that leg.”

“I can manage—”

“You’re staying here.” He settles you on his couch with surprising gentleness. “At least until you can walk without limping.”

“That could be weeks.”

“Then you're staying for weeks.” He's arranging pillows, getting blankets, moving around his space with purpose.

He sits beside you, and for a moment there's just comfortable silence.

Then you notice him looking around his own place with a slightly bemused expression.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. Just...” He gestures vaguely. “Place feels different with you in it.”

“Actually—” He stands, and there's something determined in his expression now.

He stops. Turns to look at you.

“You should just move in.”

You blink. “What?”

“Move in. With me.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Move in. For as long as you need. And if you want to stay after that, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Varka—”

“I know it’s fast.” He sits beside you again. “But last night, when I thought—” His voice roughens. “When I thought I might lose you—”

He takes your hand.

“I don’t want to waste time anymore. I want you here. Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.” He pauses. “Where I can tell you I love you every day instead of just when you’re half-conscious and bleeding.” Your breath catches.

“You… you remember that?”

“Every word.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “You said you loved me. And I said it back. And I meant it.”

“I meant it too.”

“I know.” He smiles. “So. Move in with me. Please.”

You look around his space. At the care he’s already taken to make you comfortable. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ll move in.”

The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant.

“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours carefully. “Because I’m never letting you do something that stupid alone again.”

“Hey—”

“You fought alone. While injured.”

“I protected Mondstadt—”

“I know.” His voice softens. “I know you did. You’re brave and strong and incredible. And I love you. But you’re also reckless and stubborn and you’re going to give me gray hair.”

You laugh despite yourself.

"Don't scare me like that again," he whispers.

You're quiet for a moment. Thinking about the night in the clearing. About him finding you. About how it felt to wake up in his arms knowing you were safe.

About how you told him you loved him while half-conscious and he said it back.

“Can't promise I won't do something stupid again," you say finally. “But I can promise this.”

“What?"

You look up at him. “I’ll only be reckless with you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” You squeeze his hand. “No more dangerous solo hunts. No more running off without backup. If I’m going to do something stupid..." You pause. “I want you there.”

His expression does something complicated. Surprise and joy and relief all tangled together.

“That's not much of a promise," he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “You're still planning to do stupid things.”

“Yeah. But with you.” You manage a small smile. “We can be reckless together. A little. Like partners.”

“Partners,” Varka repeats softly.

“If you want.”

"If I want?” He laughs. Rough and wondering. “I've wanted that since you tried to take that commission alone and glared at me for interfering.”

“That was months ago.”

“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours carefully. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear still lingering—you laugh.

“So,” he murmurs. “Reckless together?”

"Reckless together,” you confirm.

“I can work with that.”

He kisses you. Gentle, careful, full of relief and love and the fear he's still processing.

When he pulls back, his eyes are very bright.

He settles beside you, arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his warmth.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you actually are.

⋆ ✦ ⋆ A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon. :)

The first thing you learn working at Angel's Share is that people talk.

The second thing you learn is that people talk even more when Varka walks in.

It isn’t subtle, either. The shift moves through the tavern the way a gust of wind stirs tall grass. One moment the room is full of low conversation and clinking glassware, and the next there are heads turning toward the door, voices lifting in greeting, and chairs scraping as someone stands to clap the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius on the back like an old friend. Mondstadt adores its heroes, and Varka, loud and golden and larger than life, has always been one of the city’s favorites.

You, unfortunately, are not among his admirers.

Behind the bar, you continue polishing a glass with the patience of someone who refuses to acknowledge the storm gathering across the room. The lanternlight catches against the rim of the glass as you turn it in your hands, wiping away a nonexistent smudge while the noise of the tavern swells briefly in welcome.

Someone laughs near the door and you know, without looking, exactly who has just arrived.

Charles does look up, of course. Charles is polite.

“Evening, Grand Master,” he says as the man himself approaches the counter.

Varka’s boots come to a stop on the other side of the bar, and there is a brief, deliberate pause that’s heavy with expectation. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him watching you with open interest.

He looks exactly as irritating as usual—broad-shouldered, forearms slightly tanned from the sun, his blond hair falling in a careless sweep around his face. The lanternlight catches along the scar at his neck and glints faintly in his blue eyes, which are bright with the same irrepressible good humor that seems to follow him everywhere.

He smiles when you meet his gaze, as if the sight of you is the best part of his evening.

“Good evening.”

You set the glass down with a soft, decisive clink.

“What do you want to drink.”

“See?” The Grand Master glances at Charles as though seeking confirmation. “She always greets me so warmly.”

“If I greeted you the way I actually wanted to, I suspect I’d lose my job.”

Varka laughs.

It is a bright, unguarded sound that spills easily into the room, drawing the curious attention of the nearest tables. He seems entirely delighted by the exchange, leaning his arms comfortably against the bar as though he has settled in for the evening.

“You look lovely tonight,” he remarks after a moment, studying you with an ease that would be charming if it were directed literally anywhere else.

“You looked better when you were out of my sight,” you answer, already reaching for the bottle that holds his usual order without waiting for him to ask.

“How cruel,” Varka sighs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as though you’ve driven a lance clean through it. “The most beautiful woman in all of Mondstadt, wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You slide the bottle back into place behind the counter.

“Drink your wine, Grand Master,” you tell him flatly. “Before someone notices the Knights of Favonius are being led by a man with a martyr complex.”

Varka lifts the mug, still smiling to himself, but before he can say anything else a voice calls from deeper in the tavern.

“Grand Master Varka! Over here!”

A long table near the hearth has erupted into motion—several knights waving him over with the loose enthusiasm of men already halfway through their evening. One of them raises a mug in salute, while another pounds the table loud enough to rattle the dishes.

Varka glances toward them, then back to you.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, some last comment meant solely to annoy you—but instead he sighs, pushes away from the bar, and picks up his drink.

“Duty calls,” he singsongs.

“You’re drinking with your men,” you deadpan. “Hardly duty.”

“Morale is just as tantamount as everything else,” Varka counters with solemn dignity, and with that he turns and makes his way across the tavern, the crowd parting easily around him as he goes.

The moment he is out of earshot, Charles chuckles quietly beside you.

You shoot him a look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he insists, still smiling as he stacks a row of clean glasses. “It’s just that not everyone has the courage to speak to the most powerful man in Mondstadt the way you do.”

You scowl.

“If we let people like Varka have their way around here,” you reply crisply, reaching for another bottle, “Master Diluc wouldn’t be very pleased with us.”

Charles hums in mild agreement, though the amusement remains firmly in his expression.

The night presses on regardless.

Angel’s Share settles back into its usual chaotic rhythm. You move easily through the noise, as well as the familiar motions of the evening: pouring drinks, sliding plates across the counter, accepting payments while Charles handles the orders piling in from the tables.

It’s work you take seriously. The pay is good. The hours are reliable. The owner of the establishment expects competence, and you pride yourself on providing it. Angel’s Share is the most reputable tavern in Mondstadt, and you intend to keep your position here for as long as possible.

Which means you know better than to indulge certain distractions.

Unfortunately, those distractions have a habit of staring at you.

You do not need to look to feel it—the faint, unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze lingering across the room. Every so often it settles against the back of your neck with enough persistence to be noticed. When you glance up by accident, it is always the same pair of bright blue eyes watching from somewhere among the tables.

The infuriating man seems to know everyone in the tavern tonight.

At one moment Varka is laughing with a cluster of knights near the hearth. At another he is leaning back in his chair beside a group of adventurers who appear thrilled by the attention. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else pours him another drink. But every now and then, those crystalline blue eyes drift back toward the bar.

Toward you.

You promptly look away.

You have no intention of tossing scraps of attention to a wolf who already believes he has been invited to the feast.

“Well, this is quite interesting.”

The voice arrives beside you like a cat slipping silently onto the counter.

You don’t need to turn to recognize Kaeya, whose talent for locating entertainment in other people’s suffering is well documented across Mondstadt. He settles against the bar with the languid ease of a man who has come here for a very specific purpose, his visible eye flicking between you and Charles with undisguised delight.

Beside him stands Rosaria, her expression as unimpressed as ever. Without so much as asking, she reaches across the counter and lifts a glass, holding it up like she’s deciding whether the contents are strong enough to justify her attention.

They are regular fixtures at the bar by now—faces you see often enough that their habits are as familiar to you as the grain of the wood beneath your hands. Most people would call them an unlikely pair, but you know better. Especially on nights when Kaeya has selected a target for his amusement, and Rosaria has decided the evening might be improved by watching someone else suffer for it.

“What do you want?”

Kaeya gestures loosely toward the other side of the tavern, where Varka has just burst into another round of laughter with his companions. “The Grand Master seems… distracted tonight.”

You slide a mug toward another patron without missing a beat.

Rosaria leans on the counter beside Kaeya, her pale gaze drifting lazily toward the laughing table across the room. “He’s been watching you for the last twenty minutes.”

You frown. “Then he clearly needs a better hobby.”

Kaeya chuckles softly.

“My dear,” he begins, “I believe you are the hobby.”

You fix him with a flat stare. “Order a drink or leave.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “A glass of dandelion wine, and story about… Ah, what do the kids call it these days? Your… situationship with the Grand Master on the side, please?”

Rosaria snickers into the rim of her glass.

“A ‘situationship’ requires two willing participants,” you tell him flatly. “What you’re witnessing is a persistent pest and a woman trying to earn a living without committing regicide.”

Kaeya doesn’t even flinch. He just leans further onto the polished wood, his single eye dancing with a mirth that makes you want to dump a bucket of ice down his collar. “Regicide? My, we’re thinking big, aren’t we? I didn't realize the Grand Master had already ascended to royalty in your heart.”

“He’s a king-sized headache, if that’s what you mean,” you snap, turning your back to them to reorganize the shelf of colorful liquor bottles.

“Careful,” Rosaria mutters as she stares into the middle distance. “If you keep denying it that hard, you’re going to pull a muscle. The man is practically vibrating over there every time you look in his general direction.”

You ignore her, but your eyes involuntarily flicker toward the reflection in the dark, polished glass of a bottle Charles set on the counter sometime ago. In the distorted surface, you can see the golden blur of him.

Varka is currently gesturing broadly with a meat skewer in one hand and a mug in the other, telling a story while the younger knights are hang on to every word. Even from across the room, you can feel the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence. It isn’t just that he’s the strongest man in Mondstadt; it’s the way he wears that strength like a comfortable old cloak.

Throughout the night, you’ve caught glimpses of him between orders—the way he claps a nervous new recruit on the shoulder hard enough to make the poor boy nearly spill his drink, the way his laughter rolls across the room until even the hearthfire seems to crackle a little brighter for it. There is nothing distant about him. He is not some austere statue looming over the Church of Favonius, nor merely a heroic name preserved in the records of the Knights.

He is flesh and blood, smelling of pine needles and morning dew. And perhaps most dangerously of all, he possesses that terribly human ability to be completely, hopelessly ridiculous.

Then, the reflection shows him turning his head. Those blue eyes find yours—even through the distorted glass—and he offers a slow, knowing wink. Your blood pressure rises immediately.

“He’s doing it again,” Kaeya chirps, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The ‘Look of Longing.’ Truly, it’s like a romance novel, only with significantly more sarcasm on the protagonist’s part.”

You would have volleyed back with yet another sharp retort, but something in your peripheral vision catches your attention.

“Charles.”

“Yes?” your coworker asks, his voice suspiciously high-pitched. You glance over to see him “polishing” the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes.

“If you don’t stop eavesdropping and go check the back for inventory, I will tell Master Diluc you’ve been giving the Cavalry Captain a ‘loyalty discount’ on his Death After Noon.”

Charles pales, offers a quick, apologetic shrug to your present company, and vanishes into the back room with impressive speed.

You turn back to Kaeya and Rosaria, slamming a fresh napkin down in front of them with enough force to make the wood rattle. “Both of you. Out of my face. Kaeya, your wine. Rosaria, whatever that sludge is you’re drinking. If I hear the word situationship out of either of your mouths again, I’m banning you from the Angel’s Share until the Grand Master actually manages to grow a brain cell. Which, by my calculations, should be somewhere around the next decade."

“So you’re saying there’s a timeline?” Kaeya teases, picking up his glass.

“Get. Out.”

They retreat to a corner table, chuckling like a pair of hyenas. You take a deep breath as you smooth out your apron, and try to regain your composure. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in the city. You do not let overgrown golden retrievers in armor distract you.

Naturally, that’s when a shadow falls over the bar. A very large, very familiar shadow.

“They seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Varka says, his voice a low rumble right in front of you. He’s leaned back against the bar, facing the room but tilting his head just enough to watch you. “What was the joke? I love a good laugh.”

“The joke,” you begin, leaning in until you’re mere inches from his face, relishing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, “is currently standing right in front of me, asking for more attention than a toddler in a toy shop.”

Varka’s grin doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens into something dangerously fond. “A toddler, eh? Well, I suppose I do have a certain... youthful energy.”

“You have the impulse control of a slime,” you counter, moving to the other end of the bar.

“But the heart of a lion!” he calls out after you, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. “And that lion is very thirsty for another round, my lady!”

You don’t look back, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks. Barbatos, give me strength, you think, grabbing a bottle with a little more violence than necessary. Or give him a very long expedition to go on.

It turns out that Barbatos has a sense of humor.

The announcement tore through Mondstadt like a gale-force wind. An expedition. A northern crusade into the heart of the Abyss. The city, never one to miss an excuse for a festival, turned the night before the departure into an absolute riot. Angel’s Share was the epicenter of the madness, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the heavy, humid anxiety of a people seeing their strongest protectors march into the unknown.

You were exhausted. You spent the last twelve hours pouring pint after pint for weeping recruits and boisterous knights who were drinking to forget the fear of what lay ahead. But as the clock struck midnight and the tavern began to thin out, the relief you’d been nursing suddenly felt hollow.

Then, the floorboards groaned under a familiar, massive weight.

Varka doesn’t slide up to the bar with his usual swagger. He doesn't offer a witty remark about the quality of the wine or try to bait you into an argument. He just pulls himself onto a stool, his shoulders slumped, his face flushed not just from the drink, but from the weight of a thousand eyes waiting for him to be a hero.

He looks… human. And that is significantly more terrifying than him being an annoyance.

“One more,” the Knight of Boreas mutters, waving a hand vaguely at the tap. His voice is gravelly, stripped of its usual theatrical boom.

You set a mug down, not bothering to ask if he wants his usual. “You’ve had enough. If you fall off your horse tomorrow because you’re nursing a hangover, the entire city will be weeping in the streets.”

Varka lets out a short, dry laugh. He stares down into the golden liquid as if it holds the secrets to the North. “They think I’m going there to win, you know. They think I’ll march in, clear the Abyss, and come back with a victory feast already planned.”

“And won’t you?” you ask, your voice softening despite your best intentions.

He looks up at you then, and the blue in his eyes is muted, weary. “I don’t know what’s out there. I really don’t. We have intel, yes, but the Abyss… it’s not a battlefield you can just charge into. It’s an endless rot that eats at you from the inside-out.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray that looks uncharacteristically fragile. “I’m taking the best of our men, and I’m not sure if I’m a leader, or just a man who’s going to get a lot of people killed.”

You freeze. Someone of his position, the pillar of Mondstadt and the Knights, never admits doubt. Certainly not to a cynical bartender. But the truth in his expression is naked, and for the first time, you don't feel the urge to bite back. You don't want to tell him to stop whining.

You lean over the counter, the distance between you shrinking until you can smell the pine and the sharp, fermented tang of the Dandelion Wine on his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, but the sharpness is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. “You’re an arrogant, loud-mouthed, paperwork-hating idiot. But you’re our idiot. If you go up there and die, there’s nobody left in this city with enough ego to keep the Knights in line. Much less the Abyss.”

Varka blinks, caught off guard by your lack of a sting. He stares at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous than his usual teasing flirtation.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you press on, forcing your hands to stay steady on the bar. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself killed. Because if I hear that you’ve fallen, I’m going to track down every single barrel of wine we’re sending to your caravan, and I am going to poison the lot of them personally. I’ll make sure your last drink is your worst one.”

Varka laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is the first genuine thing you’ve heard all night. He leans forward, closing the final inch of space between you. The air in the tavern seems to vanish, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming heat of him. He looks as if he is going to bridge the gap—as if he is going to press that brash, smiling mouth against yours right here in the middle of the tavern.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a traitorous, frantic rhythm. You hold your breath, leaning in just a fraction—

Then, he stops.

Varka pulls back, his hand brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself off the bar. The moment shatters.

“Poison, hmm?” he repeats huskily, his playful mask sliding back into place, though the wolfish grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to come back, then. I wouldn’t want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

The Grandmaster turns and walks toward the door, leaving you standing there clutching a clean rag with white-knuckled intensity, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the hearth.

Come morning, the sun rises over Mondstadt with a clarity that feels almost insulting.

You stand at the very back of the crowd near the city gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Varka is mounted on a horse so large it looks like it was plucked from an old legend, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs and waves to the citizens. He is every bit the Knight of Boreas should be—charismatic, unwavering, and draped in bravery in a way that makes people feel they could survive a literal apocalypse just by standing in his shadow.

It’s jarring. You keep looking for the man who leaned over your bar and admitted his fear of leading his men to their doom, but he’s gone, replaced by the invincible Grand Master. You realize then that life in Mondstadt is built on this very illusion. He has to be the most reliable man in the world so that everyone else can sleep at night, even if he's the most annoying man in the world to you personally.

As the caravan disappears into the horizon, a strange, ringing silence settles over the city.

The months that follow are exactly what you spent years praying for: quiet. With eighty percent of the Knights gone, the nights of rowdy drinking songs and Varka’s booming laughter are replaced by the low hubbub of civilian regulars and the occasional group of weary squires-in-training.

Kaeya and Rosaria remain your most consistent—and most irritating—patrons. The Cavalry Captain spends most of his evenings draped over the bar, sighing dramatically about how he “lacks a cavalry to captain”. Rosaria just drinks in silence, though she occasionally shoots you a knowing look when you find yourself staring a second too long at Varka's favorite empty stool.

Even Master Diluc makes more frequent appearances, his presence a somber weight in the room when he isn’t busy playing Darknight Hero under the city’s nose. But despite his outwardly stoic demeanor, your boss is sharper than most people. You can tell he’s well aware of the shift in your mood, and maneuvers around it just as carefully as Charles would, much to your surprise and annoyance.

Because it doesn’t make sense.

This is the monotonous, peaceful life you wanted. No one pestering you. No one calling you “the most beautiful woman in Mondstadt” just to watch you scowl.

So why does it feel so dull?

Oftentimes, you find yourself cleaning the counter with a bit more aggression than necessary, your ears unintentionally straining for a boisterous, unguarded laugh that hasn’t echoed through the rafters in nearly half a year. The king-sized headache is gone, and in his place is a void that makes Angel’s Share feel much larger and colder than it ever has before.

“You've polished that spot three times already,” Kaeya’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He leans in, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually missing the sound of his voice.”

“I’m missing the revenue his knights brought in,” you snap back, though your hand hitches for a fraction of a second. “Nothing more.”

Yes… This is the truth.

You’ve been praying to be rid of the nuisance that was the Knight of Boreas for Archons know how long. So why is it that when you find a letter neatly tucked beneath the door of your apartment after running errands, your heart nearly skips a beat?

You flip the envelope over, your thumb catching on the rough grain of the parchment. There is no wax seal, and certainly no return address. It’s a plain, unassuming thing that has no business making your chest buzz with this much frantic anticipation.

Your rationality insists it can’t be from him. He never promised to write. Why would he? You spent every waking moment of his presence in Mondstadt pushing him away, meeting his boisterous affection with nothing but barbs and sighs of exasperation.

Still, you don't wait. You unlock your door with trembling fingers, slip inside, and kick the door shut. You don't even take off your cloak before you tear the envelope open.

The handwriting is exactly what you expected: bold, messy, and large enough that it practically marches off the page. It’s the handwriting of a man who is clearly used to handing off his administrative duties to the next poor soul down the hierarchy of the Knights of Favonius.

EXPEDITION REPORT: NORTHERN FRONT TO: The Most Dangerous Woman in the Angel’s Share FROM: Your King-Sized Headache

My Lady,

I trust this reaches you before you’ve successfully replaced me with a more manageable regular. If you have, don’t tell me. My heart is already fragile enough from the frost up here.

We’ve finally reached a settlement in a region called Nod-Krai. It sits just a few miles south of the Snezhnayan border. It’s a strange, haunting place—not quite as biting as Dragonspine, but it lacks the golden warmth of Mondstadt’s sun. I find myself looking at the horizon and missing the way the light glitters across Cider Lake.

The Knights are currently settling into our encampment. We’ve made contact with a local group called the Lightkeepers. Stalwart folk, though they don’t laugh nearly as much as we do. But I won't bore you with the logistical nightmares of setting up a garrison in the tundra.

Tell me, have you learned any new mixes while I’ve been away? I find myself inexplicably jealous of every man who gets to sit at your bar and watch you work. I’ve even caught myself staring at our traveling supply of Dawn Winery’s finest and thinking it tastes remarkably flat. It turns out that even the best vintage in Teyvat doesn't compare to a drink served by a sharp-tongued beauty who looks like she’s considering poisoning me.

I don’t expect a reply. A man of my reputation shouldn't be so needy, right? But, should you find yourself bored and holding a pen, I’ve made an... arrangement. If you leave a letter on shelf 12A on the first floor of the Favonius Library and tuck it inside the twelfth tome from the right on the third row, it will find its way to me.

Take care of yourself. And keep that tongue sharp. I’d hate to come home to a polite bartender.

Yours, in exile,

Varka

You stare at the letter for a long minute, the ink blurring slightly as you read his specific, ridiculous instructions for the library. Shelf 12A? The twelfth tome on the third row?

“Idiot,” you mutter.

You toss the letter onto your coffee table with a decisive flick of your wrist. You have no intention of dignifying this with a response. You are not some lovelorn maiden waiting by the window for her knight. You are a professional, and you have a shift starting in four hours.

You leave the letter right where it is, stubbornly clinging to your pride as you move to the kitchen to make tea. You won't write back. You won't.

You stay stubborn for exactly three days.

By the fourth, the silence in your apartment feels loud, and the letter on the coffee table starts to look like a personal challenge that you are much too competitive to set aside.

That is how you find yourself in the Knights of Favonius library during the quiet morning hours when Lisa is busy elsewhere. Shelf 12A. Third row. Twelfth tome from the right. You pull the book—a dry, dusty record of Mondstadt’s civilian taxes from a century ago—and slip your folded parchment into the middle of it.

TO: The “King-Sized Headache” Currently Staining the North FROM: The Bartender Who Still Has Your Tab Open

Grand Master Varka,

Mondstadt is quiet. It is peaceful. It is, frankly, a relief to work a shift without having to listen to your voice drowning out the sound of the actual music. The only downside is that without your knights around to run up their tabs, the tips have been abysmal. So, for the sake of Angel’s Share’s bottom line, try not to get eaten by a lawachurl.

Nod-Krai sounds miserable. If there’s no sun, I assume you’re currently the color of a blanched radish. Is the food there even edible? I’ve heard rumors that the northerners live on nothing but dried fish and melted snow. If you’ve lost weight, don't expect me to pity you when you get back; you had plenty of “youthful energy” to spare.

And stop being ridiculous. The men in the bar are customers, and unlike some people, they actually know how to order a drink without making a theatrical production out of it. I haven't bothered with any new mixes. Why would I? There’s no one here with a refined enough palate to appreciate them—or a big enough ego to demand them.

Don’t get used to this. I am only writing because the silence in the tavern is making Charles go stir-crazy, and I needed something to occupy my mind while he reorganizes the cellar for the fifth time this week.

Stay warm. If you come back with even a single toe missing, I’m doubling the price of your wine for the next three years. I’m serious, Varka. One piece. Or don't come back at all.

Try not to be an idiot (I know it’s hard),

—The One Who Should Be Paid to Deal With You

The correspondence between you and the Grand Master isn’t what anyone would call “regular.”

It lacks the frantic pace of a romance and the rigid structure of a carefully penned report. Sometimes, his letters sit on your coffee table for weeks, while you go about your life in a city that feels increasingly like a toy box he left behind.

It isn’t always out of spite. Most of the time, it’s simply because life in Mondstadt is… well, Mondstadt. You tell him about the wine yields, the way the wind smells before a storm, and how Charles finally managed to drop a full crate of dandelion wine without breaking a single bottle. Then you read his latest letter. It was filled with accounts of Abyssal skirmishes, diplomatic dances with the Snezhnayan border guards, and the beautifully moonlit landscape of the north. Once you put it down, you feel a sudden, sharp sting of insignificance.

Your life is a quiet tavern; his is a map of the world.

Eventually, you find something worth reporting. You spent three pages detailing the arrival of a golden-haired Traveler and a floating guide who sounds like an over-caffeinated finch.

You write with uncharacteristic fervor about the Stormterror crisis, and how this stranger managed to soothe a dragon that had been part of Mondstadt’s soul since the beginning. You feel a strange sense of pride in delivering the scoop, imagining him reading it in some tent and finally realizing that Mondstadt can produce heroes even when he isn’t there to hog the spotlight.

His response arrives three weeks later.

My Lady, I was touched by your detailed account of our honorary Knight’s exploits. Truly, I was flattered that you went to such lengths to keep me informed. However, Jean’s official report reached me two days prior. Still, I prefer your version—you have a much better way of describing how 'insufferable' the Traveler’s companion is.

You don't reply to that one. In fact, you don't even put it on the coffee table. You shove it into a drawer and sulk for a month, refusing to even walk near the library. The nerve of the man, letting you write your heart out about a national crisis only to tell you he’d already read the “official” version.

But Varka has always been a man who thrives on the impossible—including reading your mood from across a continent.

The Windblume Festival arrives in a flurry of cecilias and dandelion fluff. The air in Mondstadt is sickeningly sweet with romance, and Angel’s Share is packed with couples sharing special Love and Aftermath cocktails. You are mid-pour, your jaw tense from a day of forced customer-service smiles, when the bell above the door chimes with a familiar rhythm.

Kaeya Alberich doesn’t head for his usual stool. He leans over the counter, blocking your path to the tap, with a small, elegantly wrapped parcel held between two fingers.

“Move, Kaeya. I have three orders waiting,” you grumble.

“My, my. Still as prickly as a Whopperflower,” Kaeya hums. “And here I am, acting as a royal messenger at great personal expense to my own social calendar.”

“If you're here to take over being the biggest annoyance in my life while your boss is away, you're doing a stellar job. Now move.”

Kaeya snorts, a genuine sound of amusement. “Oh, I would never dream of it. I know my limits; I’ll never be worthy of that particular title. No, this is a delivery from the Great North.”

Your hand freezes on the tap. You finally look at the parcel. It isn’t flashy—wrapped in sturdy, dark blue paper and tied with a simple leather cord.

“The Grand Master sends his regards,” Kaeya whispers, sliding the package across the wood. “He was quite insistent that it reach you today. Apparently, he’s a stickler for tradition.”

“I don’t want it,” you insist, even as your fingers twitch toward the cord that binds it.

“Of course you don’t. That's why your face is currently the color of a Jueyun Chili,” Kaeya teases, straightening up. “I’ll leave you to your... professional duties.”

When Kaeya is out of sight, you snatch the gift from the counter and, without a word to Charles, retreat into the back room. You tell yourself you’re just checking the inventory. You tell yourself you’re going to throw it in the trash.

Instead, you tear the paper open.

Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden box. When you open it, the scent hits you first—the sharp, clean smell of northern pine. Resting on a bed of dried moss is a single, preserved flower you don’t recognize: a hardy specimen with three jagged leaves. Small, ice-blue crystalline shards cling to the tips like permanent droplets of frozen dew, shielding a central bud that glows with a warm, pale yellow heart. Beside it lies a small, heavy iron coin, its surface polished until it shines like silver.

A note is folded and tucked into the lid.

I’m told it’s Windblume back home. The knights are all busy making fools of themselves writing poetry to girls they haven’t seen in months. I thought about joining them, but I figured you’d find a poem from me even more offensive than my presence.

I found this winter icelea on a ridge overlooking the Abyss. It reminded me of you—stubborn enough to grow in a place where nothing else dares to, and far more beautiful than the pampered flowers in the city square. I also found this coin in an old ruin. It's useless as currency, but it’s heavy and hard to break. Keep it in your pocket; think of it as a weight to keep you grounded until I get back to annoy you in person.

I wish I could be the one dragging you out to the plaza tonight to watch the fireworks, even if you spent the whole time telling me how much of a spectacle I was making. Since I can’t be your date, consider the flower my proxy. Don't let it die out of spite.

Missing the sting of your tongue,

Varka

Your heart doesn’t just flutter; it does a full, traitorous somersault against your ribs. You stare at the tiny, resilient flower, feeling a lump form in your throat that no amount of dandelion wine can wash away. You are furious. You are flustered. You are…

You slam the box shut and march back out to the floor, your face burning.

“Everything alright?” Charles asks, retreating a step at the sheer intensity of your glare.

“Fine,” you bark, grabbing a shaker and snapping it into place with enough violence to startle a nearby table of tourists.

Master Diluc, who is reviewing the ledgers in the corner, looks up. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his red eyes tracking the frantic, slightly-too-fast way you are mixing drinks. He then looks at the corner where Kaeya is smirking into his glass.

Diluc lets out a short, dry exhale—the closest he ever gets to a laugh.

“I didn’t realize the Grand Master’s influence extended to the quality of our service,” Diluc remarks, his voice smooth and deadpan. “Try not to break the glassware. Varka’s ego is expensive enough to maintain; we don’t need to add a replacement fee for the bar equipment.”

“I am perfectly calm!” you hiss, nearly overfilling a glass.

“Clearly,” Diluc replies, returning to his ledger with a ghostly shadow of a smirk.

You spend the rest of the night refusing to look at the back room, even though the weight of the iron coin in your apron pocket feels like a warm hand resting against your hip.

The years have a cruel way of blurring together when the person who defined the noise of your life is replaced by a heavy, echoing silence.

What everyone initially assumed would be a standard display of Mondstadt’s strength has taken on a far more sobering gravity. The expedition into the heart of the Abyss isn't a skirmish; it's a war of attrition. The semi-steady flow of letters that once felt like a game of wits eventually slows, then halts entirely for months at a time. News from the north becomes a rare commodity.

During those long stretches of radio silence, you wonder if he’s cold. You wonder if he has finally met a problem he can't laugh his way out of. But every time your heart begins that traitorous train of thought, you snap out of it with a sharp scowl.

Yet, as Kaeya once noted, Varka is a stickler for tradition. Even when the official reports from the front lines run dry, he never misses the three days of the year that have become the secret pillars of your calendar: the Windblume Festival, Ludi Harpastum, and your birthday.

Each time, a gift arrives. A gem of glowing resin he once called pine amber; a ribbon of silk from a Snezhnayan merchant; a pressed leaf that smells of a forest you’ve never seen. And always, there are the words. He never runs out of them.

“The moon up here is a tempting mistress,” he writes in one particularly late-night scrawl. “She is constant and quiet, a far cry from the rowdy sun of Mondstadt. But don’t worry, my Lady. The sun will always be the hearth in my heart, and you… well, you’ll always be the one holding the poker to the coals. You’re still number one, even if you’re currently several thousand miles away and probably wishing I’d fall into a crevasse.”

By the fourth year of the expedition, the letters have changed you. You’ve developed a habit—one you keep strictly to yourself. On clear nights, after your shift ends and the city is asleep, you climb the long, stone steps leading to the Church of Favonius. You stand at the top of the plaza, beneath the shadow of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, and gaze up at the moon.

You find yourself wondering if it’s the same sky he’s looking at right now, and if the silver light feels as lonely on his skin as it does on yours.

Then comes the day that breaks your carefully maintained composure.

It is a Tuesday—not a festival, not a birthday, just a mundane afternoon at Angel’s Share. One of the knights drops a letter off, and your heart thumps against your ribs at the oddly timed arrival. You tear it open right there at the bar, leaning over the wood as you always do.

You don't even get past the first line.

I’M THINKING ABOUT HAVING YOU SIT ON MY COCK.

SLAM.

The sound of the parchment hitting the bar top is like a gunshot.

Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc, an odd trio who had been sharing a rare, quiet drink together, all jump slightly at the noise. They look at you bizarrely as they take in your state. Your face isn't just red; it is a violent, incandescent shade of crimson that rivals Diluc’s hair.

“Everything alright?” Jean asks, her voice laced with concern.

“I... I need to...” You sputter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your eyes are wide, and you feel as though you’ve been struck by a bolt of Electro.

“Is that a letter from the North?” Kaeya asks, his voice dripping with a delight that suggests he has already guessed the contents without seeing a single word.

You can't explain it. You can’t tell the Acting Grand Master that her mentor is currently writing smut from a war zone. You can’t tell your boss why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.

“Charles?” you call out, your voice cracking.

Your coworker pokes his head out from the back room door. “Yes?”

“Man the bar for me, please,” you choke out, grabbing the letter and clutching it to your chest as if it were a live grenade. “I need to... collect my thoughts. In the back. Now.”

Charles nods, takes your place at front, and you bolt for the storage room, the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive click. You lean against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on a crate of wine, and read the rest of the letter with hands that won't stop shaking.

You sink onto the crate, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you stare at that first, heart-stopping line. You force your eyes to move past the initial shock, your breath coming in shallow hitches as you read the rest of the messy, sprawling script.

The tone shifts abruptly. The handwriting, usually bold and steady, becomes a jagged crawl that speaks of exhaustion and something far more clinical.

Forgive the start of this, my Lady. If the ink is smudged, it’s because my hands aren’t quite my own today. We’ve just come through a siege that went sideways. I nearly didn’t make it back to the tent to write the first line. There was a hole in my chest large enough for the northern wind to whistle through, and for a moment, I actually thought Barbatos was finally calling in my tab.

A cold chill that has nothing to do with the storage room air washes over you. Your grip on the parchment tightens.

The only reason I’m still breathing is a woman named Lady Lauma. She’s the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, a group of healers up here whose blood is said to be able to pull any man back from the brink. I’ve spent the last few hours high on whatever concoctions her best healers forced down my throat to keep the pain at bay. That first line? That was the drug-addled honesty of a dying man. I thought about scrapping it once the haze started to lift, but then I realized it was that very thought—the sheer, ridiculous desire to have you exactly where I said—that kept me anchored to my consciousness while they stitched me back together.

You let out a shaky, indignant breath. Even at death's door, the man is an absolute menace.

I won’t be more explicit with the details, lest you decide to pray to Barbatos for a freak hurricane to finish what the Abyss started. But I’ll tell you this, since I’m still too light-headed to lie: I honestly thought the distance would make me less fond of you. I thought the years and the blood and the frost would dull the memory of your scowl. But I have this bad habit of writing to you, and an even worse one of looking forward to your replies. It’s become a fire that’s awfully difficult to kill, no matter how much snow they pile on top of it.

I don’t expect you to return the sentiment. (I know better than to ask for a miracle from a woman who specializes in serving reality on the rocks.) But I’m still looking forward to coming home and seeing that beautiful face of yours, even if it’s currently attached to the sharpest tongue in Mondstadt.

You stare at the page, the silence of the storage room suddenly deafening.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to scream at him for being so reckless, and you want to weep because the thought of that hole in his chest makes your own lungs feel tight. Most of all, you realize that the “situationship” Kaeya joked about years ago has morphed into something you can no longer walk away from.

A soft knock sounds on the door.

“Are you... finished collecting your thoughts?” Charles’s voice is tentative. “Master Diluc is starting to look like he’s going to come back there himself.”

You jump, nearly dropping the letter. You shove it into your apron pocket, smoothing down your hair with trembling hands. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in Mondstadt. You do not let drug-addled confessions from dying giants rattle you.

“I'm coming,” you tell him shakily.

As you walk back out into the tavern, you catch Kaeya’s eye. He’s still smirking, his single eye tracking the way you won't look at anyone. You ignore him, grabbing a bottle of the strongest vintage on the shelf and focusing entirely on the grain of the wood beneath your fingers.

The fire in your chest matches the one Varka described, and for the first time in four years, the silence of the tavern doesn’t feel dull.

It feels like a countdown.

You find the last letter you’ll ever receive from the North tucked beneath your door. It is a plain, nondescript thing, identical to the very first one that started this five-year-long game of cat and mouse.

Inside, there is no sprawling report or drug-addled confession. There is only a single, heavy line of ink that looks as if it were written in a hurry:

We're coming home.

You stare at the four words until they start to lose their meaning. Your first instinct is to scoff—to assume he’s joking, or perhaps simply delusional. The last official word disseminated by the Knights of Favonius was grim; a crisis in Nod-Krai was reportedly reaching a breaking point, a surge of Abyssal activity that threatened to spill over and impact Teyvat as a whole if not contained.

The anxiety of that news had nearly driven you to madness.

You found yourself marching up to the Favonius Library every single day, slipping letter after frantic letter into the old tome on Shelf 12A. You still don’t understand the mechanics of it—Varka never explained how a dusty record of civilian taxes functioned as a trans-continental mailbox, and you never once saw another soul approach that forgotten corner of the library. Yet, without fail, every letter you tucked into those pages disappeared by the next morning. You knew with certainty that he was receiving them.

But now, he claims he and his men are returning.

You keep the scrap of parchment tucked beneath your pillow for a week, a secret weight that keeps you awake at night. You refuse to hold onto hope; five years is a long, agonizing time, and your pride simply cannot handle the crushing blow of a disappointment this large. Even if Varka isn’t “anything” to you, the thought of his favorite stool staying empty for another year feels like a physical ache.

Then, at the end of the week, the silence in Mondstadt finally breaks.

Acting Grand Master Jean stands before the Church, her voice carrying across the plaza with emotion she rarely allows the public to see. She officially announces that the expeditionary force has successfully contained the threat in the North and is currently marching back toward the city gates.

The city erupts. People are weeping in the streets, bells are ringing from the towers, and Angel’s Share is instantly swamped with patrons wanting to toast to a miracle.

But as you stand behind the bar that evening, a realization hits you like a cold splash of water.

Varka hadn't just sent that note as a courtesy. He had told you first. Before the official messengers reached the city, before the scouts signaled the towers, and before he deigned to inform his own subordinates, he had made sure a letter found its way to your door.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Charles remarks as he reaches for a clean towel.

“I’ve seen something much more annoying than a ghost,” you mutter, though you can't quite hide the way your hands are shaking as you reach for a bottle of his favorite vintage. “I've seen the return of a man who doesn't know how to follow a chain of command.”

Charles just grins like he’s in the know. Maybe he always has been.

“Well, at least the tips will improve, right?”

You don’t answer. Your eyes drift toward the door, your heart hammering a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like hope. He’s coming back. And this time, you have five years' worth of sharp-tongued retorts—and one very heavy iron coin you always keep in your pocket—waiting for him.

The day of the festival arrives in a riot of color and noise that Mondstadt hasn’t seen in half a decade.

You stand at the very edge of the plaza, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You’ve spent the morning practicing your “unimpressed” face in the mirror, telling yourself that a five-year absence doesn't excuse the sheer audacity of his letters. You are determined to be the only person in the city not currently sobbing with joy.

Then, the horns sound at the gates.

The crowd surges, a collective gasp rippling through the plaza as the first line of the expeditionary force crests the hill. They are not the shiny, pristine knights who left five years ago. They are rugged and battle-worn, their faces lined with the gravity of what they’ve endured.

But it is the man at the lead who makes your breath hitch.

Varka is mounted on a massive, battle-worn steed, looking every bit the legendary Knight of Boreas. His golden hair is much longer now, tied back in a messy, careless tail that grazes his broad shoulders. He looks older, worn thin by all he’s seen and all he’s survived.

He is scanning the crowd, his blue eyes sharp and searching, cutting through the thousands of faces with a singular focus that makes your heart hammer a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

When his gaze finally lands on you, the transformation is instantaneous.

The legendary commander vanishes, replaced in a heartbeat by the same irritating man who used to wink at you through the reflection of a wine bottle. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—one that says he knows exactly how much you've missed him, even if you’d rather die than admit it.

Varka dismounts before his horse has even fully come to a stop, his heavy boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. He doesn't wait for the official greeting from Jean; he doesn't wait for the cheers of the citizens. He simply stops ten paces away and opens his arms wide, a silent, arrogant invitation.

The jury can find you guilty later.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, before your pride can gain its footing, you are moving. You break from the crowd, abandoned by your own common sense, and run.

You collide with him with enough force to make his armor clank, your hands fisted into the rough fabric of his cloak as his massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground. He smells of pine needles, old parchment, and a warmth that feels like the first day of spring after a century of winter.

"Missed me that much, did you?" he rumbles against your ear.

“I missed having someone to threaten with poison,” you choke out into his shoulder, your voice thick and uncharacteristically fragile. “You're late, you idiot.”

Varka laughs—loud and boisterous and everything you’ve ever loved. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that ruins you.

“I told you,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning with a fire no northern snow could kill. “I wouldn't want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

In the background, tucked away near a fountain, Kaeya sighs dramatically as he drops a heavy bag of mora into Rosaria’s outstretched hand.

“I really thought she’d hold out for at least thirty seconds,” Kaeya mutters, looking genuinely disappointed in your lack of resolve.

Rosaria doesn't even look at him, her fingers expertly catching the bag. “Never bet on a woman who’s been staring at an empty stool for five years, Captain. It’s bad for the wallet.”

Diluc, standing a few paces away from the sniveling duo, watches the you and the Grand Master for a long moment. He lets out a short, dry exhale before shaking his head with a quiet sigh.

“Charles,” Diluc says to the man idling next to him, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Get the good bottles ready. It’s going to be a very long night.”

You stiffen. You dust off your clothes quickly and step out into the lantern-lit street and stop dead.

A man stands there.

Not just a man.

The tallest man you’ve ever seen: broad shoulders beneath worn armor, scarred forearms, hair tousled from the late-night wind. His presence is so solid, so warm, it fills the entire street before he even speaks.

From the stories, he must be the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.

You do not let yourself panic. You also do not let him near your cats.

Before you can overthink it, you straighten up. “Grand Master. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His expression brightens with amused surprise.

“No need to be so formal with me. Just Varka.” He crosses his arms loosely, a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’re you doing out here this late?”

Your spine stiffens instinctively. “Just… taking an evening walk. Mondstadt is the city of freedom, isn’t it?”

“Woah, easy there.” His grin widens, delighted rather than offended. “Just making conversation.”

You’re sure he means no harm, but the idea of him discovering your cats and forcing you to move them makes your stomach twist.

“I have insomnia,” you say quickly. “I wander around at night.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced and amused in equal measure.

“You know, you can’t fool me. Unless you’re hissing on a regular basis, you’ve got cats somewhere.”

“Hissing can be healthy,” you counter. “If used properly and without the intent to harm.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. A low, warm sound that does terrible things to your ability to think.

“…I see.” He studies you with a new kind of interest. “Didn’t expect that answer.”

You cross your arms. “With all due respect, don’t you have better things to do?”

He looks around the quiet street, then back at you. “Not really, no. Just came from Angel’s Share. Was heading to sleep.”

His expression softens, voice dropping into something warm and sincere.

“But I protect this city. Don’t like people wandering alone at night, no matter how safe it seems. Alright?”

“Mm.” You click your tongue. Then nod slowly. “I see what this is about now. Not chivalry… though it’s appreciated.”

You narrow your eyes. “You want to see the cats.”

Varka‘s grin breaks wide open. “Yeah. I do. Please?”

Somehow, it’s endearing. This mountain of a man asking like you’re the one granting him a favor.

“They’re a little feisty,” you warn.

“Even better.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “They’ll love me.”

“You’re not giving up, are you? There are cats everywhere. Why don’t you go admire someone else’s?”

He laughs, a sound that fills the alley. “You fuss over them so much. Now I want to meet them.”

A meow echoes from your shelter.

You sigh. “…Great. Now they noticed you. Your laughter’s too loud.”

“I’m a loud man.” He shrugs, still grinning. “But I can be very calm, if I need to be. People say I’ve got a soothing aura.”

“Uh-huh.”

He puts a hand to his chest in playful offense, then gives you a long, assessing look like he’s piecing something together.

“C’mon. I’ll behave.”

Against your better judgment—and because your cats already know he’s here—you lead him to the shelter.

“Cozy,” he mutters, crouching beside you. “Could use some work, though. I’ve got ideas.”

“You’re very invested,” you deadpan.

“Mhm.” He offers his hand to the ginger kitten, his voice going unexpectedly soft. “I always wanted to adopt cats.”

That… does something to you. “Are you always this chatty?”

“Yeah, usually.” He glances up at you, eyes warm. “Why? You like it?”

You look away. “We’ll see about that.”

But the truth is already obvious.

One of the cats crawls onto his arm and starts licking him. You choke on a laugh.

“Got names for them yet?” Varka asks.

“Kinda,” you say too quickly.

He smirks. “Thought so. C’mon. Tell me. I can keep a secret if it’s part of some sacred cat oath.”

“With the cats?”

“Yeah. You seem the type to talk to them constantly.” He watches the way your mouth twitches. “That’s a compliment.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you have opinions about cat names.”

“Oh, I have more than opinions.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have suggestions.”

Your heart does something unhelpful.

You gesture toward the black-and-white one curled in a box. “That’s Pepper.”

Varka hums, nodding as if evaluating the name on some internal scale of worthiness.

“Strong choice. Looks like a Pepper.”

The ginger one paws at his sleeve. “And that one’s Bristle.”

He grins. “Very accurate. Fiery little knight.”

You hesitate before adding, “The third one… doesn’t have a name yet.”

Varka’s head snaps up so fast it makes you blink. “No name?” he repeats, like you’ve just revealed a sacred vacancy.

He looks between you and the tiny grey kitten curled against your ankle. Then, softer, hopeful: “…Are you letting me?”

Your heart stutters. His voice dropped. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he could bench-press a beast.

You shrug, casual, though you definitely did this on purpose. “Maybe. If you don’t pick something ridiculous.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I take this honor very seriously.”

He studies the kitten with the focus of someone naming a knight, not a stray.

The kitten stretches, bonks its tiny head against his massive palm, and immediately begins purring.

Varka’s expression softens. Melts, even. “…Whisper,” he says.

You blink. “Whisper?”

He nods, suddenly shy in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible for a man this enormous.

“She’s quiet. Watches before she acts. Careful little thing.”

Your lips curve. “Whisper it is.”

If Varka were any happier, the street lamps would probably brighten in solidarity.

He clears his throat like he needs to steady himself. “So. You’re new to Mondstadt.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Everything about you says you’re not from around here.”

His eyes flick over your posture, your shoes, your careful way of speaking. He doesn’t judge, just notices.

You fall into an easy conversation for a while. You tell him about the cats, mostly, about where you‘re staying at the moment, and he listens and makes commentary. Gives you some info about the city, always with that grin.

Then he pauses, just looking at you. “You exploring? Passing through? Or planning to stay a while?”

You look down at the cats, then back at him. “Not sure yet. Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

A slow, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Counting on it.”

He rises to his full height, the alley shrinking around him again. “You need a permanent place, though,” he says lightly. “Something safe. For the cats.”

His eyes catch yours. Warm. Intent. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

You open your mouth to protest—he’s the Grand Master, for Archon’s sake—but he’s already crouching again to give Whisper a final chin rub.

“Get home safe,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t wander alone at night, yeah?”

“Why?” you tease. “You going to scold me again?”

He grins. “No. I’ll just show up again.”

And with that, he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the alley with three cats, a racing heartbeat, and the distinct sense that Mondstadt just became more complicated than you planned.

— ✦ —

You don’t plan to run into him again.

And yet.

Three nights later, Varka appears with a basket slung under one arm.

“For the cats,” he says, like this is a completely normal thing for the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius to be doing at midnight.

The basket is full of fish.

Pepper takes one sniff and hisses with pure excitement.

Varka beams like he’s just negotiated a major treaty. “Knew she’d love it.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.” He crouches down, already offering Bristle a piece. “Besides, I was in the area.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At night. In this specific alley.”

“Patrol route,” he says, far too quickly.

You don’t believe him for a second.

(He comes back the next night too.)

It becomes a pattern.

Not every night—but often enough that the cats start looking for him. Often enough that you stop being surprised when his footsteps echo down the alley.

Often enough that you start… expecting it.

You call him “Varka” now without hesitation.

Not Grand Master. Not sir. Just… Varka.

He pretends it doesn’t affect him.

(It does.)

You notice the way his expression shifts every time you say it, something warm and pleased flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral.

You notice, and you don’t stop saying it.

One evening, Whisper bypasses you entirely and scrambles straight up his arm to perch on his shoulder.

Varka goes very still, like he’s afraid to move and dislodge her.

“She picked her favorite,” he announces, voice soft with wonder.

“You bribed her,” you point out.

“Effective leadership.” He grins, then very carefully reaches up to scratch under her chin. Whisper purrs so loudly you can hear it from three feet away.

Something warm and unhelpful settles in your chest.

Days slip by like this. Quiet moments. Soft shifts.

By the second week, you’ve stopped pretending this isn’t happening.

“You know,” you mutter one evening, speaking more to Bristle than anyone, “he’s very persistent.”

Varka, who’s crouched two feet away coaxing Pepper out of a box, perks up immediately.

“See? I knew you made oaths with them.”

“Not oaths.”

“Guidelines, then. Sacred cat agreements.”

“Varka, stop listening to my private conversations.”

“Can’t.” He doesn’t even look sorry. “Too charming.”

You try to glare at him.

It doesn’t work.

(It never works.)

Sometimes you catch him watching you.

Not your face—your hands. The way you move around the cats. How gentle you are when Pepper gets skittish, how patient when Bristle refuses to settle, how soft your voice goes when Whisper curls into your lap.

Each time, his expression does something you don’t quite know how to name.

Soft. Like he’s cataloging every detail and filing it away somewhere important.

Once, you look up too quickly and catch him mid-stare.

He doesn’t look away.

Just smiles—small and wondering and entirely too warm—and says, “You’re good with them.”

“They’re cats,” you manage. “Not exactly difficult.”

“Still.” His voice drops, goes quieter. “It’s nice. Watching you care about something.”

You look away first.

One evening, the conversation shifts.

“How’s the apartment search going?” Varka asks while refilling Pepper’s water bowl.

“About as well as you’d expect.” You sigh. “Mondstadt’s apparently full.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Lot of people moving in lately. I’ve been asking around though—there might be something opening up soon.”

You blink. “You’ve been asking?”

“Told you I’d keep an ear out.” He glances over, slightly amused. “Though apparently I’ve asked enough people that rumors are starting. Kaeya asked if I was setting up a secret hide out.”

You snort. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’m helping a friend.” His eyes are warm. “He didn’t believe me for a second.”

“And what does he think?”

Varka’s ears go slightly pink. “Nothing worth repeating.”

One evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie. “Just… long day at work.”

You’d found a job at one of the shops. Nothing glamorous, but steady. Enough to pay for the temporary room and save a little. Enough to prove you could stay in Mondstadt if you wanted to.

If you wanted to.

You’re starting to think you do.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A shopkeeper stops you in the plaza one afternoon.

“Excuse me—are you the one the Grand Master’s been visiting every night?”

You choke on air.

Behind you, Varka—who’d been trailing at a polite distance like he just happened to be walking the same direction—immediately becomes very interested in a basket of apples.

“I don’t—we’re not—it’s just—” You flounder.

The shopkeeper grins knowingly. “He talks about you, you know. And the cats.”

“He what—”

“Good man.”

She’s gone before you can form a coherent response.

Varka is still examining apples with the focus of someone who absolutely heard every word and is choosing violence by pretending he didn’t.

“Varka.”

“Mm?”

“Did you tell half of Mondstadt about the cats?”

“Only the relevant half.” He finally looks at you, grin unrepentant. “They were curious why I kept disappearing at night.”

“And you thought the truth was a good idea?”

“Better than letting them think I was up to something suspicious.” He shifts the apple basket to one arm. “Besides. I’m proud of those cats. Why wouldn’t I talk about them?”

The way he says those cats does something to your chest you refuse to examine. Like they’re his too. Like he has any claim to them beyond showing up uninvited with fish.

You feel warm.

And then you notice something wrong.

He’s favoring his right shoulder.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But you’ve been watching him for weeks now (not that you’d admit it), and you see the way he rolls it slightly when he thinks no one’s looking, the careful way he moves when reaching for things.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, you’re ready.

“Here,” you say, holding out a small jar.

He blinks. “What’s this?”

“Salve. For your shoulder.”

Surprise flickers across his face before he schools it. “How did you—”

“You keep rolling it.” You shrug, trying to seem casual even though your heart is beating too fast. “Figured you pulled something during training or… whatever it is Grand Masters do.”

He stares at the jar like you’ve handed him something precious.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You press it into his hand before you can overthink it. “But you’re always taking care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Varka goes very still, his fingers closing carefully around the jar.

When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted—softened and intensified at the same time.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You clear your throat, suddenly flustered. “It’s just salve. Don’t make it weird.”

His laugh is soft, a little rough. “Too late.”

He tucks the jar away and the way he looks at you makes your breath catch.

Like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed.

You mention, casually, that the nights are getting colder and the cats could use better blankets.

The next evening, Varka arrives carrying three.

Thick ones. Wool. Probably expensive.

“These were lying around in the storage,” he says, far too innocently.

You raise an eyebrow. “And they just let you take whatever you want from storage?”

“They will. I can be very convincing,” he says, completely sincere.

You don’t even argue. Just take the blankets and watch him arrange them carefully in the shelter, adjusting corners with the same focus he probably uses for military strategy.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” you say quietly.

“Worth it.” He doesn’t look up. “They need to be warm.”

A couple of weeks ago, you were hiding cats in an alley.

Now the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is stealing blankets for them.

You’re not sure when your life became this strange.

(You’re not sure when you stopped minding.)

— ✦ —

One evening, the rain begins just as you’re finishing up with the cats. Soft at first, then steady enough that you glance up at the sky and sigh.

Varka, who’d shown up twenty minutes ago with “extra fish, just in case,” follows your gaze.

“Come on.” He straightens, brushing cat fur off his pants. “Angel’s Share is right there. I’ll buy you a drink.”

It’s not a question.

But the way he looks at you makes it feel like one anyway.

You should say no.

You should go home, draw a line, remember that he’s the Grand Master and you’re just someone passing through Mondstadt with three stray cats and no permanent address.

But the rain is picking up, and he’s looking at you like spending more time together is something he actually wants, and—

“Alright,” you hear yourself say. “One drink.”

His smile could light up the whole plaza.

“One drink,” he agrees.

(You both know it won’t be just that.)

He’s already holding the door open for you, warm lamplight spilling out behind him.

Inside, the tavern is nearly empty.

Varka scans the room once, decides immediately, then places a guiding hand near your back. Not touching, but close enough you feel the warmth.

“Upstairs,” he says with a little grin. “Quieter there.”

You follow him up the wooden steps to a table overlooking the main floor.

He gestures for you to sit.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab the drinks.”

Before you can protest, he’s already gone.

A moment later, he returns with two glasses and sets one gently in front of you.

“It’s something light,” he says. “Figured you might want to keep a clear head.”

You blink. The consideration isn’t surprising coming from him, but it’s unfamiliar to you. And it warms something in your chest.

He settles into the seat across from you, forearms braced on the table. His size makes the corner nook feel smaller, more intimate.

“So,” Varka says, softer now. “Tell me why you came to Mondstadt.”

You take a slow breath. You hadn’t planned to tell him this. But something about the quiet space, the warm wood, the light on his face makes all speaking easier.

“I’m from Fontaine,” you begin. “Born there. Raised there. My family’s… well-off.”

Varka doesn’t react with judgment. He simply listens, steady and open. “But I never fit,” you continue. “All those expectations. Parties. Perfect etiquette. Being graceful and charming in all the ‘right’ circles. It felt like wearing someone else’s life.”

His brow softens.

“So,” you shrug, “I left. Traveled a while. Tried to figure out who I actually am without all the noise.”

“And that brought you here?” Varka asks quietly.

“Yeah. Mondstadt was meant to be temporary.” You look out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “But it feels easier to breathe here. More honest.”

When you look back, Varka is watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. Gentle, contemplative, warmed by something he hasn’t named.

“Thinking about staying, then?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his voice. Like your answer matters more than he wants to admit.

“Maybe,” you say. “I’m not sure yet.”

His expression does something complicated. Hope and patience warring in his eyes.

“Actually,” he says, expression brightening slightly, “I might have a lead. One of the knights mentioned a place near the plaza. Landlord’s reasonable, apparently. Not confirmed yet, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll know more in a few days.”

Something in your chest eases. The uncertainty you’d been carrying about where you’d live, whether you’d have to leave Mondstadt, whether the cats would have a real home.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For caring about that. About… all of us.”

His expression softens. “Of course I care.”

The words settle between you, weighted with something neither of you quite names.

He takes a sip of his drink, and when he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful.

“You know,” he begins, “people like to pretend paths are straight lines. That you’re supposed to follow one clear direction, beginning to end.” He huffs a breath. “My life cured me of that notion eventually.”

“Oh?” you ask, leaning in.

“Yeah.” He taps a finger lightly on the table. “Spent years trying to become the hero. The symbol. The one who charges in first and gets all the glory.”

A soft laugh. “Turns out, that wasn’t me. Never was.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Really.” His voice goes low, almost thoughtful. “Glory’s loud. But real importance?” He shakes his head. “That’s quieter. More grounded. Protecting people. Showing up. Making a place safer. Kinder. That matters more to me than any legend.”

It matches him. Perfectly.

“So,” he finishes, tilting his head, “if you strayed from the path life laid out for you? Good. Sometimes the wandering is the only part that actually belongs to you.”

His gaze lingers a second too long. Your pulse trips.

You weren’t expecting this. Not from someone who looks like he could wrestle a Lawachurl and win. Not from the Grand Master who everyone in Mondstadt seems to revere.

But he’s looking at you like he understands exactly what it means to walk away from a destiny someone else chose. Like he’s done it himself.

“That’s…” You swallow. “That’s exactly it. I couldn’t have said it better.”

Something shifts in his expression. Warmth, recognition, something deeper.

“Then you’re on the right path,” he says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

The moment stretches between you.

You clear your throat, needing to lighten the weight before it pulls you under.

“You’re very philosophical for someone who was interrogating me about hissing before.”

He lets out an unrestrained laugh. Deep and warm.

“I stand by it,” Varka says. “Still a reasonable question.”

“It’s really not.”

He shifts closer. Not much, but enough that the warmth of him reaches across the table.

The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to, considering you’ve known him less than a month.

You tell him about Fontaine. Not the practiced version you give strangers, but the truth: the suffocating expectations, the parties where you felt like someone on display, the moment you realized you’d rather have nothing than live someone else’s life.

He listens like every word matters. Asks questions that show he’s not just being polite—he actually wants to understand. “What was the moment you decided to leave?” “Did anyone try to stop you?” “Do you miss any of it?”

You find yourself answering things you normally wouldn’t. Remembering details you thought you’d buried.

When you pause, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’ve shared, he just refills your glass and says, “Go on. I’m listening.”

And he is. Completely. Like nothing else in the world exists except you and this conversation.

In return, he tells you stories.

About fights—though he never boasts, always deflects credit to others. About the knights and their various mishaps. About Mondstadt and why he loves it, why he stays, why protecting it matters more to him than any glory ever could.

You listen just as intently, asking your own questions, calling him out when he’s too modest, teasing him when he gets that fond look talking about “his” knights.

When he laughs—really laughs, not just that warm chuckle—you feel it in your chest. Like the sound is burrowing under your skin and making a home there.

The tavern empties around you.

Neither of you moves to leave.

At some point, his hand ends up near yours on the table. Not touching, but close. So close you’re hyperaware of the space between your fingers, the way the light catches on his skin, the fact that closing that distance would be so easy.

You don’t.

But you think about it.

And when you glance up, you find him watching you with an expression that suggests he’s thinking about it too.

“You’re different tonight,” he notes, voice dropping into something more intimate.

You arch a brow, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. “And you’re different when you’re not sniffing around alleys trying to find cats.”

“Cats were a welcome surprise,” he says, voice dropping. “But I’m not complaining about the company either.”

The air between you shifts.

He notices your sharp inhale, and his mouth curves. “Relax,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

“Sure you’re not.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you.

Then he glances toward the window, where the rain has softened to a gentle mist.

“Rain’s letting up,” Varka says quietly, almost reluctant to break whatever this is. “Should probably check on the cats before it starts again.”

He stands, then pauses—hand extended, waiting.

You accept without thinking. His hand engulfs yours. Warm, steady, careful.

And the walk back feels different.

Closer. Quieter. Charged with something neither of you names.

He doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the alley.

Even then, his fingers linger for just a moment. Warm and careful and entirely too aware of what they’re doing.

When he finally releases you, the absence feels louder than it should.

— ✦ —

The next few days blur together. Varka starts finding excuses to see you outside the evening cat visits.

“Was in the area,” he says, appearing while you’re buying vegetables.

You raise an eyebrow. “The headquarters is on the other side of the city.”

“Long patrol route,” he says, entirely shameless.

He carries your bags anyway.

One afternoon, you’re reading on a bench near the cathedral when a shadow falls across your book.

You look up.

Varka stands there, two cups of tea in hand. “Thought you might want one,” he says.

You blink. “How did you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” But his eyes are warm, pleased he found you.

You take the tea. Your fingers brush his.

He notices. You pretend not to.

But as he settles across from you, you can’t help noticing the way the afternoon light catches in his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hands dwarf the teacup.

He’s always been large—you knew that objectively.

But sitting here in the quiet cathedral square, watching him handle the delicate cup with surprising care, you realize he’s also just… handsome.

The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome.

You take a sip of tea to hide your face.

The next day, Varka arrives looking harried, ink stains on his fingers.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He groans, settling beside you. “Paperwork. Mountains of it.”

He makes a face. “Tomorrow's going to be worse. I'll be drowning in papers until sunset. At least.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is.” He watches Bristle chase a leaf with clear longing. “This is much better.”

The next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside the headquarters, a basket of lunch in hand and a half-formed plan in your head.

This is probably a terrible idea.

You walk in anyway.

The entrance hall is impressive. A few knights mill about, and you suddenly feel very out of place.

“Can I help you?”

You turn to find a woman. Blonde hair, gray-blue eyes, an air of competent professionalism that's somehow both intimidating and kind.

“I'm looking for Varka,” you say. “Is he... available?”

Her expression shifts—recognition.

“You're the one with the cats,” she says. It's not a question.

Your face heats. “I—yes. How did you—”

“He talks about you.” Her smile is gentle. “I'm Jean.”

“Oh." You're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone important while holding a lunch basket like some kind of—

“He's in his office,” Jean continues. “He's been buried in paperwork since dawn and his mood is... not good.”

“Actually,” you say before you can lose your nerve, “I was wondering if I could borrow him. Just for a bit. He mentioned being swamped today, and I thought—” You gesture vaguely with the basket. “—maybe a break would help?”

Jean's expression does something complicated. Surprised, pleased, almost relieved.

“I think that's exactly what he needs.” She glances toward his office, then back to you. “Take as long as you want. I'll handle anything urgent.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” Jean says, and there's genuine warmth in her voice now. “He needs this.”

You knock on the door.

“Come in,” comes a weary voice.

You push the door open to find Varka behind a desk absolutely buried in papers. He's bent over a document, quill in hand, and he doesn't look up.

“Jean, I promise I'm working on the—”

“Not Jean.”

His head snaps up.

For a second, he just stares. Surprise and confusion and then something that looks almost like relief flooding his expression.

“What are you doing here?"

“Rescuing you.” You hold up the basket. “You said you'd be drowning in paperwork. Thought you might need sustenance. And—” You glance at the mountain of documents. “—possibly a reason to stop before you go insane.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. Tired but genuine. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds.”

“Then come with me.”

“I can't just—” He gestures at the desk. “There's still so much—”

“Jean said she'd cover anything urgent.” You lean against the doorframe, giving him your best challenging look. “Come on, Grand Master. When was the last time you actually took a break?”

His jaw works.

“You're trouble,” he mutters, but he's already standing, and you see the grin he's trying to hide. He clearly welcomes the distraction.

“So I've been told.”

You lead him out of headquarters, through the plaza, and then—instead of stopping at the fountain or a bench—you head toward the city walls.

“Where are we going?” Varka asks, amused suspicion creeping into his voice.

“You'll see.”

When you reach the base of the wall, you set the basket down and start climbing.

“What are you—” Varka stops dead. “Are you climbing the city wall?”

“Yep!” You're already halfway up, using the handholds in the stone. It's not difficult. The walls are old, plenty of places to grip.

“That's not—you can't just—” He sounds somewhere between alarmed and baffled. “That's not allowed!”

“Says who?” you call down.

"Says the Grand Master!”

You pause, looking down at him with a grin. “Then I guess you'll have to come arrest me.”

His expression is torn between duty and disbelief and something that looks suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh.

“I told you I came to Mondstadt for freedom,” you point out, settling onto the top of the wall and letting your legs dangle. “Can't get more free than this.”

He stares up at you for a long moment.

Then, shaking his head with a laugh that sounds almost helpless, he follows.

He makes it look effortless, of course. One smooth motion and he's beside you, settling onto the wall with considerably more grace than you managed.

“You're going to give me a heart attack,” he says, but he's smiling now. Really smiling.

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.” You open the basket, handing him bread and cheese. “You were drowning in bureaucracy. Figured you needed reminding that there's a world outside that office.”

“By making me climb the city wall.”

“Exactly.”

He takes a bite, and for a moment you both just sit there, legs dangling over Mondstadt, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadow below.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I... needed this. More than I realized.”

“I know.” You bump your shoulder against his. “You get this look when you're buried in work.”

He glances over, something complicated in his expression. “You really do notice things, don't you?”

Before you can react, he reaches out and ruffles your hair. Playful, warm, entirely unexpected.

“Hey!” You swat at his hand, laughing.

“What?” His grin is unrepentant. “You caught me off-guard with the wall climbing. Fair's fair.”

“That's not—that's completely different!”

“Is it?” He's leaning closer now, eyes bright with mischief. “You surprised me. I surprised you. Seems even to me.”

Your heart is thumping in your chest.

You're very aware of how close he is. How his hand is still in your hair. How easy it would be to lean in, to close that distance, to—

He seems to realize the same thing.

His expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more aware.

For a breathless moment, neither of you moves.

Then he clears his throat, hand dropping, putting a careful few inches between you.

“We should probably eat,” he says, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“Right. Yes. Food.”

But you're both very aware that something just shifted.

— ✦ —

Two days pass without seeing Varka.

It’s not unusual—he’s the Grand Master, he has responsibilities. But you’ve gotten used to his presence in the evenings, the sound of his footsteps in the alley, the way Whisper perks up when she hears him coming.

The cats notice his absence too. Bristle keeps looking toward the alley entrance. Pepper seems restless.

On the third evening, he finally appears.

And everything in you goes still.

He's different.

There's no blood, no visible damage. His armor is intact, his posture upright as ever. To anyone else, he'd look fine.

But you've spent weeks watching him. Learning the easy warmth of his presence, the way he fills a space with calm.

This isn't that.

This is contained. Tightly controlled. Like he's holding something back with sheer force of will.

The air around him feels heavy. Like the atmosphere before a storm, all potential energy and barely-leashed power.

The cats notice too. Pepper's ears flatten slightly. Bristle stops mid-exploration, watchful.

Only Whisper approaches, cautious but trusting.

“There you are,” you say, keeping your tone light despite the unease curling in your stomach. “Thought maybe you'd gotten bored of us.”

“Never.” His voice is normal. Warm. Steady. But when he crouches beside you to greet the cats, you see it.

The careful precision in every movement.

The tension in his shoulders.

The tightness around his eyes, around his mouth.

The way his hands are just slightly less gentle than usual. Not rough, but effortful.

This is what strength looks like when it's been tested. When it's held too much for too long and is barely holding together.

“Extended patrols,” he says, running his hand over Whisper's head. “Situation outside the city.”

“Everything okay?”

“All handled.” That practiced smile again. “We were victorious. No casualties.”

Most people would accept this. The mission succeeded, the Grand Master is fine, that’s all that matters.

You’re not most people.

You watch him settle beside you, the way he rolls his shoulder slightly when he thinks you’re not looking, the careful control in every movement.

“What’s it like?” you ask quietly.

He glances over. “What’s what like?”

“Leading people into danger. Fighting the way you do.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something more guarded.

“Why?” He recovers with that easy grin. “Want to see me train sometime?”

The image arrives unbidden. Him in the training grounds, armor off, shirt clinging to his frame, that focused intensity you’ve glimpsed turned toward combat instead of cats—

Your face heats. “I—sure—but that’s not—” You catch yourself, narrow your eyes. “Hey. Don’t try to change the topic.”

His smile falters slightly. “Wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were.” You turn to face him fully. “You do that. When something’s uncomfortable, you deflect with humor or change the subject. I’ve noticed.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far.

Then he exhales slowly, and something in his posture shifts. Not quite sagging, but releasing something he’s been holding.

“Nobody really asks that,” he says finally, voice quieter than usual. “About what it’s like. They ask if we won. If I’m injured. If the city’s safe. But not…” He gestures vaguely. “Not what it feels like.”

You wait, giving him space.

“It can be straining,” he admits. “Every decision could mean someone doesn’t come home. Every plan I make, I’m weighing lives. And when we win—when everyone makes it back—I’m supposed to celebrate. Be the confident leader who never doubted.”

He looks down at his hands. “But sometimes I’m just… tired.”

Your chest aches.

This man who carries so much, and nobody asks if he’s okay because he’s always okay, he has to be okay, he’s the Grand Master—

“Come on,” you say, standing abruptly.

He blinks up at you. “What?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

“It’s late—”

“I know what time it is.” You’re already gathering the cats’ leads.

“With the cats?”

All three cats immediately perk up, meowing and purring as if in agreement.

You give him a pointed look. “You have your answer.”

He stares at the cats, then at you, then back at the cats.

“Well,” he says, a hint of genuine amusement creeping into his voice, “my four companions have decided. Who am I to argue?”

The streets of Mondstadt are quiet at this hour, just the soft glow of lanterns and the distant sound of the tavern.

You walk side by side, the cats exploring ahead on their leads. Whisper stays close to Varka’s heels. Loyal little thing.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. “For asking. For… this.”

“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”

“Still.” He looks at you, something complicated in his expression.

You stop walking. The cats pause too, sensing the shift.

Before you can overthink it, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.

He goes rigid—just for a second—before his arms come up slowly. Carefully.

“You’re a good person, Varka,” you murmur against his chest. “Not just a good leader. You’re… genuinely good. Kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who remembers which cat likes which blanket and asks the right questions and notices things without someone mentioning them.”

You feel him exhale, long and slow, some of the tension draining from his frame.

“The kind of person people look up to,” you continue, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Not because you’re strong or victorious or never make mistakes. But because you care. That’s why they follow you. Why they trust you.”

His eyes are very bright in the lamplight. “I don’t…” His voice is rough. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He laughs—surprised and a little unsteady. “You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

“Why, because I give hugs?”

“Because you see things.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ask the questions nobody else asks. You notice things nobody else notices.”

The moment feels suspended, fragile.

“I admire that about you,” you say quietly. “You’re good at helping people, but you’re also good at knowing people. Seeing what they need. Being what they need.”

You hesitate, then add, “I wasn’t always… good at that. Knowing who to trust. I got hurt once—someone I cared about got hurt because I trusted the wrong people. Made the wrong call.”

His expression shifts. Understanding, protectiveness, something deeper.

“It made me careful,” you continue. “Maybe too careful. But you…” You meet his eyes. “You’re not like them.”

“Hey,” he says softly, both hands framing your face now. “Whatever happened before—that wasn’t your fault. You can’t control what other people choose to do.”

“I know. But it still—”

Bristle headbutts his leg aggressively, meowing with impressive volume.

You both startle, then laugh.

“I think someone’s jealous of the attention,” Varka says, crouching to give Bristle the pets she’s demanding.

“Or hungry,” you point out.

“Always a possibility with this one.” But he’s smiling. Something warm and genuine and entirely for you.

Pepper joins in the demand for attention. Then Whisper. Within seconds you’re both surrounded by insistent cats.

“Alright, alright,” Varka concedes, standing. “My four companions have spoken again. We should head back.”

The walk back is lighter somehow. His shoulders aren’t quite so tense. Your own chest feels less tight.

When you reach the alley, he helps you settle the cats before turning to leave. “Varka?”

He looks back.

“I mean it. What I said. You’re… you’re really good. Don’t forget that.”

Something in his expression goes very soft. “Coming from you,” he says quietly, “that means more than you know.”

And then he’s gone, but the warmth in your chest stays.

Behind you, Whisper purrs contentedly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

— ✦ —

The next evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him. This enormous man baby-talking to a cat—and something in your chest aches.

Don’t, you tell yourself. Don’t get attached. You’re leaving eventually. This isn’t permanent.

But it’s getting harder to remember why you would do that.

Varka brings you a scarf one day after.

“Nights are getting colder,” he says, wrapping it around your neck before you can protest.

His fingers linger at your collar. You can feel his breath, warm against your temple.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re acutely aware of everything—the calluses on his fingertips, the warmth radiating from him, how close his mouth is to your forehead. How easy it would be to tilt your head up, to—

Then Bristle meows, breaking the spell, and you both step back too quickly.

“Thank you,” you manage.

“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than usual.

You don’t take the scarf off, even after he leaves.

It smells like him.

Two days later, you notice his gloves are worn through at the fingertips.

You don’t say anything. Just buy a new pair and leave them at the Knights of Favonius headquarters with a note:

For patrols. Don’t argue.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, he’s wearing them. “You know,” Varka says, crouching beside you, flexing his fingers in the new gloves, “you’re making it very hard to be the one who takes care of you.”

“Good.” You don’t look at him. “You do too much for everyone else anyway.”

“And you don’t do enough for yourself.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He laughs. Surprised and delighted and entirely too warm. “Fair point.”

When you finally glance over, he’s looking at the gloves like they’re armor blessed by the Archons.

“They fit perfectly,” he says quietly.

You watch his hands as he flexes his fingers again.

You’ve seen those hands gentle with kittens, steady when holding them, and suddenly you’re thinking about them in contexts you absolutely should not be thinking about.

“I know your size.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes snap to yours, something intense flickering in them. “Do you?”

“I pay attention,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice rough. “I’ve noticed.”

Neither of you looks away.

Pepper headbutts your leg, demanding food, and the moment shatters.

But Varka doesn’t take the gloves off for the rest of the night.

And you notice.

One evening, Varka arrives earlier than usual, and there’s something different in his expression.

“I found a place,” he says without preamble.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“An apartment. Two rooms, near the plaza. I talked to the landlord about the cats. He’s fine with it.”

Your heart does something complicated.

You’ve been looking for weeks. Every place either doesn’t allow animals, costs too much, or the landlords take one look at you—a newcomer with no references—and politely decline.

You were starting to think you’d be in that cramped temporary room forever.

“Is it… expensive?”

“Affordable.” He names a price that makes your shoulders drop with relief. “And the landlord’s flexible. As long as you take care of the place, he’s not picky.”

“Varka…” Your voice catches, but his gaze tells you that words aren't needed.

“Want to see it?” he asks gently. “No pressure. But I think you’d like it.”

The next day, he takes you to see it.

It’s perfect.

Small, yes. The floors creak and the kitchen is barely big enough for two people. But the windows are tall, the light is good, and when you mention the cats, Varka points to the corner near the hearth.

“Perfect spot for them,” he says. “Warm. Safe.”

You stand in the middle of the empty apartment and feel something shift in your chest.

A permanent place.

In Mondstadt.

“I’ll take it,” you hear yourself say.

Varka’s smile could light up the entire city.

“The place will be ready in about two weeks,” he says. “Landlord needs to do some minor repairs first—fix a few floorboards, check the window latches, that sort of thing. But it’s yours after that.”

Two weeks. A permanent place in two weeks.

It feels both impossibly far away and remarkably close.

“I’ll help you move,” Varka says, like it’s obvious. Like there was never any question.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.” His eyes are warm. “But I want to. Besides, those cats aren’t going to move themselves.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure Bristle would try.”

“Exactly why you need supervision.” Varka’s grinning now. “Can’t have her directing the whole operation.”

“You know he likes you, right?” Sara asks one day when you’re picking up food.

“Who?”

She gives you a look. “The Grand Master. Varka. The man who rearranged his entire schedule to ‘accidentally’ run into you.”

“He hasn’t—we’re not—”

“He looks at you,” she interrupts gently, “like you’re the best thing that’s happened to Mondstadt in years.”

Your throat tightens.

“He’s just… kind. That’s how he is with everyone.”

“No,” she says simply. “It’s not.”

That night, Varka shows up early.

You’re still arranging the shelter when his footsteps echo down the alley.

“You’re here early,” you say, not looking up.

“Finished work early.” He crouches beside you. “Thought I’d help.”

You hand him a bowl of food without comment.

His fingers brush yours as he takes it.

This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Neither do you.

When Varka arrives the next evening, you notice immediately.

The careful way he sits. The slight tightness around his eyes. The way he’s holding himself just a fraction too still.

“Long day?” you ask quietly.

“Just the usual.” But his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You don’t push. Just shift slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his.

It’s a small thing. Barely noticeable.

But you feel him exhale—long and slow—some of the tension leaving his frame.

His eyes drop to where you’re touching, then to your face. The look there is complicated. Warm and wanting and carefully controlled.

“This helps,” Varka says, voice rougher than usual.

You’re suddenly very aware of the warmth of him, the solid presence at your side, the fact that you’re close enough to feel his breathing.

“What does?”

“This. Being here. With you.”

Your heart stumbles.

He’s not looking at you—he’s watching Whisper play with a piece of string—but his voice is too honest, too open.

“Here it’s just quiet. Just the cats. Just us. That's enough.”

He finally looks at you.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but sit there with your shoulder pressed to his, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of what he’s not quite saying.

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” you say softly. “Not with me.”

Something in his expression cracks open.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he adds after a moment.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

About how I’m falling for you.

“Nothing important,” you say instead.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he asks: “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

You finally look at him.

“Of course,” you lie, panic taking over.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows it’s not true.

But he doesn’t push.

He never pushes.

Two days later, the rain comes.

Heavy and cold and relentless.

You stay with the cats longer than you should, making sure their shelter is secure, that they’re warm and dry.

By the time you finish, you’re soaked through.

Varka didn’t come tonight. Some emergency at the headquarters, probably.

You tell yourself you’re not disappointed.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Less complicated, less dangerous, less likely to end with your heart in pieces when you eventually leave Mondstadt.

You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk home in the rain, shivering, already feeling the first warning signs of a fever settling into your bones.

— ✦ —

The next morning, Whisper doesn’t come out of the shelter. When you coax her into your hands, her tiny body feels too warm, her breathing small and uneven.

Your stomach drops.

You bundle her gently into your cloak and go looking for help.

But halfway across the square, the world swims.

You blink hard, but the plaza keeps tilting.

When did the sun get so bright? When did your legs get so heavy?

Right. You didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t think about the rain soaking you through last night, or how your throat’s been raw since morning, or how you can’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers you put on.

You take another step—

And sway.

A large hand steadies your shoulder instantly.

“Easy,” comes a familiar voice. “You okay?”

You look up.

Of course he’s here.

Varka is always exactly where he shouldn’t be, and exactly where you need him.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

His eyes flick down to Whisper, then to your unsteady posture.

“You’re not,” he says quietly.

“I’m just tired.”

“And feverish.” His gaze sharpens. “And trying to walk across the plaza with a sick kitten instead of asking for help.”

Your jaw tenses. “Whisper needs a healer. That’s all.”

“So do you.”

You stiffen, ready to protest, but your legs choose that moment to wobble again.

His hands catch your elbows, steady and warm. Stronger than they have any right to be.

“Sit,” he says gently but firmly. “Now. Before you fall.”

You bristle, instinctively defensive. “I don’t need—”

“Yes.” His voice is low, steady, and utterly unmovable. “You do.”

Your breath stutters. He lowers you onto a bench against the fountain wall. Carefully, like you’ll topple if he moves too fast.

Then he crouches, eye-level now, looking between you and the trembling kitten in your arms.

“What happened?”

“Whisper’s… warm. She’s not eating. And I—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

His expression is impossible to read. Something between soft worry and something deeper, tighter.

“You don’t bother me,” he says quietly. “Not ever.”

Your breath catches.

He stands, shrugs off his cloak, and drapes it around your shoulders before you can stop him.

The weight of it settles over you, still warm from his body. Too intimate. Too caring. Too much like something you don’t deserve.

“Varka—”

“You’re shivering,” he says. “Let me help.”

You look down at Whisper again, guilt and fear twisting in your chest.

“I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

“No.” His voice is suddenly firm, almost rough. “Stop that.”

You blink up at him.

“This isn’t your fault,” he continues. “Animals get sick. Weather changes. You’re doing everything right.”

You swallow hard.

He meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.

“And you don’t have to do it alone.”

You look away, throat tight. “I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

His jaw flexes. Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, yes, but underneath it, something that looks almost like hurt.

“I don’t want you relying on me for everything,” he says slowly, voice tight with something he’s trying to control. “But I do want you to let me help when you’re sick and trying to carry a sick kitten across the plaza alone because you’re too stubborn to ask.”

He takes a breath, steadying himself. “I want to be here for this. Don’t you get that?”

Your breath hitches.

There it is—the edge of frustration.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He exhales sharply, like the words hit him somewhere deep.

“You’re not,” he says, voice low and earnest. “Not to me.”

Before you can reply, Whisper stirs weakly.

Varka straightens immediately. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get both of you taken care of.”

And when you hesitate—because of course you hesitate, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, like proving you can’t do this alone—

He waits. Hand extended. Patient. Unmovable.

Like he’ll stand there all day if that’s what it takes.

Whisper mewls softly in your arms, and the sound breaks something in you.

You take his hand.

His fingers close around yours, and he pulls you to your feet gently.

“There,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because his hand is still holding yours, and you’re wearing his cloak that smells like him, and Whisper is tucked against your chest, and Varka is looking at you like—

Like you matter.

Like this matters.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend it doesn’t.

— ✦ —

The next days pass in a blur of recovery and quiet anticipation.

Whisper bounces back quickly. Within days she’s climbing and exploring like nothing happened.

You take longer, but Varka checks on you daily. Brings soup. Insists you rest. Threatens to carry you back to bed when he catches you trying to organize your belongings too early.

“The apartment isn’t going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Neither am I.”

You stop arguing after that.

By the time moving day arrives, you’re mostly recovered and entirely out of excuses to avoid the flutter of nerves in your chest.

This is really happening.

A permanent place. In Mondstadt.

With Varka helping you settle into it.

You’re halfway through carrying a box up the stairs when Varka appears in the doorway, arms already reaching.

“I can carry my own things,” you protest.

“I know.” He takes the box anyway. “But I’m here, so you don’t have to.”

By the time the sun sets, your belongings are inside and Varka is helping arrange furniture like he’s done this a hundred times.

“The desk should go near the window,” he suggests. “Better light for reading.”

You both move to shift it, and suddenly you’re in close quarters. His arm brushing yours, his chest nearly against your back as you navigate the narrow space.

He smells like wind and leather and something warmer you can’t name.

“Careful,” he murmurs, hand steadying your waist as you nearly trip.

The touch is brief, practical, completely innocent.

Your heart races anyway.

You blink. “How did you know I like to read by windows?”

He pauses, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “You always sit by them. In the tavern, the plaza, the cathedral steps…”

He’s been noticing. Cataloging. Remembering.

“Varka,” you say quietly.

He looks up from the table he’s positioning.

“Thank you. For… all of this. The place, the help, just…” You gesture vaguely. “Everything.”

Something softens in his expression. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to.”

The air between you thickens.

He’s standing in your home. Your space. Somewhere private and personal and entirely yours.

Except you invited him in, and he came, and now he’s here, in your kitchen, with dust on his shirt and warmth in his eyes, and it feels significant in a way you can’t quite name.

“The cats should go here,” Varka says finally, breaking the moment. He gestures to the corner near the hearth. “Warm. Out of the way. Safe.”

Of course he’s thought about the cats.

You help him arrange blankets, set up bowls, create a little sanctuary in the corner.

When you’re done, Pepper immediately claims the softest blanket. Whisper curls beside her. Bristle explores every inch, sniffing and investigating with her usual boldness.

“They like it,” Varka says, satisfaction clear in his voice.

“They do.”

You both watch them for a moment. This small family you’ve built, this strange little life that somehow includes him now.

“I should go,” he says, though he doesn’t move. “Let you settle in.”

“You could stay,” you hear yourself say. Then, realizing how that sounds: “For tea. I mean. If you want.”

His smile is soft and entirely too warm. “I’d like that.”

You make tea in your new kitchen while he sits at your new table, and it feels domestic and comfortable and terrifying all at once. You talk for a while. And it's nice.

“First night in a new place is always strange,” he says eventually. “If you need anything—”

“I know where to find you.”

His eyes hold yours. “Yeah. You do.”

He stands, reluctant to leave. “I’ve got to meet some of the knights at Angel’s Share—strategy discussion that’ll probably run late. But I’ll be nearby if—” He stops himself, looking almost embarrassed. “Well. You know where I am.”

“Angel’s Share is close,” you point out, smiling despite yourself. “I think I can manage.”

“And if anything—”

“Varka.” You give him a look. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

He nods, though he still doesn’t look entirely convinced.

When he finally leaves, the apartment feels bigger and emptier than it should.

— ✦ —

You spend the rest of the evening unpacking.

Arranging books. Hanging clothes. Trying to make this new space feel like home.

The cats explore cautiously. Pepper claiming the warmest corner, Whisper investigating every shadow, Bristle poking her nose into cabinets and crevices with her usual boldness.

In the end, you’re exhausted but satisfied. The apartment is still mostly bare, but it’s yours. The cats have food and water and soft places to sleep. The windows overlook the plaza where lanterns are just beginning to glow.

It’s perfect.

You settle the cats for the night—fresh water, blankets arranged just so. Bristle purrs when you scratch behind her ears, and Whisper is already curled up contentedly.

“First night in our new home,” you murmur to them. “No more cramped rooms. No more hiding.”

They seem satisfied.

You leave a window cracked for fresh air—just a few inches, secured with the latch Varka checked earlier—and finally let yourself relax.

You’d just finished changing into sleep clothes when you hear it.

A door creaking somewhere.

A gust of wind stronger than it should be.

And the bell around Bristle’s neck jingles once—

Then silence.

Your heart lurches.

“Bristle?” you call, searching the corners. “Come here!”

Nothing.

The window curtain flutters, and dread slides cold down your spine.

You rush outside barefoot, scanning the street.

“Bristle?!”

Your voice cracks.

And then, footsteps.

Heavy ones, too familiar now.

Varka rounds the corner quickly, expression alert, still carrying the faint warmth of the tavern on him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bristle—she’s gone—the window—” You can’t form full sentences. Can’t breathe properly. “I have to find her—she could be anywhere—”

You try to move past him.

He catches your arm. Not roughly, but firm.

“Stop. Just—stop for a minute and—”

“I don’t have a minute!” You pull free, voice breaking. “She’s out there, alone, she doesn’t know this area, what if she’s scared, what if something—”

“I know.” His voice is steady but strained. “I know you’re scared, but you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?” You spin on him, panic making you sharp. “Look for her? What am I supposed to do, just wait? Just stand here while she’s—”

“You’re barefoot,” he interrupts, voice harder now. “You ran out here without shoes, without a coat, without thinking—”

“Of course I didn‘t think!” The words tear out of you. “I heard the bell and she was gone and I just—I can’t—”

Your voice cracks completely.

Varka’s jaw tightens, something flashing in his eyes. Frustration, fear, something barely controlled.

“You think I don’t understand that?” His voice is low, rough at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I’m not terrified right now too?”

You blink at him, startled.

“She’s—” He stops, takes a breath that sounds like it costs him. “She’s my cat too. I know that’s not—I don’t have any claim, but I—”

He drags a hand through his hair, and you realize his hands are shaking slightly.

“I’m scared too,” he says, quieter now but no less intense. “But you can’t just run into the night alone. What if you’d gone outside the city walls?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t you?” His voice sharpens again. “If you thought she’d gone that way? If someone said they saw a cat near Wolvendom, or the Whispering Woods—would you have stopped at the gates?”

The answer must show on your face because something in his expression cracks.

“Exactly,” he breathes. “You would’ve run straight into hilichurl territory, or worse, and you wouldn’t have thought twice because you were scared and—”

He stops himself, jaw working. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

The world goes very quiet.

“What?” you whisper.

He’s not looking at you now. His hands are clenched at his sides, and when he speaks his voice is rough with something that sounds like desperation.

“You don’t get it,” Varka says. “Every time you’re in danger, every time you run off alone, every time you refuse to let me help because you don’t want to be a ‘burden’—”

He finally looks at you, and the expression in his eyes stops your breath.

“You—this—you are important to me. And watching you throw yourself into danger—”

He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything he just said and everything he didn’t.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“Varka,” you breathe.

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to regain control.

When he opens them again, some of the intensity has banked. Not gone, but carefully contained.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—” He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry too,” you murmur. “For worrying you.”

“Let’s just find her. Together. Please.”

This time when he offers his hand, you take it.

He’s right. You’re shaking, you’re barefoot, you can barely think straight.

And because somewhere in the last two minutes, everything changed.

His hand is warm and steady around yours, and he squeezes once before releasing it.

“Gates first,” Varka says, voice back to that calm competence. “She’s bold. She’ll move toward open space when stressed.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

He glances sideways, a ghost of that crooked smile. “I pay attention. Especially to the things you love.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You almost stumble.

Then—

A faint jingle in the distance.

Varka freezes.

“There.”

He points toward the grass beyond the outer wall—moonlight catching a tiny silhouette near a cluster of crates.

“Bristle!” you gasp, sprinting.

But she darts away, spooked by movement.

You stumble—

And Varka is instantly at your side, steadying your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me.”

He kneels slowly, lowering his massive frame with surprising gentleness.

“Hey, little knight,” he says softly, hand extended. “Come here.”

His warm and soothing voice works instantly.

Bristle creeps forward, sniffing his fingers, then headbutts his palm with a tiny mew.

The sound you make is half-laugh, half-sob.

Varka scoops her up with one careful hand and stands, turning to you. “Here,” he says softly, offering her.

You take Bristle, holding her against your chest like something precious. She purrs immediately, the sound vibrating through you, and your eyes sting with relief.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t.” Varka's voice is rough. “Don’t thank me for—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You look up at him.

He’s still too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing hasn’t quite evened out, the careful control he’s barely maintaining.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”

Bristle purrs louder.

You can’t speak.

Can’t move.

Can’t do anything but stand there with your cat between you and Varka looking at you like—

Like he’s been holding back for weeks and his control is hanging by a thread.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your breath catches audibly.

He notices—of course he notices—and something in his expression shifts. Darkens. Wants.

He takes a half-step closer.

Your back hits the wall behind you, and somewhere in your brain you register that he’s backed you up without you even realizing, that he’s close enough now you can feel the heat of him, that his hand is braced on the wall beside your head and—

“Varka,” you breathe.

He stops.

Freezes completely, his eyes searching yours.

His eyes go dark. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

Bristle meows between you, squirming.

The moment shatters.

Varka pulls back sharply, breathing hard, and you both stare at each other.

“We should,” he starts, voice rough. Clears his throat. “Get you home. Both of you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He doesn’t touch you on the walk back.

Doesn’t need to.

The tension walks between you like a living thing, crackling and charged and waiting.

— ✦ —

Back inside, you set Bristle down carefully. She immediately darts to her blanket corner, curling up like nothing happened.

You exhale shakily, adrenaline still coursing through you.

Varka moves to the window—the one she escaped through—and checks the latch.

“It wasn’t secured properly,” he says quietly, testing it. “The wood’s warped here. I can fix it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply, not looking at you. “I don’t want this happening again.”

You watch him work. Those large, careful hands adjusting the mechanism, making sure it’s tight. Making sure you’re safe. Making sure the cats are safe.

Something in your chest cracks. “Varka,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder.

You’re closer than you meant to be. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly, to see his breath catch.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For… everything. For coming when I was panicking, for knowing where to look, for—”

Your voice breaks.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t thank me like I did something extraordinary.” He turns fully to face you now, and the intensity in his eyes stops your breath. “Like I wouldn’t drop everything the second you needed me. Like I haven’t been—”

He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair.

The space between you feels electric.

“Been what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. “Completely gone for you. For weeks now. Maybe longer.”

The world tilts.

“Varka—”

He takes a step back, trying to create distance.

Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist.

He freezes.

You’re both staring at where you’re touching him—your fingers wrapped around his wrist, feeling his pulse thundering beneath your touch.

When you look up, his eyes are dark. Wanting. Barely controlled.

His breathing goes ragged.

Your hand slides from his wrist up his forearm, and you feel him shudder. “I’m asking you to stop being patient. Stop being chivalrous. Stop—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Because Varka moves.

His hands find your waist and he walks you backward until your back meets the wall.

His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard.

“Last chance,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t—”

You fist your hands in his shirt and pull.

“Don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and surrender.

Then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you were starving for. Heat and hunger and weeks of carefully restrained wanting finally unleashed. His lips are firm, demanding, devastating in their intensity.

When you gasp against his mouth, he makes a sound low in his throat and deepens the kiss with an urgency that steals the air from your lungs.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.

He groans into your mouth—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your whole body—and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you’ve been waiting for this just as desperately.

The sound he makes is somewhere between surprise and surrender.

His grip tightens.

You arch into him and he responds immediately. His hand sliding from your waist to your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left. Until you can feel every inch of him.

Like he’s trying very hard not to lose himself completely.

Like he might anyway.

His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger. The contrast—that rough desperation tempered by such careful tenderness—makes you dizzy.

Heat. Everywhere. The solid wall of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms, the way he’s surrounding you completely and it should feel overwhelming but instead feels like safety, like home, like finally.

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, you’re both gasping for air.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Can’t seem to.

His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged and hot against your lips. One hand is still fisted in your shirt. The other cradles your face like you’re something precious.

“You really are like a cat,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

Your breath hitches. “What?”

His lips brush your jaw. Barely a kiss, more like a promise. “Wary.” Another brush, just below your ear. “Careful.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “Slow to trust.”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shoulders.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers spreading wide across your back, holding you steady.

“But once you decide to let someone in—” His voice drops, goes rougher, and his mouth is so close to your throat you can feel every word against your skin. “—you give everything.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only feel the heat of his mouth on your throat, the careful restraint in his touch, the way he’s holding you like you’re precious and desired all at once.

“Varka,” you manage, and his name sounds like a plea.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your heart stop.

Want. Yes. Need, definitely. But also something deeper. Something that looks like awe, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s terrified and elated in equal measure.

“I need—” His voice cracks. “Tell me you want this. Not just tonight. Not just because we were scared and—”

You cup his face in both hands, cutting him off. “I want this,” you say firmly, clearly. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since—” You swallow. “Since the Angel‘s Share. Maybe before.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between relief and reverence.

“Thank Barbatos,” he breathes.

And then he’s kissing you again. Slower this time but no less intense. Thorough and deep and claiming, like he’s memorizing every response, cataloging every sound you make, learning exactly how to take you apart with just his mouth.

His tongue sweeps against yours and your knees actually buckle. He catches you immediately, arm banding around your waist, holding you up, holding you close.

The kiss goes molten.

Heat pools low in your belly. Your fingers find his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth. A deep, pleased sound that vibrates through your whole body.

He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, total commitment, like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world.

When you finally break apart this time, you’re both trembling, flushed, breathing hard.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to steady himself.

You can feel his heart thundering against your palm where it rests on his chest.

“I should—” His voice is wrecked. “I should probably go. Before I—”

Before he what? Loses control completely? Forgets to be careful? Stops being the gentleman he’s trying very hard to be right now?

“Don’t.” Your hands tighten on his shirt. “Stay.”

His eyes snap open, dark and searching and full of want barely held in check.

“You sure?”

“Not for—” You flush. “I mean, just—stay. Please. I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Relief and something warmer floods his expression.

“Alright,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Small, tender touches that feel like promises. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He doesn’t let go. Just holds you against him, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing gradually evens out.

“You know,” you murmur against his chest, “I think you’ve officially adopted the cats now.”

You feel his laugh rumble through him. “Yeah?”

“Mm. You named one. You helped move them. You ran through Mondstadt at night to find one.” You pull back enough to meet his eyes. “They’re yours too now.”

His expression does something complicated. Soft and pleased and almost shy.

“When did that happen?” he asks quietly.

“Probably the moment you found us in that alley,” you admit. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

His smile is devastating. “Best thing I ever found.”

“The cats?”

“You.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “The cats are a bonus.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again. Soft and sweet and full of promise.

When he finally, reluctantly pulls away, his hand lingers on your face.

“I should let you sleep,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to leave.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“Try to stop me.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well. All four of you.”

You watch him leave, and when the door closes behind him, you touch your lips.

They’re still tingling.

Behind you, Bristle meows softly.

You turn to find all three cats watching you from their corner—Whisper’s eyes half-closed, Pepper already asleep, Bristle looking distinctly unimpressed with the delay in her post-adventure pets.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, moving to join them.

But you’re smiling.

And when you fall asleep that night, it’s with the memory of his hands in your hair, his voice in your ear, and the absolute certainty that everything just changed.

You’ve found home.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

Thump. Crack. Scream.

I am ripped from my deep sleep so violently that the world tilts, my vision whiting out as I jolt upright. My breath catches, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The sheets are damp beneath my palms, my skin slick with cold sweat. And then I notice—the bed beside me is empty.

Bucky is gone.

I quicly look at the red digits on my nightstand— 2:38 am. What's going on? My breath catches as I shove the blankets aside, my feet hitting the cold floor with a quiet thud. I can't help but notice how the air feels thick, charged, like a storm is about to break.

Then I hear another crash. A heavy thump, followed by the wet, splintering crack of wood breaking apart.

It's coming from the living room.

I push myself forward, my legs unsteady, forcing me to grasp the bedroom wall for support. The cotton of my sleep shirt clings to me like a second skin, drenched in cold sweat, almost suffocating me. My heart races as I step into the hallway, where shadows stretch jagged, elongated by the flickering glow of the streetlights outside.

I hear a sound of breathing. Not mine. Barely human.

It’s harsh, like an animal just let out of a cage. The unmistakable grind of metal against wood scrapes through the silence, followed by the low snarl that makes my stomach clench. Please don't let this be what I think it is.

I take a deep, wobbly breath, but my lungs feel too tight, too small. My fingers grip the doorframe for stability as I turn, and—Oh my God.

The living room is wrecked—no, annihilated.

The coffee table split clean in half, the jagged wood reaching up like broken ribs. The bookshelf, gone, its contents strewn and shredded all over the floor. One of the kitchen chairs lies in pieces, crushed into the floor like it said something offensive.

And in the center of it all—Bucky.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, standing among the wreckage like a fallen god in the aftermath of his own storm. His chest is heaving, his vibranium arm locked in a deadly grip around the remains of a chair leg. His flesh hand is shaking violently, fingers twitching like they don’t know whether to grab or destroy.

There’s blood on his knuckles. I don’t know if it’s his. And I don't know if it's not his, then whose it is. Deep concern runs through me before I open my mouth to call his name, but then he moves.

His back muscles flex, every inch of him wound tight, ready to detonate. His breathing is so sharp and frantic, it's a miracle he doesn't pass out. And when he turns—slowly, painfully—I almost throw up my heart.

This is not my Bucky. This is the Winter Soldier.

This can't be. Sheer terror floods my body. For one, razor-sharp second, silence hangs between us—then, with the speed of light, he lunges.

 I don't even have time to scream.

A wall of muscle and rage crashes into me, knocking the air from my lungs before I can react. Cold metal and burning skin collide against me as we slam into the couch—my back hitting the cushions so hard my vision goes white.

His hand, his vibranium hand, clamps around my throat—hard.

I gasp and choke as I try digging my nails into his wrist, like it could leave a mark on the vibranium, but his grip doesn’t budge. A burning pressure spreads through my neck, crushing and suffocating, cutting off every desperate gulp of air before it reaches my lungs. The vice around my windpipe tightens, a crushing force, pressing harder and harder—so brutally, that black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.

I try to kick out, my legs thrashing everywhere, searching for leverage beneath his weight, but it’s useless. He’s too heavy and inhumanely strong.

I force my eyes open, even if they sting with hot tears I don’t remember shedding. My body shakes violently beneath him, the lack of air barely keeping me contious, and still, all the physical pain cannot compare to the sight of him.

A single, heart-wrenching sob breaks free from my strangled throat, because the eyes that meet me are unrecognizable. His usual warm, blue eyes—the ones that have looked at me with so much adoration, with quiet, aching tenderness—are completely gone. What’s left is empty. Colder than the surface of Antarctica.

His face is void of emotion and somehow that makes all this so much worse. There is no rage, no cruelty, no satisfaction. No sign of the man who once held me like I was something breakable. There is only precision, like a weapon, a killing machine.

I let out a shuddering, gasping sob, my fingers still scratching, trembling, and begging against his grip—all for nothing. 

But I’ve been warned that this could happen. That one day, the past would sink its claws into him, drag him under, erase the man I love. And now, I am seconds away from being his next casualty.

I have to bring him back before he kills me.

Before he lives with the weight of it.

Six months ago - Wakanda

The library hums with the bright, bubbling laughter of children as we gather for our daily reading. Out of all the moments I cherish as a teacher, this is my favorite. Watching their curious eyes light up, their minds painting the story, like a movie only they can see. Nothing compares to it.

"Alright, what should we read today?" I glance around, expecting eager suggestions, but instead, I’m met with a chorus of scattered chatter and shrugged shoulders.

I smile gently. "No ideas? Looks like I get to choose, then."

That’s when the smallest girl in the class steps forward, clutching a book I don’t recognize. It’s worn, faded with time, its cover barely holding together—a testament to how well-loved it must have been. Gently, I take it from her, my fingers brushing over the fragile, crumbling edges. The title is impossible to read; the cover is too far gone, lost to years of eager hands and turned pages. I flip through the first few pages, searching—and then I find it.

"The Hobbit?" I echo, blinking in surprise as I glance at the worn pages. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if it’s too complex for a group of ten-year-olds. "Well... this one’s a little more challenging than what we’ve read before. But if you all want to give it a try, I’m happy to!"

"What’s it about?" one of the boys pipes up.

I pause, tapping my fingers lightly against the book, thinking of the best way to explain it. How do I sum up dragons, wizards, and an adventure of a lifetime in a way they’ll love?

"Alright, picture this: There’s a tiny guy named Bilbo, who just wants to stay home, eat snacks, and live a peaceful life—"

"Same," one of the kids mumbles, making a few others giggle.

I chuckle. "Yeah, well, tough luck for him, because a wizard shows up at his door like, ‘Surprise! You’re going on an adventure!’ And before he can say no, BOOM—now he’s running from trolls, fighting giant spiders, and stealing treasure from a dragon that could literally barbecue him in two seconds."

A few gasps and wide-eyed stares fill the room. Smiling, I lean in, lowering my voice for dramatic effect.

"Oh, and somewhere along the way, he picks up a weird little magic ring… that may or may not be extremely cursed."

"Whoaaa," they gasp in surprise.

I grin. "So, what do you guys think? Wanna see if our tiny hobbit friend actually survives this mess?"

"Yes!" They exclaim as a collective. 

I look at them like a proud mom, warmth filling my chest as they settle in, eager and excited. Just as I part my lips to begin reading, a shadow moves in the doorway.

My breath catches. For a split second, I see him—tall, silent, barely standing there, like he doesn't want to be seen. I blink once, twice, and by the time my eyes refocus, he’s gone. I shake my head, exhaling softly, pushing the strange unease away.

I must have imagined it.

"So, where was I?" I smile as I carefully put my finger to where the story begins. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

Before I know it, we are on page 63. My throat is aching, but the kids have been hanging onto every word, eyes wide with curiosity. Their quiet, eager faces have left me with no choice but to keep going.

I’m just about to turn the page when the door swings open, shattering the silence, pulling everyone out of their deep concentration. A few kids jump, some snap their heads toward the entrance, and there she is—Shuri.

She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, with an expression so sharp it could cut through the book in my hands. But I know better. She’s just putting on a show.

"Oh, good. You’re all alive." She nods. "Your parents were about to put up missing child posters."

The kids freeze. Hell, I freeze.

Shuri tilts her head, eyes twinkling with mischief. "What? You think I’m joking?" She pulls out her Kimoyo beads and taps on them. "Go on. Call your mom. Let her know you still exist."

One of the girls shoots up from her chair, searching for the nearest clock. "WAIT, WHAT TIME IS IT?!"

Shuri snorts. "The time where you go home before I have to adopt all of you."

The moment the words leave Shuri’s mouth, pure, unfiltered panic erupts.

"Oh, no, my mom’s gonna kill me!" One of the boys yelps, shoving his notebook into his backpack so fast it nearly rips.

"I thought it was, like, four o’clock!" A girl gasps, grabbing her shoes from under the table. Why her shoes were off is beyond me.

Chairs scrape against the floor, papers fly, and in a matter of seconds, my once captive audience is now a stampede of frantic children, rushing for the door like their lives depend on it.

"Bye, Miss!" "See you tomorrow!" "Thanks for the story!" Their voices overlap in hurried goodbyes as they dash past Shuri, who barely moves, watching them go with an amused smirk.

Once the last kid bolts out, I slump back in my chair, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Shuri raises a brow. "What the hell do you feed these kids? I’ve never seen a group of ten-year-olds sit still that long. Are you drugging them?"

I playfully roll my eyes, reaching for my water bottle. "It’s called storytelling, Shuri. You should try it sometime."

She hums, unconvinced, stepping further into the library. "Mm-hmm. Sure. Either that, or you’re a witch."

Shuri walks over to the table, and that’s when her eyes land on the book. She freezes immediately, her teasing smirk fading, brows knitting together.

"Wait."

I glance up at her, mid-sip. "What?"

She points to the battered, old copy of The Hobbit. "Where did you get this?"

I frown. "One of the kids picked it out today. Someone might have left it around somewhere. Why?"

Shuri doesn’t answer immediately. She just stares at it, like it’s something impossible. Then, slowly, she reaches out and flips through the pages, her fingers barely touching the fragile edges. When she finally speaks, her voice is much lower.

"This belongs to the White Wolf."

The second I hear that name, my entire body tenses.

Everyone in Wakanda knows about the White Wolf. It's the name spoken in whispers, in tones of both respect and caution. The name I’ve heard a hundred times, but never thought would have anything to do with me. Not until now.

"He’s never let anyone touch this book before," she continues, but I can barely hear her over the loud, erratic thumps of my own heartbeat. "It’s not just a book to him. It’s his anchor."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

Shuri sighs, closing the book gently. "Bucky doesn’t talk about his past. Not much, anyway. But I’ve seen him with this. When he first came here, when he was still healing, still afraid of his own mind, I’d find him reading it, over and over. Like he was trying to remember something. Or trying not to forget."

She taps a finger against the faded cover. "This is the only thing he brought with him when he left the outside world behind. It’s been on his shelf for years. And I have never, ever seen him let it out of his sight."

I glance down at the book, the pages worn from years of being held, flipped through, read in silence.

Then the realization hits me like a brick—the shadowy figure I saw earlier, standing in the doorway, silent, unmoving. Watching. Listening.

It was him. Bucky was there. And for some reason, he left his most treasured possession behind, in my hands.

"Oh, Shuri..." I say, my voice coming out all wobbly, thick with something I can’t name. "I didn't know, I swear. I never would've touched it if I did."

I swallow, staring down at the worn cover, running my fingers along the fragile edges. The poor man has been through so much, and here I am, taking away the one last thing he cherishes. The guilt sinks deep, clawing its way under my skin. 

"Where is he?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Shuri raises a brow. "You’re serious?"

I glance up at her, feeling the weight of the book in my hands. It’s heavy in a way it wasn’t before. "I need to give it back."

She hesitates. "No one just... visits him."

I know. Everyone knows.

The White Wolf is left alone. By choice, by necessity—maybe both. No one wanders too close to his little cottage at the edge of the Wakandan landscape.

No one risks disturbing him because no one is stupid enough to try.

Except, apparently, me.

Shuri watches me carefully, as if she's waiting for me to take back my words, to laugh it off, to come to my senses. But when I don’t, she lets out a low whistle. "Damn. You really feel bad, huh?"

I nod, throat tight. "He left it here, Shuri. He was listening, and then he left it." I exhale, trying to steady my nerves. "I don’t know why, but... I just can’t keep it. I have to bring it back."

Shuri huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "Well, if you get mauled by a super-soldier, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

That doesn’t help. Like, at all.

I curse the gods—every single one of them—as my feet carry me toward my inevitable doom.

Why did I take this job? Why did I thik it was a good idea to move here, to teach English to Wakandan children, when I could’ve stayed on my ass in Brooklyn, sipping overpriced lattes and minding my business? But no, no. I just had to be adventurous. I just had to do something meaningful. And now, because of some ancient, battered book, I’m marching toward the White Wolf’s isolated den like I have a death wish.

I can already imagine it—he rips the book out of my hands, glares at me with cold, unforgiving eyes, and then... what? Kicks me out? Snaps at me? Growls?

I shudder.

God, what if he’s actually terrifying? What if he doesn’t say anything at all, just stares at me until I crumble under the sheer weight of his presence? Or worse—what if he doesn’t even acknowledge me? That thought somehow feels worse than all the others.

By the time I reach the edge of the village, the Wakandan landscape stretching wide and open, the small cabin finally comes into view. My stomach lurches.

This is it. My last day on Earth. At least I get to go out somewhere beautiful.

I hesitate, standing in front of the small gate that separates his quiet solitude from the rest of the world. I swallow hard, shifting the book between my sweaty palms. I should turn back. I should leave it on the porch and run to the North Pole. But before I can even think about retreating, the door swings open.

My breath traps in my throat. For a split second, I think he must have heard me coming, that he knew I was here, standing outside like an idiot, clutching his book like some kind of offering.

But then, he steps out and stops dead in his tracks. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because he wasn’t expecting me. Or anyone, for that matter.

His eyes lock onto mine, and all my rational thoughts suddenly perish from my mind.

His long hair is tousled, falling just past his jawline, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost golden at the edges. His sharp features—cheekbones cut from marble, a mouth made for sin, a jawline that could kill a person on impact—should make him look unapproachable; dangerous, even. But he's so far from that. His soft, piercing, ridiculously blue eyes aren’t cold like I thought they’d be—they’re just quiet. Unreadable. And so, so warm.

I swallow to relieve the dryness in my throat. 

My dear God. He is excruciatingly beautiful.

"H—Hi," I stutter, and I already feel like an idiot. "I—I, uh—" My throat closes up as I realize that holy shit, I never planned what to say. I came all this way, marched straight into the depths of no-man’s-land, and I didn’t even think about what the hell I was going to say when I got here. "I have your book."

He's just standing there, not moving an inch, while I'm making the biggest fool of myself. His mouth quirks at the corner; the smallest, faintest hint of a smirk—like he’s amused.

I want to die.

"You came all this way... to bring it back?"

His voice is low and steady, a bit rough around the edges. I'm sure he hasn’t used it in a while.

I nod too fast. "I—I didn’t know it was yours," I blurt out. "Shuri told me after the kids left, and I just—I felt bad. I mean, it’s important to you, and I didn’t want you to think I—well, that I stole it. Because I didn’t. Obviously. I mean, I would never steal from you. That would be—" I stop myself.

Oh my god, shut up, shut up, shut up.

He just blinks at me, his smirk deepening, like he doesn’t really know what to do with the shy, stammering girl standing in front of him, gripping his book like it’s her lifeline.  He finally takes a step closer, and when he reaches for the book, his fingers brush against mine—just barely. A light touch. A test. It makes my heart beat so fast, I just know my Kimoyo beads are going to think I'm dying.

"That was brave of you." His voice is softer when he speaks again.

I blink. "What?"

He lifts a brow, glancing down at the book before looking back at me. "Most people wouldn’t come here. Not just to return a book."

I stare at him, heart pounding. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to explain that I was actually scared shitless the whole way here.

"I—uh, I just—" I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck. "I felt... bad. Really bad. I mean, I didn’t know it was yours, obviously, but when Shuri told me, I just—"

I shake my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze again. Big mistake.

His eyes are still on me, watching. Waiting, for what I'm about to say, and somehow that makes the words tumble out even faster.

"I shouldn’t have touched it," I blurt out, gripping my fingers together. "I—I don’t even know how it ended up in the pile with the kids’ books. But if I’d known—" I shake my head again, voice pitching higher with every word. "I swear, I wouldn’t have even looked at it. I wouldn’t have let them—"

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and for some reason, that makes me even more nervous.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head again. "I just... I don’t think I have the right to have it." My voice is softer now, quieter. "It’s important to you, and I—I shouldn’t have even brought it here, I just—"

The words hang between us, stretching out into the warm Wakandan air.

His face suddenly softens, and it’s so subtle, I probably wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't panicking. A flicker of surprise, maybe even confusion spreads on his face, before something deeper settles behind his eyes. As if he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not used to people caring about how he feels.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe some quiet, sharp dismissal that sends me scurrying back down the hill with my tail between my legs.

A small, measured exhale snaps me out of my thoughts, and then he does something that absolutely was not on my list of possibilities.

He hands the book back to me.

I freeze, staring at the worn, faded cover as if it’s suddenly caught fire in his palm.

"What—?" I choke out. "I—I don’t—"

"Finish it," he says simply.

My head snaps up. I must have misheard him. I have to be hallucinating.

"F-Finish it?" I echo dumbly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, watching me again—this time with the faintest trace of amusement.

"You read to them, right?" he says, nodding toward the book. "The kids?"

I nod, too stunned to do anything else.

"Then finish it," he says again, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "It’s been sitting on my shelf for years. It won’t kill me to part with it a little longer."

I just stare at him, completely, utterly shocked.

I came here expecting frost. Cold dismissal, irritation, maybe even anger. But this? This is something else entirely.

I swallow, fingers curling gently around the book as I hold it to my chest. "I—thank you," I manage. It’s a weak, pathetic response, but it’s all I can get out.

He just nods, and I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m still standing here, still talking to him. Maybe it’s the fact that he gave me his book—the one thing he apparently never let anyone else touch. Or maybe it’s just pure insanity, but before I can talk myself out of it, the words tumble out.

"You should come."

"Come where?" His voice is low, a little raspy, as if he’s trying to figure out if I actually meant to say that out loud.

I wet my lips, gripping the book tighter.

"To the readings," I clarify, heart hammering in my throat. "With the kids."

Silence. A long, stretching silence. His expression cracks just for a second, a flicker of something like want, maybe even hope, before it disappears behind his carefully set jaw. His gaze drops. Not to the book—to the ground.

And I feel it before he even says it. The sadness. The fear.

"I can’t," he murmurs. And god, it’s so soft, it makes me want to hug him.

"Why not?"

He exhales, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek like he’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth.

"I’m not good around kids." His voice is flat, even, but there’s something weighted behind the words. Something like guilt.

I take a small step closer, lowering my voice. "But—"

"I shouldn’t be around them." His fingers twitch at his side, like this conversation is already too much. "It’s not a good idea."

"You—"

"I don’t trust myself," he blurts out, and this time, he doesn’t look at me.

And just like that, I get it. This is a man who has spent years convincing himself that he is dangerous, that he is something to be feared. That even now—healing, trying—he cannot risk being close to something as soft, as pure, as innocent… as a child.

That realization hits me like a brick to the chest. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, and that he never was, but I can’t. Something tells me he wouldn’t believe me.

"Okay," I say softly. "I understand."

He finally looks at me again, but I wish that he didn't, because there’s something so deeply sad in his eyes. Standing here, staring at the quiet, heavy ache on his beautiful face, I realize just how wrong I was.

He isn’t a man to be feared. He’s a man who fears himself. And I despise myself for ever thinking otherwise.

"Thank you again, for the book. See you around", I say as I slowly turn away, and he lets me.

I feel his eyes on my back the entire way down the hill. Not moving, not calling me back. Just watching.

I can’t stop thinking about him all night. Not when I make it back home, not when I try to lose myself in a book, not even when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I feel like I swallowed a stone, like there’s a weight in my chest that won’t lift, no matter how many times I tell myself to let it go.

But I can’t, because it isn’t fair. It's not fair that he’s all alone out there. He’s spent so long avoiding people, keeping himself away from warmth, from comfort, from company—not because he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, and it crushes my heart with a force of a building collapsing.

I roll onto my side, clutching the book to my chest.

This story—his story—is about adventure. About finding courage. About leaving behind the safety of what you know and learning that you’re capable of more than you ever imagined. If there’s anyone who deserves that lesson... it’s him.

I make my decision before the sun even rises.

If he won’t come to the reading nights, I’ll bring the reading night to him. No one, not even the White Wolf, should have to be alone.

The moment the school day ends, I’m already moving, practically buzzing with excitement. I sling my bag over my shoulder, feeling the slight extra weight from what I’ve packed inside; snacks, drinks, a small thermos of tea, just in case. If I’m going to make him sit and listen, I’m going to make sure he’s comfortable while he does it. And for some reason, the thought of that? Of bringing him something warm, making him feel normal for even a split second? It makes me... giddy. Like I’m about to do something ridiculous and impossible.

And god, I can’t wait.

The memories of yesterday's walk to his little cottage flods my mind while I'm making my way there again. I can't believe I thought I was gonna die. The only danger that surrounds him is how dangerously beautiful he is, nothing else.

I run up the hill, still out of breath when I finally make my way to his door. I knock once, twice, nothing. For a solid five seconds, I stand there. Just as I consider knocking again, the door swings open so violently that I nearly fling myself into another dimension. And there he is, Bucky Barnes, standing in front of me, looking like I just hit him over the head with a frying pan.

His hair is damp, the scent of coconut and honey practically radiating from him. He is very much not dressed for visitors—he's wearing only sweatpants, no shirt, no metal arm. That's when I realize that he just got out of the shower.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was not prepared for this. I force myself to keep my gaze on his face, and only his face, because if I let my eyes even think about dropping, I am absolutely going to lose my mind.

"Did I forget something?"

I blink. "What?"

"You’re—" he gestures vaguely toward me. "Here. Again."

"Yeah," I say, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Obviously."

He stares.

I stare.

"Why?"

I clear my throat. "I, uh... brought stuff."

More staring.

"Stuff?"

"Yeah. Snacks. Drinks." I lift the thermos. "Tea."

He blinks. I blurt out the rest before I lose my nerve.

"For reading night."

Bucky’s entire face scrunches in confusion.

"For what now?"

I barrel forward, ignoring how my voice is getting higher with every word.

"Since you won’t come to reading night, I figured I’d bring reading night to you. So, yeah. Here I am."

Bucky looks at me. Then at the bag. Then back at me.

"Are you serious?"

"Yep."

He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s really regretting opening the door.

"You came all the way out here..."

"Yep."

"With...tea."

I shake the thermos a little. "Good tea, too."

His jaw tenses.

"To read. To me."

"Yep."

Silence. A long, painful, my-life-choices-are-questionable silence. Bucky presses his lips together, staring at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then, so slowly that I know he’s questioning every decision that led him here—

"Are you high?"

"What?!" I sputter, nearly dropping the thermos. "No!"

He tilts his head, suspicious. "Drunk?"

"Of course not!"

"Did Shuri put you up to this?"

"I—what? No!" I groan dramatically, shoving past him into the cabin before he can stop me. "Listen, Barnes," I say as I drop my bag onto the table, pulling out all my carefully packed snacks.

He looks personally offended.

"You—" He points at me. "—just invited yourself in."

"Obviously."

"In my house."

I hold up the bag of Wakandan fruit chips. "Brought snacks."

His jaw tightens.

"To read."

I scrunch the snack bag. "Candy, too."

Bucky drags a hand down his face like he wants to strangle me but doesn’t have the energy.

"I have no idea what you’re doing."

I grin up at him. "Yeah, well. Can’t have you reading alone, can we?"

His brows knit together, like I just proposed something entirely illogical, which, to him, I probably did. His gaze drifts to the book in my lap, then, to the tea and snacks I carefully laid out, and finally, back to me. Something in his eyes softens, just enough that if I weren’t looking so closely, I might have missed it. Without another word, Bucky sighs, grabs his t-shirt from the chair, and lowers himself onto the couch.

Not next to me, not even close—he sits at the farthest end possible. But hey, progress is progress. And so, reading night begins.

He doesn’t relax, not at first. He sits stiffly at the farthest end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, like he’s bracing for something. It’s not hostility, not exactly—but it’s not comfort, either. He’s tense in a way that says he’s not used to this, not used to someone willingly sitting in his space, talking to him without expectation.

I don’t acknowledge it and I don’t call it out. Instead, I just open the book and start reading.

At first, he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes flicker between me and the floor, his knee bouncing slightly like he’s thinking about leaving. To my luck, he doesn’t. He stays, silent and unmoving, like he’s waiting to see how long I’ll keep this up.

So I do. I keep reading.

Somewhere between the first and second chapter, something shifts. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Bucky stops watching me and starts listening. His knee stills, the sharp lines of tension in his shoulders begin to smooth out, and before I know it, he’s no longer eyeing me with suspicion—he’s watching my hands turn the pages.

By the time I hit an hour, my throat is raw, and I force myself to stop. I close the book gently, stretching my sore neck, and that’s when Bucky snaps back to reality. His head jerks toward me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something almost dazed in his eyes, like I pulled him out of a trance.

"I should go," I murmur, rubbing my throat.

He doesn’t reply right away. Doesn’t tell me to stay, but doesn’t agree, either. He just watches as I gather my things, his fingers flexing subtly against his knee like he almost—almost—reached for me.

But then, as quickly as the moment comes, he stops himself. "Alright," he mutters, voice rough from disuse.

He stands when I do, but doesn’t walk me to the door. Doesn’t move at all, really. He just watches as I pull my bag over my shoulder, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something, but ultimately deciding against it.

I nod at him once, a silent goodbye, and step out. I already know I'm going to be back the next day.

The fire crackles softly, casting warm flickers of light across the cabin. Bucky is sitting at the far end of the couch again, just like the first night, but something is different. He’s not as stiff, not as closed off. His hands aren’t locked in tight fists against his knees, and every once in a while, I catch him watching the book instead of me.

It’s progress.

I keep reading, letting my voice fill the comfortable silence between us. And then I reach the line—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

I pause, rolling the words over in my mind. They feel soft, weighty, like they mean something more than just a farewell.

"That’s..." I hesitate, glancing up at him. "That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?"

Bucky’s gaze lingers on the book for a second too long before he shifts, leaning his forearms onto his thighs. His face is unreadable, but he doesn’t look away.

"Yeah," he says, voice quiet. "It's one of my favorite lines."

It’s not much, but it’s something. A tiny glimpse behind the guarded walls.

I let out a small chuckle, nudging him lightly with my elbow. "That’s the most reaction I’ve gotten out of you so far. Should I be honored?"

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Maybe."

I grin and turn back to the book, continuing on, but the air between us feels different now. Charged. Like I unknowingly stumbled onto something important. I don’t know it yet, but that sentence—those simple words—will keep finding their way back to us.

It happens the next time I visit. And the next.

Whenever I reach that line, I glance at Bucky without meaning to. And every time, he’s already looking at me.

One night, after I close the book and get up to leave, I decide to test something. With a teasing smile, I toss the words back at him—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks, Barnes."

Bucky exhales, shaking his head, but I swear I see something warm flicker in his expression. He doesn’t say anything, not that night, but the next time, just as I turn to go—

"Same to you," he murmurs.

I freeze, looking back at him.

His face is carefully neutral, like it doesn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t just return a piece of something that belongs only to us.

I don’t call him out on it, I just smile. I come back the next night. And the night after that.

At first, I tell myself it’s just for the book, just for the kids. But I know better. I’m not reading for them right now—I’m reading for him. And he lets me.

Every night, I find him waiting, sitting on the couch, never asking me to stay but never telling me to leave either. He doesn’t sit quite as far away anymore. It’s subtle at first—his knee a little closer, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his body angled toward me instead of away.

I pretend not to notice, but I do. It happens slowly.

One night, he’s just near enough that our shoulders almost touch when I turn a page. The next, I can feel his warmth without even trying. And the next, I can hear him breathe when I read.

When I close the book, I always say the same thing. "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

And every time, he waits. He never responds immediately. He lets the words settle, like he’s measuring the weight of them before giving them back.

"Same to you."

That’s how I know he’ll let me return.

It’s been weeks.

I don’t knock anymore, I just step inside. And I don’t sit at the far end of the couch, I sit next to him. Close enough that our knees brush when I move, close enough that I can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He doesn’t pull away.

Tonight, his posture is different. Relaxed. His vibranium fingers rest on the couch cushions between us, so close I could close the gap in an instant. I read as I always do, my voice steady, words tumbling into the quiet of the cabin. And I can feel him listening—not just to the book, but to me.

By the time I finish the chapter, it’s late. The fire is low, casting soft, flickering shadows against the walls. I shut the book gently and stretch, sighing.

He watches me. I know he’s watching me, I feel it everywhere. I look at him, expecting him to say something, maybe a goodnight, maybe our thing. But instead, his gaze flickers lower—to my lips, to my throat, to my fingers still resting on the book between us.

And then, he moves.

It’s careful, so much slower than I expect, like he’s giving me time to stop him. He leans in, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him, to catch the sharp, clean scent of pine and firewood clinging to his skin. His lips hover over mine. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but his breath ghosts over my mouth, and for a second, I swear I forget how to breathe at all.

I don’t move, I don’t blink. And then—he kisses me.

It’s so much softer than I thought it would be. Bucky Barnes is all sharp edges, calloused hands, a body hardened by war. But his lips? They’re gentle. Careful. Like he’s still afraid to take.

The kiss is barely there, just the lightest brush of his mouth against mine, a question more than an answer. And that’s what undoes me.

I exhale, shakily, my fingers curling into the fabric of my own shirt. I should move, should lean in, but all I can do is sit here, drowning in the quiet, aching tenderness of it all. Bucky hesitates, like he thinks he’s done something wrong, like he’s about to pull away, but I don’t let him. I chase after him, my hands coming up to cup his face, to hold him there. And this time, it’s different. This time, when our lips meet, he doesn’t hold back.

A soft, desperate sound rumbles in his throat as he presses forward, kissing me properly now. His hand slides up, fingers ghosting over my jaw, my cheekbone, threading through my hair like he can’t bear not to touch me. The warmth of him spreads everywhere. I sigh against his mouth, and it’s that sound that does it—something in him snaps.

He pulls me in deeper, a hand slipping to my waist, dragging me closer and closer.

I let him have me that night. Because God, how I wanted him to.

"You did what now?"

Shuri’s voice nearly echoes in the vast Wakandan library, her eyes wide with unfiltered shock. I watch as she sets her cup of tea down so slowly, so carefully, like she might drop it if she moves too fast.

I bite my lip. "I... slept with Bucky."

Her expression doesn’t change. She just blinks at me, mouth slightly agape, as if trying to process the words.

"I knew something was going on," she finally says, leaning back in her chair. "The way you were always sneaking off, carrying snacks like a lovesick fool—but I thought, oh no, she wouldn’t do anything reckless."

I shift uncomfortably. "It’s not reckless."

Shuri’s brows lift. "Not reckless? Not reckless? You slept with the most unstable super soldier alive, and you don’t think that’s reckless?"

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off with a dramatic sigh, waving a hand in front of her face. "Wait, wait, before I scold you, tell me... how was it?"

I nearly choke on air. "Excuse me?!"

Shuri smirks. "Come on, I know it had to be something."

I feel my face burn hotter than the Wakandan sun. "I’m not talking about this with you."

She laughs, delighted, but then, her expression sobers. The teasing fades, replaced by something far more serious.

"Alright, alright," she says, studying me. "So, what, you have feelings for him now?"

I inhale sharply, because that’s the real question, isn’t it? The thing I’ve been trying to tread carefully around in my own mind. Even though it scares me, I don’t hesitate when I answer.

"I think... I think I love him."

Shuri watches me closely, fingers tapping against her knee. "Then you need to listen to me. Carefully."

I nod, my stomach twisting at the shift in her tone. She exhales, and for the first time, there’s no humor in her voice at all.

"Bucky’s mind is not safe."

I blink. "What?"

She leans forward. "You know what they did to him. You know what HYDRA turned him into. Just because the trigger words are gone, it doesn’t mean he’s free. He’s still haunted by it. He still wakes up thinking he’s in a cage."

My throat tightens.

"I’ve seen it firsthand," she continues. "Some nights, he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who he is. And if that happens when you’re with him, if he snaps—"

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. A cold shiver runs down my spine.

"I know he wouldn’t hurt me," I whisper, but the words feel fragile, like I’m trying to convince myself.

Shuri tilts her head. "Do you?"

I stare at her, my pulse pounding in my ears. Because the truth is—I don’t.

I’ve seen the way his hands twitch when he dreams. I’ve seen the way his shoulders lock up at sudden noises. I’ve seen the fear in his own eyes when he realizes how much strength he holds in his hands.

Shuri softens slightly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m saying this because I love you, and I know you love him. But if you’re serious about him, you need to be prepared."

I swallow. "Prepared for what?"

Her expression turns grim.

"For the moment you have to bring him back."

Present day

The world is narrowing.

My lungs burn like fire. Every desperate, gasping inhale is cut short by the unrelenting steel around my throat. My body fights—uselessly, weakly—nails scraping at his wrist, legs kicking out beneath him, but it’s like trying to stop a storm with my bare hands.

His grip is iron.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

The thought slams into me like ice-cold water, and panic overtakes me. Not because of the pain or the black spots creeping at the edges of my vision, but because it’s him.

My Bucky.

And when he comes back—when he realizes what he’s done—he will never forgive himself.

Tears spill down my temples as I force my lips to move, but no sound escapes. There’s nothing left in my lungs. I’m too lightheaded, too far gone, the world tilting, twisting, breaking apart—

No.

I can’t leave him like this.

I have to bring him back.

My hands shake, my chest heaves, my vision is fading, but I manage to force the words out, a breathless, choked whisper—

"M—may the… wind under… y-your wings… bear you…"

Bucky stiffens. A shuddering tremor runs down his spine, his fingers twitching around my throat—but they don’t let go. I can’t tell if he’s hearing me or if it’s just luck, instinct, or a trick of fate.

I try again, barely audible, but desperate.

"…w-where the sun s-sails… and… the moon…walks."

A violent jerk wracks through his body. His grip loosens, just enough that I suck in a shuddering gasp, the first real breath I’ve had in what feels like forever, but I don’t stop.

"Bucky."

His whole body locks up. His breath stutters, falters. I can feel the tremor in his hands now, the slight hesitation where before there was only brutal, unthinking force.

"Bucky, it’s me."

And that’s when it happens.

His fingers slip away from my throat completely, as if they were never really there at all. He staggers backward like he’s been struck, his vibranium arm swinging wildly before he catches himself against the remains of the coffee table.

His chest heaves. Eyes darting across the room, over the wreckage, over me, and then, they land on his hands.

I watch his whole world collapse.

He lifts his flesh hand first, staring at his fingers like they belong to someone else, like they are something vile, monstrous. But then his gaze drops lower—to my neck. My throat is raw, burning, bruised, I can feel it, but I don’t have time to process it because Bucky sees it too.

And the moment he does, a broken, guttural noise rips from his chest. He stumbles backward, shaking his head, eyes wide with absolute, soul-crushing horror.

"No... no, no, no—" His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, barely a sound.

I can see it—the way his mind is spinning, unraveling, trying to understand how he got here, what he’s done. His breath shudders, his whole body trembling so violently it looks like he might fall apart right in front of me.

Then, he does. His knees give out. He crumbles, hitting the floor hard, his hands fisting in his hair as he gasps for air like he’s the one being choked now.

"What did I do—" He’s shaking his head, pulling at his own scalp, curling in on himself like he’s trying to disappear. "What did I do, what did I—"

I don’t even think before I move toward him.

"Bucky," I rasp, my voice hoarse and broken, but he doesn’t hear me.

His breaths come too fast, too shallow, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements. His flesh hand claws at his hair, his vibranium fingers digging into the floorboards hard enough that I hear the wood splinter beneath his grip.

His whole body is shaking.

"I hurt you—" His voice is wrecked, strangled, barely audible through his erratic gasps. "I hurt you, I— I can’t—"

I see it happening. The rapid-fire panic, the loss of control. The way his hands start twitching, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like they are still weapons. His chest heaves, ribs trembling, body rocking slightly as he folds in tighter on himself, as if making himself small could undo it.

I drop to my knees, ignoring the burn in my throat, ignoring the ache in my body, and I touch him. A gentle, steadying hand against his shoulder.

"Bucky," I whisper, softer this time.

His whole body jerks, like he expects me to flinch away, like he deserves for me to flinch away. But I don’t.

I squeeze lightly, pressing my palm flat against his shoulder blade, feeling the shaking, the unsteadiness, the way he is completely unraveling in front of me.

"You’re safe," I murmur, my fingers pressing against the back of his neck, stroking gently, grounding him. "I’m safe. It’s okay, Bucky. You came back."

His breathing stumbles, like he’s trying to catch it. His fingers twitch against the floor again, but this time, they don’t clench. I see the moment he realizes, the exact second something shifts, cracks open inside him. His gaze lifts, blurry and disoriented, landing on me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

"It worked." He blinks rapidly, still fighting the storm in his chest, but his eyes flicker, searching, processing. "The words," he exhales, half-dazed, half-stunned. "They... worked."

His expression is a mix of wonder and exhaustion, grief and relief, like he can’t quite believe it, that even through the darkness, I was able to reach him.

I give him a soft, trembling smile.

"Of course they did," I whisper, brushing my fingers through his hair. "I told you I’d bring you back."

A shuddering breath leaves him, his body still shaking, but he’s here. I really did bring him back.

And I know, no matter how deep he falls, no matter how lost he gets, no matter how many times the Soldier tries to take him from me, I will always reach him.