;w;

“Oh my god,” Leon moaned, as he pushed into you in this new position. “Oh fuck.” 

You cried out his name, holding on to his thigh and his biceps for dear life. “Oh fuck yes, ah—” 

The kids had been getting their energy out at the pool all day and were out cold. There was no way anyone in this house would wake up before tomorrow morning, no matter what they heard. So you and Leon were going at it like you’d never get the chance again. In fairness, with two young kids, this was an opportunity that didn't present itself very often. It was too good to pass up. 

The soundscape of your bedroom was absolutely obscene. Between skin slapping, panting and loud moans, you had lost your entire sense of self, completely melting into the pleasure Leon was causing you. 

You whimpered, as you felt your inner walls clench around him. 

“Look at yourself baby,” Leon panted. “You look so fucking pretty.” 

You opened your eyes, watching your and Leon’s reflection in the mirror across from your bed. It was hot as hell. You with your head hanging over the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide for Leon to thrust into you and rub your clit at the same time. His handsome face was somewhere between agony and pure bliss, mouth agape, brows knitted together and both of your bodies were covered in a sheen glint of sweat. 

You looked absolutely delicious. 

“Oh my god,” you moaned, your breath being cut off by Leon slamming into you to the hilt. “Yes, Leon, harder. Oh fuck yes, just like that. Oh fuck.” You cried out again as he did as he was told. He tended to do that when he was balls deep inside you.

Your body was moving further off the mattress, skin slapping against skin becoming even louder as your sex god of a husband pounded into you, setting your every nerve ending on fire, a strangled moan falling from his lips. 

You wanted to tell him how good he was fucking you, you really did, but you had lost all speech, you feared. The only thing coming over your lips were uncontrollable moans and screams of pleasure. 

Leon whimpered when you clenched down on him again. “Fuck yes, oh just like that, cum for me baby, I love you so much.” 

He was so close too, he was trying to drag it out a little longer, so you could have an orgasm so intense it would shake your entire body but he was having an increasingly hard time. You could tell from the way he was gritting his teeth and the strangled noises slipping past his lips. It was music to your ears.

You had married the best man in the entire world. The most generous, sexy, thoughtful, absolute porn star of a man. 

“Oh fuck, oh my god, Leon,” you cried out, your fingernails digging into his skin as you came hard enough for your soul to leave your body. The sounds that were coming out of you were worthy of an exorcist. But god was nowhere near you right now, this was all Leon. 

He loved how loud and completely helpless to your own climax you were. You could tell. Because his thrusts became sloppy, as he spilled into you with low, guttural grunts, all elegance lost to the intensity of your orgasms.

This was glorious. You rarely had the chance to completely let loose like that and boy had you made the most of it. 

When you were finally done, Leon gently pulled you back onto the mattress so you could come down without your head hanging off the bed. How thoughtful. How orgasmic. How absolutely perfect. 

“I love you,” you panted, lying next to him, both of you wondering if you had died and were in heaven. 

“Yeah, I could tell,” Leon said, breathlessly, a smile playing on his lips. “I’d say you really like me a lot.” 

“I do,” you confirmed, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. 

“Do you think that got you pregnant?” he asked, still trying to catch his breath, gently placing a hand on your lower belly. 

You smiled against his lips. You were trying for a baby. For the first time, funnily enough. This wasn't your first child. You already had two kids but both of them had been unplanned. As much as you loved your surprise babies, you wanted another chance to do it right, tracking your cycle and everything.

You had already been at it for the past several months but there was no second line to be seen on the pregnancy test yet. It was like a cosmic joke. Your reproductive systems apparently only cooperated when you were in fact not actively trying to conceive.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should try again in a bit, just to be sure?”

Leon chuckled. “Give me a couple minutes and I would love to—”

A distraught cry made your heart clench.

“Mama,” a child's voice sounded from across the hallway.

“Oh shit, that’s Ollie,” you whispered, immediately shifting out of sex goddess and into mom mode.

Your youngest was screaming like a banshee, only stopping to hiccup as he was catching the breath he so desperately needed to continue his assault on your ears.

Before you even got up from the bed, Leon had already pulled on a pair of boxers and rushed out the bedroom door. 

You took one last deep breath to fully arrive on this plane of existence and shrugged into your robe. Ollie would no doubt stop screaming once Leon appeared in his bedroom door, chasing the monster under his bed away. 

But Ollie did not stop. He only screamed louder and more frantically. 

“Not you,” he shrieked and you tied the belt around your midsection, rushing down the hallway.

Ollie was completely fixated on you. Ever since he had been born, he was a real momma’s boy. You had also breastfed him for longer than usual because he had a hard time letting you go. But that was okay. If your baby needed you more, then he needed you more. You weren't on other people's timelines. Just like with getting pregnant. This was your family, everything would come together in its own time.

However, Ollie had never full-on rejected Leon like that before. 

“Ollie, what’s up? Hey, buddy, it’s okay, I’m here,” Leon cooed softly, trying to pick his son up and calm him down, as he was sobbing and thrashing.

In his distraught state, Ollie sent a forceful kick straight to Leon's jaw. Leon winced, squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, before backing off and leaving his son to his tantrum. 

“Where’s mommy?” Ollie shrieked, hot tears streaming down his face. 

“I’m here, baby,” you said softly, crouching down next to his bed. Ollie frantically freed himself from the duvet and flung himself into your arms.

You cradled him against your chest, his face buried in your neck. “Ollie, hey, shhh,” you shushed him, gently stroking his soft curls. “Did you have a bad dream?” 

Ollie gurgled and sobbed against the skin on your neck, barely able to compose himself. “No, he was hitting you. Why was daddy hitting you?” 

“Your dad wasn’t hitting me, Ollie,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his head. “You had a bad dream.” 

“No, I heard it, you were screaming and he was hitting you,” Ollie insisted, hiccupping again. He was so stressed, his little body was shaking. 

Leon’s wide eyes found yours. “Oh no.” 

“Uh…” You paused, not quite sure what to say, as your cheeks turned hot, looking at Leon for help. 

Leon shook his head, just as lost as you were. He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. 

Your son was three. He had no idea what was going on. Neither did you want him to. You were mortified that he had heard what you and Leon had been up to. No kid should ever have to hear that. 

“Ollie,” Leon said softly, scooting over to you and his son. 

Ollie shrieked again, his voice breaking into a sob. “Make him go away.” 

Leon looked like he had been slapped across the face.

You softly rocked your son from side to side. You had an idea. 

“Leon, can you get his sippy cup?” you whispered and Leon already pushed himself off the floor, disappearing into the kitchen. 

“Ollie, I’m okay,” you whispered, taking a deep breath in, your chest expanding against your son's body. After a couple of breaths like that, Ollie started to regulate his breathing too, his crying becoming less frantic. You pressed your cheek against his, repeating the motion. 

Leon appeared in the door with Ollie’s cup, handing it to you from a safe distance. 

You took the cup from him, offering it to your son. He wordlessly took it into his hands, drinking from it.

If they’re having a tantrum, just add water. Old mom trick from Rhonda. That could be for drinking, gently washing their hands—just add water in some way, shape or form.

Back when Lottie had been going through her terrible twos, Rhonda had seen you completely overwhelmed and struggling to keep it together. You had tried everything but nothing would work and it was getting increasingly harder not to snap when the devil seemed to have taken over your child at every meltdown. Sensory reset. For the both of you. It was so simple sometimes. 

Ollie swallowed and you smiled, running a gentle hand over his head again. 

“I’m okay, Ollie. Your dad didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do,” you said. 

“It sounded really bad,” he sniffled, blinking, tears streaking his chubby cheeks. 

You wiped the tears away from the soft skin. “You weren’t supposed to hear that, baby. We’re very sorry. That was grown-up stuff.”

“Do you promise?” Ollie looked at you, face all red and puffy. 

You nodded. “I promise. Your father and I love each other very much, we would never hurt each other.” 

Ollie wrinkled his forehead, shooting an angry glance at Leon. “Do you promise?” 

Leon put a hand over his heart, crouching down behind you. “I promise. I love your mom. More than anything.” 

Ollie sniffled again. “Good. Because she’s my mom.” 

Leon chuckled, nodding. “I know.” 

“Ollie, I’m also your sister’s mom,” you said, smiling softly at his possessiveness. “And I’m your dad’s wife. We all belong together. It’s important to me that you know that, okay?”

Ollie nodded hesitantly, throwing his head down onto your shoulder again, gripping you a little tighter. “Can I sleep in your bed?” 

You chuckled, being very familiar with his shtick. “Try and sleep in your own bed, okay? We won’t wake you up again.” 

“I don’t want to,” he said immediately, voice quivering, threatening to start screaming the house down all over again.

“You need to sleep in your own bed sometimes. Like your sister does. You’re a big boy now.” 

“Daddy’s bigger than me. He sleeps in your bed every night.” 

You chuckled. “That’s different.” 

Leon pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You know, he kind of has a point.” 

“We’re supposed to be on the same page, Leon,” you hissed. 

“I know,” he said, offering his hand to his son. “I would never hurt your mom, Ollie. Never.” 

Ollie gave Leon a tired high-five. “Okay.” 

“How about your mom stays here with you until you’re asleep? Does that sound good?” 

Ollie nodded and you lifted him up and into his bed. Leon leaned forward and pulled the duvet over his son’s shoulders. 

Ollie made a grabby gesture and you took his hand, sitting by his bedside.

Leon tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his lips finding your temple and lingering for a little too long. “He won’t remember this when he gets older, right?” 

You shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I hope not.”

“I’ll go check on Lottie,” Leon whispered. “And when you come back to bed I have plans for you.” 

“Quiet plans,” you reminded him. 

“Oh very quiet, you’ll see,” he murmured, pulling you in for a kiss on the lips, sending tingling sensations all over your body. 

You gasped.

“Leon,” you yelled, jumping up and rushing to the bathroom door. 

“What?” Leon called back, stepping into the hallway and freezing when he saw what you were holding in your hand. 

“Is it …?” 

You nodded. 

He rushed toward you, taking the pregnancy test from your hands. The second line was pale still, because you were only supposed to get your period that day, but it was definitely there. 

“Oh my god, you’re pregnant,” Leon whispered, his face lighting up. 

“We’re having another baby.” You couldn’t stop the wide smile appearing on your face. 

Leon pulled you closer to him, resting his forehead against yours. He gently placed his hands on your lower belly, caressing your skin with his thumbs. Your eyes fluttered shut, a happy sigh escaping you at the thought of the next eight months. 

“Boy or girl, what do you think?” 

You chuckled. “Leon, I have no idea. There’s no way to tell.” 

He captured your lips in a gentle kiss. “We actually planned this one, start to finish.” He sounded so proud. 

You nodded. “Shocking, I know.” 

“Took us a while, though.” He whispered, gaze falling down to your still flat belly. Not for much longer. You would be able to show off your baby bump in no time and you couldn't wait.

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” you teased him, nudging your nose against his. 

He chuckled. “This is our last pregnancy. We have to enjoy this and take so many pictures. Maybe go on one of those babymoon things or whatever they’re called.” 

You nodded again. “This is the last time we’ll do this. Our last baby.” Why did you feel a little teary-eyed all of a sudden? Hormones weren’t supposed to spike this early on. 

“It feels so weird not to be surprised with it,” Leon said. “I had time to look forward to finding out.”

“I’m so excited,” you replied. “I can’t wait to see what Lottie and Ollie are going to say.” 

Leon's gaze trailed down and he bit back a laugh. “Do you want to pull up your pants before we tell them, though?”

“Oh,” you exclaimed, reaching down.

a/n: experts will know this was of course not their last baby. surprise, bitches as per Cooperative Parenting - Epilogue

-----

Leon had the briefing in his lap, looking over the details a final time before he drifted off to a restless sleep. He never slept well the night before a mission. Whether it was because he knew what he was getting himself into each time, or it was the too real possibility of the fact that he might never see your face again.

You, curled up into Leon’s side, back resting against the headboard as you watched his face focus on the papers in front of him, tilted your head down to plant a kiss on his bare shoulder.

“Hey, you’ve read that thing ten times front to back now. You need to sleep,” your lips murmured against his skin, a hand rubbing his chest in soft circles. Leon sighed, and folded up the briefing and placed it on his nightside table.

“Yeah okay,” he muttered tiredly, a yawn escaping out his mouth as he spoke. He switched off the lamp next to him and settled further into bed, you doing the same. 

Leon was on his side, arms wrapped around your waist as you snuggled deep into his chest, your nose digging into his collarbone. Leon always held you tighter before parting; memorizing every dip and curve of your body, the smell of your shampoo, the soft sound of your voice in his ear.

You inhaled the scent of Leon’s skin, freshly clean from a shower but still had a hint of his pheromones that drove you wild. You nudged your nose against his neck, placing a gentle kiss to his pulse.

“If I don’t hear your alarm wake me when you get up, okay?” You whispered against his neck, exhaustion beginning to creep into your body. Leon kissed the top of your head, keeping his face nestled in your hair.

“It’ll be too early for you, baby. I’ll let you sleep,” he whispered back, another sigh escaping his nose as he went to shut his eyes. You pulled your head back just enough to look at his face, and frowned.

“I have to say goodbye, I’ll fall back asleep once you leave.” Leon’s head rolled when you pulled yours back, his eyes blinking back open only slightly. He was exhausted, to say the least. His brain was consumed with the case, under eyes dark from lack of sleep. All he could do was lean in, slotting his lips into yours like they were made for each other.

The kiss was deep, trying to communicate the words he couldn’t come up with. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his arms pulling you impossibly closer to his body.

“Love you so much,” Leon whispered, words trailing off as he succumbed to sleep. You only kissed the tip of his nose, nestling your head back into the crook of his neck before allowing sleep to pull you in.

-

Your head was buried in your pillow when you began to stir awake. Face practically suffocating in the silk pillowcase, hair in all different directions on your head. You felt strangely well rested, muscles relaxed and battery fully recharged. 

Your eyes still closed, you flipped over in bed and extended your arms to reach for Leon, and was met with the cold mattress. You frowned, arms flailing as you tried to search for even a little bit of warmth.

That was when you opened your eyes, immediately squinting from the morning sun.

Wait, the sun? What time is it? 

You lifted your head, eyes adjusting just enough to read the digital clock on Leon’s nightstand. The time read 8:57am. 

You sat right up, head whipping across the room as you noticed Leon’s duffle bag was gone, briefing missing from the nightstand, and jacket removed from the back of the door. 

Leon had left. And didn’t say goodbye.

Your immediate reaction was to be enraged. You had told him to wake you up if you couldn’t yourself, and now you’ve been left to wake up alone without giving him that comforting farewell you always did. You felt your face get hot, eyes filling up with angry tears. 

You hopped out of bed, and made a direct route to the phone. You knew that you shouldn’t be doing this as you dialed Hunnigan’s number, but your mind was too groggy and frustrated to think clearly.

It only took two rings for Hunnigan to answer her headset, “y/n, what are you-”

“-What’s Leon’s status.” Your tone was flat and direct, not daring to let your voice crack as those hot tears fell from your eyes.

“He said this might happen,” Ingrid muttered to herself, “you know I can’t tell you that, y/n.”

“I’m not asking, Ingrid. What’s. Leon’s. Status.” 

The line is silent for a moment, you almost thought she had just hung up until you heard a deep sigh from the other end.

“He is on route to the location. If everything goes accordingly, he should be back to base by the end of the night. You really don’t need to worry-”

“-Thank you,” you hang up the phone before Hunnigan is able to finish her sentence. You let go a shaky breath, and wipe the tears off your cheeks with the back of your hand. 

The anger subsides as you stand in your bedroom, fingers running through your hair, and the fear settles in.

Maybe the reason why waking up alone hurt you so much is because of the first time he ever came back home to you. The first time Leon came back injured, you hadn’t even known he was on a mission.

You were sitting on the couch in your apartment, halfway through a movie you’d already watched twice because Leon was supposed to be home three hours ago. At the time, you were still learning what it meant to love someone like Leon Kennedy.

You knew he worked for the government, that he traveled, and you also knew there were things he couldn’t tell you. But you didn’t understand what that really meant.

Every time he left, he’d brush a kiss against your forehead and tell you he’d be back in a few days, and every time, you’d believe him. 

That night, the knock at your door came just after midnight. You remember being more annoyed than anything; annoyed he’d forgotten his keys, annoyed he scared you, that he made you wait.

You marched across the apartment ready to lecture him, and opened the door. 

You froze.

Leon was standing there swaying on his feet, shirt torn, blood stained sleeve of his jacket. There was a cut across his cheek, and another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His face was pale and exhausted. 

The moment he saw you, some invisible thread holding him upright snapped. He stumbled forward, and you barely caught him.

“Leon?” Your voice had sounded strange; small and terrified. You helped him inside, heart pounding so hard you could hear it. He kept saying, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” which only made the vision of your eyes get blurrier and blurrier. 

You remembered kneeling on the bathroom floor while he sat on the edge of the bathtub, your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the antiseptic. Leon had laughed softly, actually laughed despite the blood and bruises, despite the split skin over his eyebrow. 

You’d glared at him through tears, “Stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve died,” the words escaped before you could stop them. Leon stared at the floor as the bathroom went quiet. For the first time that night, he had nothing to say. 

Because you were right. You sat between his knees, still clutching the first aid kit. After a long moment, Leon reached out and brushed away a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I’m here, though.”

You hated how broken your voice sounded when you answered, “But what if next time you aren’t?”

The question lingered between you too honestly, too uncomfortably. Because you both knew that it was a real possibility. Leon didn’t answer immediately, instead he leaned forward and pressed a tired kiss to your forehead. Then another, as though trying to prove that he was real. Still breathing, still alive.

You remembered grabbing the front of his shirt before he could pull away, holding him close to you like you needed to feel him.

“Then promise you’ll always come home,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut as you rested your forehead on his. Leon had smiled, small, tired, but genuine.

“I promise.” 

The next time he left for a mission, you’d kissed him goodbye at the door. And every mission after that. Neither of you said it out loud, but somewhere along the way, the goodbye kiss stopped feeling like a habit. And started feeling like a promise. 

You stared at the silent phone in your hand. Leon had kept that promise every single time, until this morning.

It was Leon’s first mission back from the events in Spain. He had been forced on a leave for a month after suffering from night terrors every night the moment he came back. Even after the leave, they had put him on straight office work for a few weeks to make sure he didn’t lose all of his progress; they can’t ruin their best agent, right?

You spent every night taking care of Leon; calming him down after each nightmare, making sure he ate and showered, even hid all of the knives and unloaded his guns in case he sleepwalked again.

You had been told that this mission wasn’t anything compared to the one in Spain. It was a simple gathering of intel, he shouldn’t have any need to even fire a weapon. But after everything you watched Leon go through, and the very little he told you that happened, you were still apprehensive about this mission.

That was why when you woke up alone this morning it pained you more than usual. You were afraid that Leon would lose all his progress, something could trigger a memory or feeling and he could lose his guard and then-

Before your own thoughts could spiral further you shook your head vigorously, and decided that there’s no good in dwelling on what’s already been done. All you could do was try to distract yourself until Leon came home, supposedly by the end of the night. 

So that’s what you did. You did everything imaginable to keep yourself busy; got showered and dressed, cooked breakfast, started a load of laundry, got groceries, cleaned the whole house, did more laundry, even washed your bedsheets so Leon could come home to a clean bed.

You were washing the dishes from dinner when your mind started to betray you again. The sun was just about set, the sky glowing shades of pink and orange, and all you could think about was what if Leon didn’t come home tonight. 

You thought about calling Hunnigan again, but decided against it as you really weren’t supposed to ask for his status and you wanted to trust that she would be right about his departure home. You packed up the leftovers, making a plate and leaving it on the stovetop just in case Leon came home hungry.

You settled on the couch in the living room, pyjamas on and wrapped in a fluffy blanket with a movie playing on the tv. You could hardly focus on the screen as you constantly checked the time, and twisting your head to the front door at every car that drove by or every creak you heard. 

The clock only read nine pm, meaning it would be quite a few more hours until Leon would be expected home. You thought about going to bed, skipping the agonizing hours and getting right to the part where Leon was pressed close against your back and head nuzzled deep in your neck.

But your brain felt so wired that sleep wasn’t even an option. You could feel your muscles aching to rest but your thoughts were so all over the place that it couldn’t shut off. You also weren’t sure how to handle the situation when he did come home. 

Your first initial feelings were angry. You wanted to yell, interrogate him as to why he would break a routine that was so important to you. But you also knew that Leon would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Maybe his alarm never went off and he slept in? Or he was still half asleep as he walked out the front door and forgot?

After all, this was Leon’s job. You didn’t expect him to dote around every time you left for work, so maybe it was the same thing? Did you feel like a hindrance to him? So many conspiracies encircling your mind it began to create a pounding in your head. 

You laid sideways on the couch, blanket covering everything but your eyes as you tried to focus on the tv again. A tear betrayingly slipped past your eyes, all you could do was count down the hours until all of this would be over.

-

Your body jolted awake the second Leon’s keys fiddled with the front door. You didn’t remember falling asleep, or even how long you had stayed up prior. The sky outside was still dark, a quiet rain trickling down the windows.

You sat up as you heard the front door open, but didn’t turn to look. You could hear the squeak of Leon’s boots as he kicked them off, duffle bag being dropped to the floor, and jacket hung up on the coat rack.

Leon’s feet padded quietly on the hardwood floor, trying to make sure he didn’t wake you. It wasn’t until he rounded the corner when he stopped, seeing your back upright on the couch.

“Hey,” he sighed, walking closer to the couch. You almost flinched at his voice, your brain already trying to convince you that this wasn’t real. Finally, you rose from the couch, and turned to face him.

And there he was. Tired, hair messy like he had been playing with it, clothes a little wrinkled, but he was here. Alive, and not even a scratch that you could see. It almost made you more upset that he was fine. Like the routine that you had set up in your head actually didn’t mean anything. 

Your arms hugged around your chest tight, eyes already starting to brim with tears, “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Leon’s shoulders tensed, eyebrows knitting together on his forehead. He attempted to take a step closer, but you took a step back.

“Sweetheart, please-” 

“I asked you to wake me before you left, and you didn’t,” your voice cracked for the first time all day, not ashamed of showing how hurt you were, “I kiss you goodbye every time you leave.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, arms tightening around your chest to stifle a sob. Leon sighed again, running a hand through his hair, your eye catching that faded scar over his eyebrow. 

“It’s four in the morning, y/n. I’m tired, you’re tired, can we talk about this in the morning-” 

“-No, Leon!” The words came out sharper than you intended. “I waited all day for you.”

Leon tensed, you could see the exact moment the frustration drained out of his face and the realization settled in.

“I called Hunnigan,” you murmured, now suddenly feeling embarrassed of what you did. Leon’s eyes widened, head tilting to the side.

“You did what?” That got Leon’s attention immediately. He had given you Ingrid’s number in case of an emergency. If he didn’t show up when he was supposed to, or god forbid something happened to him during a mission.

So him finding out that you had called her made him put together just how terrified you were. Leon forced himself to stay put in front of you, you had already backed away once and he didn’t want to stress you any more than you were. 

So he watched, watched as you rocked on the heels of your feet, nose sniffling as more tears fell down your face. 

“I thought something happened to you.” The words felt like something you had been avoiding to admit all day. You never usually think of the worst when Leon would leave, especially when you’d be reassured with that goodbye kiss and the promise that he would make it back safe. So when you didn’t have that safety net to fall back on, it triggered something horrifying inside you.

Your arms unfolded, dropping to your sides defeatedly before a choked sob escaped you. All it took was you shifting closer to Leon that had him breaking free of his stance, barreling towards you and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

He cradled the back of your head as you sobbed into his chest, your arms squished at your sides from Leon holding you so tight. You could feel his shirt dampening from your tears but you didn’t care; the mixture of anger and hurt only formed into relief knowing you no longer had anything to worry about.

Leon shushed you comfortingly, brushing your hair with his fingers to soothe your cries, and once all that remained were quiet whimpers and sniffles was when he finally spoke. 

“You finally fell asleep.” His voice was just above a whisper, brushing against the shell of your ear. You pulled your head back just enough to meet his gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“What?”

“You were sleeping,” Leon’s hand moved from the back of your head to cup the side of your face, “for the first time in weeks.”

That’s when it clicked for you. While you were so busy taking care of Leon ever since he came home from Spain, you were forgetting to take care of yourself.

You lost countless hours of sleep making sure he wouldn’t have another night terror, skipping meals when you were watching Leon make sure he ate everything off his plate, and only giving yourself enough time in the shower to clean your hair and body.

So when Leon woke up before his alarm actually went off, and saw you sound asleep next to him, he didn’t bother you. Leon had a hard time showing his gratitude with words, and he was extremely grateful he had someone like you to hold him together in one of his darkest moments. He figured the least he could do was let you get a full night's rest. 

“You looked so peaceful, and you haven’t been sleeping well because of me. So I didn’t wake you.” Leon stared deep into your eyes as he spoke, making sure you could read his genuine expression, how he would never do anything to purposely harm you.

You looked at him through your damp eyelashes, your face relaxing enough to understand why he did what he did. 

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” you whispered, “I always say goodbye.”

Leon clicked his tongue at your words, his heart aching so badly over how distraught you had been.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he muffled into your hair, kissing the top of your head. You finally wriggled your arms out of his grasp to wrap them around his back, squishing your face deeper into his chest.

“I hated leaving you without saying goodbye.” Leon confessed, rubbing gentle circles between your shoulder blades. You hummed in question, tilting your head to rest your chin on his chest. “I stood in the doorway for ten minutes. Because it means a lot to me, too.”

You could almost start sobbing again. You had gone all day contemplating whether this silly superstition you have actually made a difference to Leon, if a simple goodbye was enough to put both your worries at ease. Now that you knew it not only meant a great deal to him, and how he forced himself not to wake you this morning, it filled your heart right back where it was meant to be.

You gave him a quivering smile, body straightening to have your head reach closer to his. One of your hands reached to his face, your thumb grazing along his jaw.

“Well, I think you forgot something this morning.”

Before Leon could answer you leaned in and softly kissed Leon’s lips. It wasn’t anything intense; just your lips slotting perfectly into his and taking in everything you missed while he was gone. 

Leon sighed into the kiss, shoulders relaxing and pulling you closer to his chest as he deepened the kiss. Everything you had been so worried about flew out the window. All you knew was that Leon was home, he was safe, and he cared about your silly routine just as much as you did. 

“Welcome home.” 

-

note: anyone interested in makeup sex? ;)

There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.

Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.

Wake up.

Coffee.

Work.

Dinner.

Sleep.

Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.

The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”

You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.

You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.

You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.

The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.

You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.

You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re brooding.”

He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”

You snort.

The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.

Byline: James Buchanan Barnes. Poet.

You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.

The same way you still need proof sometimes too.

Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.

“What’s that face?”

“What face?”

“That one.”

You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”

He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.

“You abandoned the poem?”

“Yeah.”

“That serious?”

“Very.”

You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Bucky—”

“Get your shoes on.”

You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

“That means pajamas.”

“That means adventure.”

“You sound like a children’s television host.”

He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”

You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”

His mouth twitches.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”

“What look?”

“The one where you disappear into your own head.”

Your chest tightens a little at that.

Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.

He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.

You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”

Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.

“That’s the spirit.”

The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.

Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.

Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“Nope.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You already agreed.”

“You manipulated me emotionally.”

“I used my charm.”

You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”

“They can be.”

You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.

He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.

“Oh.”

“Told you I had a plan.”

“You brought me here because I looked sad?”

“You looked existential.”

“That’s worse.”

The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.

Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.

“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”

“He called you my wife last week.”

“And did you correct him?”

Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.

You watch him for a second too long.

God.

You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.

The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.

“Live a little,” he says solemnly.

“You sound eighty years old.”

“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”

The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.

You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.

“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.

He turns his head slightly.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

You pull your sleeves over your hands.

“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”

“You know what I did today?”

“What?”

“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”

Your mouth twitches.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Nope.”

You lean against him more fully.

“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.

The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.

“You remember that first summer?”

You smile faintly. “Obviously.”

“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”

“You were scared.”

That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.

“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”

You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”

He laughs quietly.

“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”

The wind shifts colder around you.

You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.

Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.

Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”

“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”

You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.

The drive home feels lighter.

You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.

“Cover your eyes.”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re driving.”

“I know where we are.”

“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”

“Baby.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.

“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”

“She already steals your books.”

“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”

Bucky laughs under his breath.

You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.

The engine cuts.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”

“This is how horror movies start.”

He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.

You let him guide you carefully forward.

“One sec,” he murmurs.

There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.

“Okay. Open.”

You uncover your eyes and blink.

Animal shelter.

Your brain takes a full second to catch up.

“…Bucky.”

He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.

“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”

“Bucky.”

He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.

Cats.

Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.

Your chest physically aches.

“You brought me to adopt a cat?”

His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”

Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.

This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.

Now.

In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.

You look back at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”

You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.

“Is that a yes?”

“You knew it was a yes.”

Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.

Then—

You see her.

A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.

One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.

The tag reads: ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.

“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.

Bucky immediately falls in love.

“I think she’s perfect.”

Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.

You stare.

“Oh, so she chose immediately.”

Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.

“You jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.

“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.

Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.

This ordinary beautiful life.

You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.

Bucky glances up and catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head softly.

“Nothing.”

But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.

“What is it?”

You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.

Then back at him.

“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”

Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.

He cups your jaw gently.

“Yeah, baby?”

You nod.

There is no one on earth Rebecca Barnes trusts more than you.

You grew up together, matching scraped knees, shared bedrooms, years of knowing what the other one is thinking before it’s ever said. You’re not just her best friend; you’re family by choice, by time, by sheer inevitability. When people ask Rebecca how she knows she can trust someone, she shrugs and says, I just do. What she means is you.

That’s why there aren’t rules between you.

Just guidelines.

Don’t take my charger without bringing the box back, after the eighth time she swore she had no idea where the box went while handing you only the cord.

If you use all the shampoo, leave a note on the mirror, after one too many mornings of her standing in the shower, bottle upside down, shaking it like it might magically produce another drop.

And lastly, said once, firmly, never joking:

Don’t ever, ever flirt with my brother.

Not because Rebecca doesn’t trust you. Because she trusts you more than anyone else.

Bucky Barnes is one thousand percent off-limits. Not hypothetically. Not dramatically. Just… absolutely. You’ve watched too many girls orbit Rebecca only to angle closer to him, smiling too brightly, lingering too long, treating her like a means to an end. You’ve been there for every crash-and-burn aftermath, every quiet heartbreak, every moment Rebecca wondered why people never wanted just her.

You would never be that person.

The guideline barely registers as something you’d ever need to worry about anyway. You and Bucky hardly cross paths. Sometimes you’ll see him at her house—standing in the kitchen when you grab a glass of water, offering a polite nod, disappearing again like smoke. He’s more absence than presence. A name. A shadow. A ghost story people talk about more than they actually know.

You never understood what all the other girls saw in him. You never cared to find out.

Right before summer starts, you’re bored out of your mind.

You’re hanging upside down off your bed, hair brushing the carpet, complaining to Rebecca about how three months suddenly feels like an eternity when you don’t have a plan. No trips, no job lined up yet just too much time and a buzzing restlessness you don’t know what to do with.

“I don’t want to waste it,” you groan. “I need something.”

Rebecca leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an amused smile. “School’s doing a pen-pal thing over the summer.”

You blink. “Like… stamps? Letters?”

“Yeah. You can even be anonymous,” she adds. “They match you up with someone from a different class year. It’s supposed to be about connection or whatever.”

You think about it. About quiet afternoons. About having someone to talk to without expectations.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll sign up.”

You do.

A week later, your first letter arrives at the school mail station. No name. Just a neat, careful handwriting and a simple opening line: Hi. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I’m glad there's someone to do it with.

Something about it makes you smile. You write back. And then you don’t stop.

You stay anonymous, both of you. No names, no identifying details. Just words passed back and forth like offerings. You talk about music first, songs you play on repeat, albums that feel like home. Then movies. Then books. You tell him what you’re reading, what you love about certain characters, how stories make things feel survivable.

He sends you poems.

Ones he wrote, ones he loves. Dog-eared favorites copied carefully into the margins of his letters. Lines about longing, about time, about wanting to be more than what the world expects of you. You read them over and over.

You tell him about school. About how many extra classes you’re taking, how you’re stacking credits and stress because your dream job feels impossible unless you make yourself undeniable. You admit, quietly, how much pressure you feel, how your dad’s trying but money is always tight. You tell him about your mom, the necklace she left behind. How much you miss her, how some days the ache sneaks up on you when you least expect it and refuses to let go.

His next letter takes longer to arrive. When it does, the handwriting is shakier.

He tells you he doesn't have a job lined up, that he was undeclared until last year. Says he’s not smart enough. That school’s always felt like something happening to him instead of for him. That he’s tired of feeling like he’s already fallen behind.

Your chest aches reading it. You write back immediately.

You tell him intelligence isn’t one thing. You tell him about different ways of learning and you even offer half-joking, half-serious, to tutor him through letters. You start including lesson plans in the margins, little quizzes at the end. Practice problems handwritten with encouraging notes at the top.

He does them. All of them. And he gets better.

His letters change, more confident, more excited. He tells you about raising his grades, about understanding things that used to feel impossible. He thanks you in a way that feels too big for ink and paper.

Somewhere along the way, you realize you wait for his letters more than anything else. You don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his name. But you know him.

It doesn't register as a crush at first.

You tell yourself it’s just anticipation. Just the small thrill of routine, checking the school mailbox earlier than you need to, flipping envelopes over to see if the handwriting looks familiar. You tell yourself everyone likes being understood, that the warmth spreading through your chest when you read his letters is normal.

Except you don’t write like you used to anymore.

You write longer. Softer. You start crossing things out, rewriting sentences so they sound right. You tell him about the things you don’t say out loud, about how your dad only ever looks relieved when you bring home perfect grades, how failure feels like erasure. How sometimes you’re terrified that if you stop being impressive, you’ll stop being lovable.

You expect platitudes. Reassurance that feels generic.

Instead, his reply is careful. Thoughtful. He tells you that you are not a report card. That worth doesn’t disappear when numbers dip. That being loved shouldn’t be conditional, and that even if it has been in the past, it doesn’t mean it always has to be.

You cry a little when you read it.

In his next letter, he admits something too.

He says his parents already seem disappointed, like they’ve decided who he’ll be before he ever gets there. That trying feels pointless when failure is expected anyway. That it’s easier to accept the role they’ve written for him than fight it and still lose.

You don’t let him.

You tell him that being underestimated doesn’t mean being incapable. You tell him about every small victory you’ve watched him earn through those stupid little quizzes you mailed him. You tell him you’re proud of him, even if no one else says it out loud.

After that, the letters change.

They still talk about music and books and poems, but now there are confessions folded between the lines. Longing disguised as curiosity. Questions that linger longer than they need to. They start signing off differently, thinking of you, write soon, don’t disappear.

By the end of summer, it feels like you’re in love with someone you’ve never seen.

The realization doesn’t arrive all at once. It settles. And when you finally suggest meeting, heart hammering as you write it, hands shaking, you half-expect him to pull away.

Instead, his response comes fast.

County fair. End of summer as the carousel. I’ll be there.

The day arrives far too soon. The fair is loud and bright and overwhelming, music blaring, kids laughing, the air thick with sugar and heat. You stand near the carousel, scanning faces, trying to imagine him. Taller? Shorter? Nervous like you?

You don’t notice him right away.

Bucky does.

He’s already there, leaning against the railing, pretending he’s just waiting for someone else. When he sees you approach, something in his chest tightens—not fear, just awareness. You look… familiar, somehow. Not because he knows you, you feel like a thought he’s had before but never finished.

He steps closer, offering a polite smile. "Hey."

You smile politely, not expecting him to be here but not surprised, you vaguley remember him being in the kitchen when Rebecca mentioned the fair to you. "Hi."

“You waiting for someone?”

You nod, nerves buzzing under your skin. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we’re both early.”

You make awkward small talk. The weather. The crowd. The carousel lights spinning gold as dusk settles in. It’s easy. Too easy.

Your hands fidget without you realizing it, fingers brushing the chain around your neck. You twist the golden locket gently, a nervous habit you’ve written about once, mentioned how it was your mom’s, how you rub it when you’re scared.

Bucky’s breath catches.

“That’s… a nice necklace,” he says carefully.

You smile, instinctive. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. I do this when I’m nervous—” You stop short, laughing softly. “Sorry. Oversharing.”

He doesn’t laugh. He stares. The world seems to narrow, the music dulling, the carousel lights flaring brighter, gilding you in warm gold. His heart starts pounding, too fast, too loud.

You’ve told him this before. In ink. In confidence. In trust.

He sees it all at once. Every time he passed you in the kitchen. Every quiet laugh from Rebecca’s room. Every moment he never let himself linger on because you were off-limits.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

He’s in love with you.

He doesn’t say anything. Not then. Bucky swallows the truth down so hard it almost hurts, and instead he smiles, soft and careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“While we’re waiting,” he says, nodding toward the games lined up in bright rows, “you wanna try some of those?”

You look to the games and back to the carousel, wondering if it's a good idea to leave or not, if your mystery writer was on his way. Bucky offers a slanted smile as you look back at him and think you might as well do something to pass the time.

So you do. You toss rings and laugh when they bounce wrong while he knocks bottles down like he’s done it a hundred times before. When the attendant hands him a small stuffed turtle, green and lopsided, clearly overstuffed, he looks almost embarrassed by it.

“For you,” he says, holding it out.

You blink. “You won that.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Thought you should have it.”

You don't take it but smile when he lets you pet the fuzzy shell.

You win stickers, sparkly ones, silly ones, and you’re way more excited than makes sense. You show him all of them, sticking one to your wrist, another to the turtle’s shell. He laughs, quiet and warm, and something in your chest loosens without you realizing it.

He buys you food while you wait. Insists on it. Fries and lemonade, the kind that tastes like summer and sugar. When the night air cools, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders without asking.

You glance up at him, confused. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

You wonder, briefly, why he’s being so nice. Then you decide not to overthink it. Some people are just kind.

Eventually, the carousel empties. The lights dim a little. Time stretches thin. You check the spot again. And again. Your shoulders sink.

“I guess… maybe they’re not coming,” you say quietly, trying to sound casual and failing. “It’s fine. I probably read it wrong.”

Bucky’s chest aches.

“I can walk you home,” he offers quickly. “If you want.”

You nod, grateful. The walk is easy. Familiar streets. Comfortable silence. When you reach your house, you linger on the porch, fingers twisting together.

He holds out the turtle again. “For real this time.”

You take it, smiling sadly. “Thank you. And… I’m sorry if tonight was boring.”

“What?” His brow furrows. “No. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You look up at him, sincere. “You didn’t either. If anything, you made it better.”

The words hit him harder than anything else has all night. He nods once, afraid if he speaks, he’ll say too much. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He walks away with his heart in pieces and doesn’t look back until he’s sure you’re inside.

That night, you write a letter. You ask why he didn’t show. You try not to sound hurt, but it slips through anyway. You tuck the stickers inside the envelope, a little silly but honest.

I was thinking about you the whole time, you write. I hope you’re okay.

Days pass.

Then weeks.

No reply.

Still, you keep writing. You send him songs you think he’d like, books you’re reading for class, movies you swear he’d love. You tell him school started and you hope you can still write, even if things are busy. Even if it’s just as friends.

You don’t know that Bucky keeps every letter in a box under his bed, unopened at first, then opened, reread until the paper softens at the creases. You don’t know how many times he starts to respond and stops, terrified that saying anything will shatter everything.

You only know the silence.

So you fill it.

Each letter becomes more honest than the last, written like confessions dropped into the dark. You tell him your secrets because you think he’ll never see them anyway. You tell him you’re still scared you’ll never be anything outside of school, that once the grades are gone there’ll be nothing left of you. That you don’t know how to live a life that isn’t measured.

That you don’t think you’ll ever really fall in love.

In one letter, you admit casually, like it doesn’t matter, that you had a crush on him at first. That it went away (It didn’t.), that Rebecca told you it was stupid to fall for someone you only know through paper and ink.

But you write that it felt real anyway. That you felt known. At the end of the last letter, your handwriting wavers.

I think I’m going to stop writing, you say. I don’t want to bother you anymore. But I’m glad I knew you. Even if it was just like this.

You seal it with shaking hands. Across town, Bucky reads it and finally breaks and knows he can’t stay silent anymore.

That night, he casually asks Rebecca if you’re coming over. When she says no, he gathers the letters, every single one, and drives to your house.

You’re in the backyard, curled up with a book, when you hear the gate creak open.

“Bucky?” you ask, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls out the first letter and starts to read. "I don't know how to do this either, I don't know how to talk about myself without actually—"

Your stomach drops. “What—stop. Bucky, what are you doing?”

You snatch it from his hands, heat flooding your face, embarrassment turning sharp. “How did you get this?”

He finally meets your eyes. “It’s me,” he says quietly. “It’s always been me.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I’ve kept every letter,” he continues. “I listened to every song. Read every book. Watched every movie.”

Your head shakes automatically. “No. That doesn’t—what about the fair? You didn’t show. You just—left me in the silence.”

“I was scared,” he says, voice breaking. “I was standing right in front of you, realizing it was you all along and I was terrified.”

“Of what?” you demand, hurt bleeding through.

“Of hoping,” he admits. “Of letting myself believe I could have something, someone, like you.”

The anger drains out of you, replaced by something softer, heavier. You look at him for a long moment. Then, quietly a thought slips into you head, a memory from one of his early letters he once sent you, the one you memorized without realizing why.

“I trace the shape of ‘almost us,’ keep hope tucked safely out of sight. I crave the warmth, I fear the loss, so I hold longing through the night.”

His breath catches. He blushes, stunned and faintly nods. You step closer, eyes flicking to the stack of letters clutched to his chest. “You really kept them all?”

“Every single one,” he says.

You smile, teasing despite the ache. “That’s a lot of commitment for someone who didn’t think he was smart enough.”

He laughs softly, relief threading through it. “Guess I was wrong.”

The space between you closes naturally, like it always should have. When he kisses you, it’s gentle and sure and everything the letters promised, ink finally turning into something real.

You start seeing each other in stolen spaces. Your house, when your dad works late. The lake, when the sun dips low and the air turns cool enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. Quiet afternoons stretched thin, fingers laced together, Bucky’s shoulder always warm and steady against yours.

It's everything and not enough. Summer is running out, and you feel it in everything.

Rebecca notices first.

“You’ve been… distant,” she says one night, sitting cross-legged on your bed while you pretend to read. “Did I do something?”

Guilt hits hard and fast.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just—studying. Stressed about exams.”

She watches you for a long moment, unconvinced but trusting anyway. That almost hurts worse.

You hate lying to her. Hate the knot in your chest every time Bucky brushes his thumb over your hand in public and you have to pretend it means nothing. You start worrying less about getting caught and more about what this secrecy is doing to the most important friendship in your life.

Bucky wants to tell her.

“We can’t keep sneaking around,” he says one afternoon by the lake, voice low. “She deserves to know.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “If this goes wrong, I lose everything. I lose you. I lose her.”

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing away the worry he hates seeing there. “You’re allowed to want things too.”

You almost get caught a few days later.

You’re coming up the steps of Bucky’s house, laughter still clinging to you from the walk home. He kisses you softly, unguarded, right as the front door opens behind him.

“Bucky?”

Rebecca’s voice. You spring apart so fast your heart nearly stops. You duck your head, pretending to retie your shoe while Bucky clears his throat.

“Just—walking her home,” he says.

Rebecca squints but doesn’t push. The door shuts. You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the sidewalk. That night, you ask Bucky to meet you at the lake.

The decision tastes like grief.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice breaking. “We’re going to hurt her.”

He steps closer. “You’re hurting yourself trying to protect everyone else.”

Tears spill before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I love you—but I can’t.”

He stills. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you love me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, even as your hands clutch his shirt like they already know the truth.

He kisses you anyway, slow, aching, full of everything you’re afraid to lose. You cry into it, happiness and sadness tangling together in salt until you can’t tell which is which.

“I’ll tell her,” you say against his lips. “Tomorrow. Just—please. One more day.”

He nods. Always nods. Always chooses you. You go to the lake to swim that evening, laughing and splashing like kids again. The water glows orange under thes setting sun. Bucky lifts you out easily, sets you on the grass, his hands warm and worshipful, like he’s memorizing you.

The kiss that follows is deeper, unhurried, filled with promises neither of you says out loud. Bucky moves on top of you, holding his weight above you on one forearm as he moves his lips down your jaw and neck. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and a soft gasp slips past your lips when you feel his knee gently nudge your thighs apart, he pulls back to look at you and the sun hits his eyes, reflecting a blue so clear your heart nearly stops in your chest.

"Is this okay?"

You nod because words don't feel like enough, like they can't convey the ever churning tidal wave of love crashing over you again and again. He kisses you again and you let your hands wander, his skin still damp from the lake, letting your fingers glide over his chest and down to his abs with ease.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as if the moment itself might be too bright to look at directly. This feeling that passes between you doesn’t need language. It lives in the way his shoulders finally drop, in the way you whisper his name like a secret kept safely.

You tilt into him, drawn by gravity neither of you fight anymore. His hand settles at your waist, firm now, certain, anchoring himself as much as you. Like if he lets go, he might lose the proof that this is real, that he’s here, and wanted, and allowed to want back.

"Bucky," you breathe out, hips twisting and arching up into him. "Please."

His fingers drift from your waist to your thighs, tracing the damp string of your bathing suit bottoms. A shuddering breath leaving his lips when you push into his touch. He stops for a moment, pulling back to look at you one more time.

Your face is still flushed from the lake, the tears and the heat blooming in your chest.

"Please," you say, reaching up to pull his lips down to yours.

You kiss again and he melts into you like ice cream under the sun, sweetness spilling onto your lips as heat and want rush through your veins, it feels like a sugar high times a thousand. While you want to ride its bliss out until then end, your heart cracks at the thought that there is an end to this.

"What's wrong baby?" Bucky murmurs against your cheek, feeling your body tighten under his. "Listen we don't have to—"

"No," you interuppt, shaking your head. "No it's not that I just… what if Rebecca doesn't want us to be together? What if…"

Bucky kisses you quiet, muttering your name across your lips. "Don't think like that, no matter what happens I'll always be yours, you'll always be my best girl."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your voice a hoarse whisper. "But what—"

"Relax." He kisses the tear streaks off your face. "You're mine." Another kiss. "I'm yours. It's going to be okay."

Your mouth curves to argue but he kisses it shut again. "Relax, baby."

Your heart, mind and body are on three seperate tracks. Heart breaking for the fear that this is it, mind racing with a thousand possible outcomes for tomorrow, all while your body aches and pushes into his touch.

"Bucky," you whisper.

"Shh, just relax pretty girl, my pretty girl." Bucky kisses you like you're the only air his lungs need, his hands drifting back down your body, finding your drawstrings and pulling one side undone.

Your mouth falls open with a whisper of his name, legs trembling as he pushes his hand between them. He pulls the rest of your bathing suit bottoms aside, just enough to expose the heat that's been aching between your thighs.

His thumb brushes the seam of your cunt so gently its a wonder why you jump at the touch. His lips move down your neck and chest and kiss his mark into the skin. His broad fingers slowly stroking you, coaxing a new whimper and whine from your lips with each touch.

"That's it baby," he cooes, kissing down the valley of your breasts before moving to mark his teeth in the soft flesh of each one. "There she is."

With his thumb pressing tight little circles onto your clit you squirm and open for him all at once, hands digging into the towel shielded grass under you. A breathy and strangled whimper slips past your lips, body ignited into flames and quickly burning bright.

"Bucky-"

"I know, pretty girl." He drawls, kissing the pebbled skin of your nipple before dropping his middle finger down your slit, so slick with arousal he hardly meets any resistance as he slides it in. "My pretty baby, it's okay, let go for me."

"Oh god, Buck—y," your hands shoot from the grass and dig into his shoulders, nails leaving behind crescent marks in his skin as white bleeds across your vision. Your thighs close and clench around his hand, hips rolling and bucking into him as you ride up and over the high of your orgasm.

When you finally catch your breath and blink the tears away, Bucky is looking at you like you've donned a halo, eyes glittering with something undescribable as he looks down at you.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any prettier." He mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss you before you can even think of a rebuttal.

Desire and need now course through your veins, quieting any figment of doubt in your mind as you kiss him back with fervent want. Your hands pull him flush against you, not bothering with the space needed to pull the rest of your swimsuits off, just rutting into him as he pulls himself from his shorts, the thick length poking into your thigh.

You shudder and his cock hasn't even come close to you, the weight of it brushing your skin making you whimper shamelessly.

"You keep relaxing for me baby," he hums, releasing himself from your needy hold to sit back on his haunches and take off the rest off your suits. "Gonna take real good care of my girl."

Bucky unties the other side of your suit and lets the fabric give way to you cunt, all the lake water has since dried on your skin save for the aching wet mess between your thighs. Your own cum coated across your lips and onto your inner thighs, shining in the growing moonlight. He teases you, sliding his cock between your dripping cunt, the tip bumping and rubbing your clit making you thrash and beg for more.

"Please Bucky, please god stop teasing me-" you whine, hips uselessly jutting up as he holds you down, watching your pussy flutter and clench on nothing.

"Breathe," he mutters, leaning over you until your noses brush, his forehead resting against yours like a promise. You folloe his words, taking in a breath unitl every sense is overrun with Bucky. The smell of his colonge not quite washed out by the lake, the sound of his stuttering breath, the stretch of him pushing deep inside, the look of his eyes locking with yours—looking at you like he's in heaven.

He's everywhere, tears sting at your eyes as you bask in it. In everything, in him, in the perfect summer you had, the love that now holds your heart for him.

Slow, deep thrusts roll into faster and deeper ones, sweat beading on your skin where lake water once sat, heat thrumming through your veins as pleasure rather than fear. Bucky's hands cover every inch of you, brushing your hair back, squeezing your thighs and holding them open under him.

"Feels so good pretty girl," he grunts, his lips at your neck. "So wet 'n tight for me, taking me so good."

Your body hangs on the edge of nirvana, each snap of his hips into yours accompained by a messy open mouthed kiss, teeth and spit smearing its way across your skin. He groans your name, feeling your thighs quiver and shake like before.

It sneaks up on your faster than before, a coil quickly winding itself low and deep within you only to be undone by his increasingly erractic thrusts, the only coherent words you can manage being the one thing that undoes Bucky himself.

"James,"

The wanton whipser of his name brushing his ears sends him over the edge right behind you, grunting a feral, mangled noise of your name, fucking you through both your highs until he loses control of his hips and comes to a low and slow stop.

For a while, you two are suspended in air, floating through the nigh without a course in mind. A soft exhale against your neck sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with growing cold and brings you back down to earth. Being this close makes the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.

You feel his lips brush your temple, soft and unrushed. Time seems to stretch, every second soft and silver under the moonlight. Bucky cleans you up the best he can, even tying your swimsuit back together before pulling you back into his arms.

When you finally lie together on the grass, foreheads touching, hearts still racing in sync, it feels like crossing a threshold—like something precious has finally been allowed to exist.

You tell Rebecca together.

You sit on the couch with your hands twisted in your lap, Bucky beside you, close enough that his knee presses into yours like an anchor. Rebecca stands at first, pacing, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

You tell her everything.

About the pen-pal program. About the letters. About not knowing it was each other at first—and how it didn’t matter once feelings crept in anyway. About the fair. About the lake. About how hard you tried to do the right thing and how badly you failed at it.

Your voice shakes. You don’t cry. You’re too scared of what crying might do.

Rebecca is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight. “So you just… lied to me.”

Before you can answer, Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he says gently but firmly. “Don’t be mad at her.”

Rebecca snaps her head toward him. “You don’t get to—”

“I do,” he interrupts, not raising his voice, but grounding it. “Because this was on me.”

You turn to him, startled. “Bucky—”

“I knew first,” he admits. “I put it together before she ever did. The locket. The letters. Her handwriting.” He swallows. “And I didn’t say anything.”

Rebecca’s anger falters, confusion cutting through it. “Why?”

“Because I knew,” he says quietly, “that if you knew, she’d choose you. Every time. No hesitation.”

Your breath catches.

“I was selfish,” he continues. “I wanted her to myself. Even if it was just for a little while. She was—” His voice softens, eyes flicking to you. “She is the best girl. My best girl. And I wasn’t ready to give that up.”

The room goes still. Rebecca looks between you, really looks this time. The way Bucky’s shoulders curve slightly toward you. The way your hand has found his without you realizing it. The way neither of you looks guilty so much as terrified of losing her.

Her shoulders sag.

“This isn’t like before,” she says slowly. “You know that, right?”

You nod immediately. “I know. I never wanted—”

“I know,” Rebecca cuts in, rubbing her face. “Those girls wanted him. You just… found each other.”

She exhales, long and tired. “I’m still upset. I won’t pretend I’m not. You hurt me. Both of you did.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t look away.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “I can see it. I can see that you love each other, that this isn’t a phase or a secret little thrill.”

Bucky nods once. “I love her. I won’t mess this up.”

Rebecca studies him, then you. Finally, she shakes her head with a small, reluctant huff. “God. I can’t believe this is how my life turned out.”

Then, pointing a finger between the two of you, she adds, “It’s okay. I mean it. But if I catch you sucking each other’s face off in my kitchen, I will reconsider.”

You let out a shaky laugh, relief crashing over you so hard it almost knocks you sideways.

Bucky grins, unabashed. “Fair.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but there’s a ghost of a smile there too. “You’re both idiots,” she mutters. “But… you’re my idiots.”

And for the first time since summer began, nothing feels like it’s about to fall apart.

Fall comes in quietly. Not all at once, not with some dramatic announcement, just cooler mornings and leaves turning the color of old gold, the air sharpening around the edges. Summer slips away without a fight, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re being left behind by it.

You and Bucky don’t hide anymore.

He walks you home with his hand openly wrapped around yours. He waits for you after class, leaning against his car like he belongs there. At Rebecca’s house, he kisses your temple without checking the doorway first, and when she groans dramatically from the kitchen, you both just laugh.

“Take it to literally anywhere else,” she calls. “I’m eating.”

Bucky grins and steals you away anyway.

School starts in earnest, and with it comes the familiar weight on your shoulders, but it’s lighter now, shared. You help Bucky with his classes in the evenings, notebooks spread across your bed or the kitchen table, your handwriting filling the margins with explanations and encouragement.

“Okay,” you say one night, tapping the paper. “Read the question out loud.”

He does, slow and deliberate.

“You already know this,” you add gently. “You just don’t trust yourself.”

He looks up at you, searching your face. “You really think that?”

“I know it.”

And he starts to believe you.

His grades improve again steadily, honestly. Not perfect, but real. When he brings home a test with a mark higher than he ever thought possible, he hands it to you like it might disappear if he holds it too long.

“You did that,” he says.

You shake your head. “You did.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, reverent. “Couldn’t have without you.”

Some evenings, when the work is done and the world feels too loud, you escape to the lake. Fall paints everything softer there. The water reflects the trees like a secret it’s keeping. You sit with your feet in the grass, leaning into Bucky’s side as he pulls a folded page from his jacket pocket.

“I wrote something,” he says, suddenly shy.

“You always do,” you tease softly.

He reads anyway.

His voice is low and steady, words shaped by longing and growth and quiet hope. Poems about choosing to stay. About learning to believe in good things. About a girl who taught him that being seen doesn’t have to hurt.

You listen like it’s a gift, because it is.

"So he stayed when instinct said run, stayed when his hands began to shake. He learned that hope is not a weakness— it’s a risk you bravely take.

Now he believes in the quiet good things: morning laughter, a hand held tight. He believes that staying can be gentle, that being known can feel like light.

Because a girl once taught his heart a truth it never knew how to say— that sometimes the bravest thing of all is choosing, every day, to stay."

When he finishes, you don’t clap or joke. You just rest your head on his shoulder and say, “That’s my favorite one.”

He smiles, small and real.

As fall deepens, the pressure you once felt, that if you weren’t excelling, you were nothing, starts to loosen its grip. You still work hard. You still care. But now, when you stumble, there’s someone there to catch you before the fear takes hold.

One night, wrapped in blankets on the porch, Bucky murmurs, “You know… I don’t think I’d have made it through this without you.”

You turn to him, serious. “You would’ve. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He studies you, eyes warm in the glow of the porch light. “I’m really glad I found you anyway.”

You kiss him, slow and sure, leaves skittering across the ground around you.

The ending doesn’t come all at once. It arrives gently, the way good things do.

Rebecca gets the job on a Tuesday.

She bursts into the apartment breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “I got it,” she says, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “In the city. Full time. Benefits. Everything.”

You scream. Actually scream.

You’re on her before she can brace, arms around her neck, jumping in place. Bucky laughs from the doorway, shaking his head as he steps in to join the chaos.

“I knew they’d be stupid not to hire you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too hard to hide it. “You’re both biased.”

Moving happens fast after that.

Boxes stack up. Clothes get sorted. Your childhood slowly folds itself into cardboard and tape. Rebecca packs her life into neat, labeled squares, ready for something bigger. You help where you can, sitting on the floor beside her, handing her things you forgot existed.

On her last night, the three of you sit cross-legged in the empty living room, takeout spread between you, walls echoing a little too much.

“You’re really doing this,” you say softly.

“So are you,” she replies, nudging your knee. “Tiny apartment. Domestic bliss.”

Bucky pretends to wince. “Hey. It’s a nice tiny apartment.”

You laugh, then grow serious, turning to Rebecca. “Promise me something.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

“Write to me,” you say. “Like—really write. Letters. Not just texts.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not. Letters are important.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “Of course I will. You started a whole relationship with pen pals. I’d be stupid not to.”

Bucky smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

Rebecca stands, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, and pulls you into a hug—tight, familiar, grounding. “We’re not losing each other,” she murmurs. “We’re just… expanding.”

You hold her a little longer than necessary.

The apartment you and Bucky move into is small. One bedroom. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen where you bump into each other constantly.

It’s perfect.

You unpack slowly, music playing, windows open to let the city noise in. You hang his poems on the fridge. He lines your books along the windowsill. At night, you fall asleep tangled together, listening to a life you’re building hum quietly around you.

On the first evening, boxes still half-open, you sit on the floor eating pizza straight from the box.

“Hey,” Bucky says, watching you with that soft look that still surprises you. “You happy?”

You look around. At the mess. At the future. At him.

“Yeah,” you say, sure. “I really am.”

Mornings these days always start the same. Jumping awake from your sleep with a dreaded feeling you’ve overslept only to find it’s nearly a full hour until your alarm goes off. 

Letting out a sigh of relief and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes you laid back in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Your eyes almost close, almost drifting back off to sleep until that familiar small cough pulls you right back into reality. 

Quiet babbling followed by a few more coughs and a small sigh as a cherry on top set in stone that Levi was up and ready to start the day at the crisp hour of 5:30. 

Yay.

Dragging your body out of bed and into the bathroom you managed to get through half of your routine before Levi’s cries went from quiet and bored to loud and angry. Dropping everything in your hands you let out a small sigh, making your way to his nursery. 

“Good morning to you too big guy.” You greeted with a tired smile, pulling open the curtains to let the dim morning sunrise spill into the room. He was already standing up in the crib, tiny hands fisting the rail as he cried out, unfazed by your presence. 

“Did you have any good dreams last night, huh? Dream about fairytale lands far far away where Mom doesn’t have to work and you can stay up all night long?” You speak aloud as you move through the motions of his routine. New sheets, change from pjs, wipe the drool and snot from his face and attempt a diaper change without him rolling off the table.

Three attempts later you were finally in the kitchen making a bottle as he sat in his play pen, mouthing on a banana teething toy with a smile as if he hadn't just put you through the wringer.

A teasing scoff left your lips as you watch how easily preoccupied he becomes after being so difficult. "You're lucky you're cute."

As the hot water ran into the cup warming the bottle, you stared out the kitchen window, eyes glossing over as the white noise from the sink muddled your thoughts. It's barely 6am and you're already ready for this day to be over. Falling deeper into your thoughts you hadn't realized the sink cup had overfilled until the water was spilling onto the floor and your feet.

"Shit," Muttering another slew of curses you shut the sink off and head towards the bathroom to grab a towel when a loud clatter snaps your head to the side, quiet ensues as you wait for the infamous cry.

And boy does it come.

Levi begins to scream his head off and your shoulders slump, dropping the towel from your hand and going to him your mind wonders what he did this time. Walking into the living room your initial guess was right, he must've been standing up with his push walker and lost his balance, falling backward and pulling it down on top of him.

"You're okay," You murmur, your quiet voice falling deaf to his screams as you pick him up, settling him against your hip as he thrashed and cried. "You're okay honey."

Sitting down on the couch you readjusted him to where he was facing you, though he still arched his back and tried to squirm out of your grasp. "Hey, hey you." You poked at his chest, dramatically scrunching your face as you pressed your forehead to his.

"Yeah you. What's all the hubbub about? Huh?" The proximity catches his attention enough to taper his cries off. "Are you okay? Did we lose anything?"

You begin to check all of his limbs with a theatrical manner. "Eyes? Ears? Head and nose?" Picking him up and pretending to look under him earns a small giggle as you keep going. "What about your shoulders? Knees? Toes?!"

He's finally settled back down and is back to his blown wide smiley self, making you smile in turn. "There's my boy. How about we try this again huh? Maybe this time without falling and dropping our toys on our head."

He just continues to giggle, finding a fist full of your hair and using all the might of his six teeth to chew on it. You shake your head and ignore it, having learnt the hard that there are just some battles you won't win, and your hair is one of them.

Getting the bottle and a bib you sit down on the couch, finally back to the original routine. Thankfully Levi was a good eater, once he had that bottle in his sights there was no stopping him. Tiny hands gripped the cap like a vice and all you had to do was supervise.

Typically you used this time to survey the house around you. Laundry on the floor, bottles on the table, coffee cups leaving rings behind. There was always something that needed to be done, cleaned, wiped or changed. It was almost exhausting, but you've come to a compromise with the overbearing stress in your life, as long as you had one constant you'd be fine.

Just one thing. Whether it be a person, place or thing, you just needed to have one tether to the ground during the tropical hurricane that is currently your life.

Your constant came in the form of a man.

Just thinking of him spread a smile across your face as you let Levi finish his bottle, sitting him up to burp as your mind kept wandering to your faithful friend, on what new little tidbits of his life you'll get to learn today. Levi's outlandish burp pulls you from your thoughts, a laugh leaving your lips as you cuddle him close.

"Excuse you little nasty," You teased with a kissed to the crown on his head that he merely wiggled under, seemingly tired of sitting in your lap. "Alright, alright here you go."

Fulfilling his wish and setting him down in the play pen you linger for a moment before turning back towards the kitchen, finding you still never got around to cleaning the mess of water up from earlier.

"Always something huh." Mumbling to yourself as you retraced your steps to get the towel from the bathroom, tossing it on the puddle on the kitchen floor and using your foot to swipe it up.

Lazy? Yes. But are you also very busy? Yes.

That was your argument.

"Oh shit," You snapped as your eyes fell on the clock on the microwave, it's almost seven am and you had to be at work in thirty minutes.

"Okay little dude its hustle time. We got to go."

You quickly tossed on your uniform, zipping the pink checkered dress up the back and pulling on your shoes, you drop down to scoop up Levi when a sour smell hits your nose. Groaning with a huff you trudge back to the nursery, already knowing what is waiting for you.

"I'm here!" You called out as you burst through the diner back doors, Levi on your hip, purse and diaper bag slung together on your shoulder.

Ali, your coworker and purest godsend stood in the back, arms already out.

"I'm sorry, he woke up early and then got mad and tripped on his walker," You rambled as you handed the bag over. "And then the sink overfilled and right before we left he had the worst blowout, like level three catastrophic blowout."

Ali didn't say anything save for a small laugh, taking Levi as you handed him over and smoothed his wild hair down.

"Morning to you to Mama."

You sigh and let out a small laugh, realizing during your whole rant you hadn't even greeted her properly.

"Good morning Ali, I'm sorry it's been.. a morning to say the least."

"I see that," She teased as she adjusted everything and tickled Levi's tummy. "Well don't worry, Auntie Ali and Levi are gonna have the best day ever and we'll see you when you get off."

You smile and let your shoulders slump in relief, it wasn't easy letting someone else babysit Levi, but when Ali offered you knew it was going to work out just fine.

"Thank you, I can't tell you.."

"…how much this means to you." Ali's words overlapped yours in a synchronicity that can only come from too much time together. "You know you don't have to thank me."

Another smile curls up on your face, this one softer and tinged with a bittersweet warmth, the ghost of mom guilt creeping up the back of your neck. "I know, I just.. don't know what I would do without you."

She steps close and smooths out a wrinkle on the shoulder of your uniform, clutching Levi as he tucks his head into her neck. "You'd figure it out, just like you always do, but for now you have me."

A small silence falls between you two and you feel your nose grow hot. Shaking the emotions away you slap a smile on and give both Ali and Levi a group hug before you grab your apron and tie it on.

"Oh little heads up, Sonny is on his bullshit today. He fired Michael again."

An eye roll from the depths of your soul commences at the sound of your bosses name, let alone with the warning on his impending attitude. "Great, thanks for the warning."

"Anytime Mama, see you after!"

The back room grows quiet as Ali and Levi disappear out the door, leaving you alone to get ready for your shift in the muddy silence.

Server book, colored pens, napkins and straws galore, your apron was ready for your shift and so were you. Hitting the code into the time clock you let out on last breath before pushing the double doors out of the kitchen and into the diner floor.

'Born to Hand Jive' by Sha Na Na echoed through the building as you weaved through the sea of customers and coworkers, a bright smile on your face as you made it to your section.

You were in the sock-hop section, as usual, you honestly can't remember the last time you worked any other decade but you're not one to complain when it benefits you so well. Taking the quick quiet moment to fill your sugar, salt and pepper shakers you found yourself drifting back to your constant companion.

Bucky had been coming to Sonny Side Up for the past two and a half months. Every Friday at 10am, just after the breakfast rush with enough time before the lunch slam. He'd always request to be sat with you, even when they other waitresses would try their hardest snatch him away with fluttering lashes and flirty smiles.

You don't know why Bucky chose you, you're just as good at your job as anyone else here but you're grateful for the budding friendship.

"Hey Mama," Your bosses voice, Sonny, parades through your section making your skin itch.

Perking up from your corner booth where you had been pressing creamer packets into the case you called back out. "Yeah Sonny?"

"There you are," His greasy grin widened as he found your hiding spot. "You're on lead for 'You're The One That I Want' with Dante today."

"What? I thought Amy was on lead?"

"Yeah well she doesn't wanna."

You scoff, arms crossed over your chest as you watch him use the toothpick between his teeth to clean under his nails.

"Well what if I 'don't wanna' either?"

"Then you can find another gin joint to put up with you," He snaps back as he tosses the toothpick on the ground and slides a fresh one back in his mouth. "Although I'd hate to ruin little Levi's first Christmas, I know he would've loved that push buggy, don't you?"

There aren't any words to describe how much you hate your boss, but in moments like these the closest thing is unbridled rage, and it boils your blood. It's one thing to switch up schedules or dance leads, but to threaten the financial security for your son..

You're not usually one to tuck tail and hide, but you've learned the hard way to pick and choose your battles with Sonny. This, was not one you were going to win.

"Okay." You mutter in defeat, forcing your attention back to creamer packets in front of you, taking them out again and restocking it just to busy your hands.

Sonny seemed disappointed with your lack of fight, a short huff pushing through his nose as he turned and walked away. The second his back is turned your hands cup your neck in a feigned choking motion, a strangled groan of irritation leaving your lips.

"Just walk it off." You mumble to yourself as you finish the creamer tins and pick up Sonny's mangled toothpick off the ground, the sound of footsteps making you snap up in fear he'd come back for more.

"Here you are, your server will be right with you!" The hostess, Erin, speaks out just a little louder than normal to signal you of your first table.

Slumping into the booth in the 80s section you let out a deep sigh, feeling the ache of the breakfast rush already setting in as you began to roll the first batch of silverware with your coworker Claire.

"Think you did any good?" She speaks up as you both fall into the flow of polishing and rolling.

"Hard to tell yet, I'm waiting for the lunch parties, Sonny said something about an eight top at twelve."

Claire groans and throws her head back against the booth ledge. "I don't know why he lets these parties book during the busiest hours then do nothing when they complain about shit service."

You merely shrug, setting another set of silverware in the basket. "Who knows, Ali said he fired Michael again this morning."

"Pfft, like he won't be back for the lunch shift in two hours."

A laugh erupts from the both of you at the absurdity of your workplace. Despite all the drama and, well everything about Sonny, the diner is quite popular and in good business, you've yet to work a double shift that leaves you walking away with less than $200.

That's not to say it doesn't come with its problems, Sonny being the main source of them. He just one of those men that has always gotten his way with things and just thinks that's the way the world works now, and anybody who tries to inform him of otherwise suffers.

The sound of an over exaggerated giggle blows across your ears and you recognize it as the other hostess laughing in your section, seemingly having sat someone without telling you. Letting out a huff you stand up from the booth, doing a quick stretch to shake off the lingering soreness from the morning and slapping your sickly sweet customer service smile on as you made your way over, head in your notebook as you ripped out the scribbled on pages.

"Welcome to Sonny Side Up," You greet in your typical waitress fashion, offering your name. "I'll be taking care of you today, can I get you something to drink while we get a look at the menu?"

"Coffee'll be fine."

The familiarity of the voice makes your head snap up, a teasing scoff leaving your lips. "Bucky? Why didn't you say anything, made me waste a perfectly good greeting on you."

He laughs and sits back on the booth, a faint shrug on his shoulders. "I would've but you were pretty preoccupied in your little notebook."

"Its a notepad not a notebook."

"Of course, how could I forget?"

You both hold a serious look on your face but it dissolves in seconds followed with bright laughter as you shake your head and pull the menu off the table from him. "Getting the usual today?"

"Please." He smiles with a nod of his head and suddenly all was right in the world.

"Coming right up, don't go far."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The turn of your back hid the faint pink blush that dusted your cheeks as you headed for the expo window, quickly writing his order down and clipping it up onto the ticket rail, spinning around to get it into the kitchen before you started a fresh pot of coffee just for him.

"I see Dreamboat is back." Claire teased as she snuck up on you, bumping her shoulder to yours while she helped set his drink plate up. Even though Bucky only sat with you he was still a religious regular and everyone in the diner knew him and his order, but you were the closest to him.

"You've got to stop calling him that."

"Why? It's not harmful and it's 100% true. He is a dreamboat."

You roll your eyes as you pour the coffee into the cleanest mug you could find, wiping off any spilled drops and perfectly setting the singular sugar packet on the side.

"I never said it wasn't true, you just say it so much that one of these days I'm going to accidentally call him that to his face and ruin everything forever."

Claire mirrors your eye roll with one of her own, putting a hand on her hip as she watches you scoop up the coffee mug and plate as if it were the most delicate thing in the universe. "Girl please, that man has got it so bad for you."

"Claire," You warned, your mom voice coming out in full swing. "We've talked about this."

Putting her hands up in the air in defense she backed out of your way as you slowly walked out from the bar, careful not to spill the coffee. "I'm just saying. Just because you don't acknowledge it doesn't mean it's not there! Think of Schrodinger Cat!"

You shake your head with a burst of laughter, making your way back to your section.

"One black coffee with one fake sugar."

Bucky just laughs as you set the mug and plate down in front of him, already reaching for the individual sugar packet and faintly shaking it lose. "You know you say that every time."

"Because Splenda is fake sugar, and you get it every time so." Shrugging your shoulders you move to the opposite side of the booth, leaning against it but not sitting down as to avoid any suspicious detection.

"Yeah well," He murmurs as he pours the sugar into the mug, slowly stirring it in as you grab the small trash wrapped and stuff it into the left pocket of your apron. "I like the way it tastes."

"I would hope so, or else all this time you'd not only be drinking shitty coffee, but with nasty sugar."

"Your coffee isn't that bad."

"Oh no, my coffee is amazing. The coffee I make here pales in comparison."

"That a fact?"

"You can Google it on your way out."

Matching smiles appear on your faces as Bucky takes a small sip of said shitty coffee, a small hum leaving his lips and you fight to not watch him lick the extra moisture off the line of his bottom lip.

"Sounds like you're going to have to bring me some of this so called 'amazing' coffee, or else I'll never know how good it is."

You sucked in through your teeth with a frown, crossing your arms and making a dramatic narrow eyed face at Bucky. "I don't know.. it's pretty good. You'd never be able to drink any of this dirt water again after you've had it."

"Then I guess you'll just have to keep making it for me."

"Oh really? And what would I be gaining from this service, or am I just going to be bringing you coffee every Friday morning for the rest of our lives?"

Bucky smirks but there's a small glint in the depths of his eyes, something hesitant, wanting desperately to come out and scream from the rooftops whatever it is they're hiding. He doesn't say anything, just faintly shrugs his shoulders and takes another sip from his coffee.

A small silence lulls between you two. Part of you wants to fill it, feels a strange urge to cover it up as you would with any other customer, but Bucky isn't like that. He doesn't mind the silence, looks you over briefly before turning his attention to the TVs across the walls at whatever black and white film was playing on them.

"I remember when that movie came out." He says softly, his eyes glued to the screen as a woman in a glittering ballgown stands between two men as they converse.

"Don't think I've ever seen it. What is it?"

"Tales of Manhattan, came out the year before I got drafted. Was an interesting story, hadn't really seen anything like it before."

"Hm, I'll have to check it out one day."

Bucky got quiet for a moment, sucking in a short breath as he watched you gaze at the screens in the wall. "Maybe one day we could—"

Ding. Ding.

"Oh one second that's probably yours." You chimed in with a smile, tapping the table before disappearing off behind the bar to the expo window.

Searching the plates and tickets next to them you called out to the kitchen."Hey you got a breakfast special Sonny's Style for 310?"

Michael, who by no ones surprise was back at work, grunts in response and slides two fried eggs onto a plate before putting three up in the window.

"Thanks Mikey." You smile and take the three plates, two in your left, one in your right with extra napkins in your apron.

With years of practiced balance you make your way back to Bucky's table. "Alright we've got one breakfast special Sonny's Style. Fried eggs, one sausage, one country ham, two bacon with hash browns and toast." You said as you set each plate down, turning them just enough sit perfectly in front of him.

"I'll be right back with some more coffee, you need anything else?"

"Some extra.." His words died off as you pulled the extra napkins from your apron, setting them down next to his hand with a smile.

He just laughs, taking one of the napkins and draping it over his thigh like he always does. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Starve, be thirsty, and messy."

You both laugh before falling into another quiet moment, it was always these points in your 'relationship' that made you feel uneasy. Part of you wanted to make more conversation, to learn more about him and his life out of this diner but you were scared of crossing the server/customer line.

"Well, I'll go grab your coffee, holler if you need me."

Bucky just nods, a small smile on his face as you turn back towards the bar, your face flushed as you groan the second you think you're out of earshot.

"God what is wrong with me? 'Holler if you need me'? Ugh."

"Trouble in paradise?" Claire asked as you approached the coffee station, pouring the remnants of the coffee into another pot before starting another one, knowing how fast this place goes through coffee.

"No. Yes. I don't know. It's nothing I'm just overreacting."

Claire watched with gentle concern you while you scrub a hand over your face. "Cmon talk to me."

"It's literally nothing I just.. I don't know if I'm being too pushy or not. But I didn't even say anything!"

Sensing your genuine frustration over this Claire takes a step forward, turning you to face her. "This about Bucky again?"

You nod your head, not being able to find the words to agree with her.

"Okay, you listen to me," She starts, her voice stern yet caring like a teacher with a failing student. "Bucky, he likes you. He comes into the diner every Friday at the same time for you, he tells Erin to put him in the sock hop every time for you. You think he's here for the shitty coffee and greasy food? Please."

Blinking with wide eyes you shake your head. "I'm just his waitress Claire, he likes me because I'm good at what I do."

"God how could you be so blind Mama?"

"Claire that man doesn't know the first thing about me outside of this place, he doesn't even know about Levi."

"So tell him!"

"And then what?" You question, your voice sharpening with irritation. "We go out on a date? And what happens when he takes me home and sees the mess my life is? Nobody wants someone with a kid, its too much effort and commitment, no one wants someone with strings attached."

"You're not too much Mama."

You left out a soft sigh, regret welling up in you at your outburst towards her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you I just…"

"I know." Claire murmurs quietly, taking the fresh pot of coffee and sliding it over towards you. "Just take it one step at a time okay? Maybe try telling him about Levi."

Nodding and gratefully accepting the pot you square your shoulders back and let out a deep smooth breath before making your way back to your section, putting on a smile to mask the turmoil beneath the surface.

"Hey, everything good so far?"

He nods as he swallows the bite of food in his mouth, typical server of you to walk over as he's mid chew. "Yeah, it's perfect as usual."

"Good." You smile again, this one slightly more genuine as you top off his coffee, sliding another packet of Splenda onto the table for him.

Chewing on the inside of your lip Claire's words echoed throughout your head. How do you even tell someone you've known for two and a half months that you have a kid? Maybe you should start with something smaller, but then again what else do you really have going on in your life that's worthy of daring a conversation over?

"So I was out the other day—"

"You got any plans this weekend—"

Your face falls at his question, the bass in his voice making his words glide over yours.

"Oh uhm, not really no." Not a complete lie, you didn't have anything planned, other than sitting at the house with Levi. "Do you?"

"No, was probably just going to sit around the house, maybe go for a run."

"Cool."

Silence blanketed over the two of you and you wished for nothing more than for the floor to open up below you and swallow you whole, coffee pot and all.

"Would you maybe like to—"

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls let make some noise for Sonny Side Up's Twists and Twirls!"

The Emcees voice echoed through the speakers, making you roll your eyes. "I am so sorry, I'll be right back." You called out as the music began to fade in.

A looped intro of 'You're The One That I Want' blared through the speakers as all the servers lined up in the walkway of their sections, everyone pairing up with their partner. Dante slinked into your section, tapping you on the shoulder and making you jump.

"Just me." He says with his hands up in defense.

"You're fine, let's just get this over with."

The chords change and the both of you assume the starting position, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist.

I got chills, they're multiplying And I'm losing control 'Cause the power you're supplying It's electrifying (electrifying)

The dance is a close copy to the one from the movie, Dante pacing around you half on his knees, while you're constantly pushing and pulling him in.

You better shape up 'Cause I need a man And my heart is set on you You better shape up You better understand To my heart I must be true Nothin' left, nothin' left for me to do

As you and Dante dance, you begin to feel a small burn climbing up the back of your neck, as if someone were staring holes into it. When you turned lo and behold someone was, and that someone was Bucky.

His eyes were glued to your each and every step, every time Dante's hand brushed a little too high in the curve of your waist, or a little too low and the slope of your neck. Minutes stretched into hours and the air around you was thick with unnamed tension, the dance no longer felt sweet and charming, it held a dual edge to it now.

You're the one that I want (you are the one I want) Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey The one that I want (you are the one I want) Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey The one that I want (you are the one I want) Ooh, ooh, ooh The one I need (the one I need) Oh, yes, indeed (yes, indeed)

The song came to a fixed end and the dance mimicked the scene of Danny on his knees while you sat on the edge of the table, foot perched up on his shoulder. Leave it to Sonny to turn a simple dance into something that could fit in the intro of a softcore porno.

As soon as the song was over it was business as usual, Dante had gone back to the front to bus the sections down and the rest of the servers had all dispersed off across the restaurant, leaving you and Bucky alone in the quiet hum of the diner.

Your eyes meet for a brief second and all you can do is give a small smile before picking up the lost coffee pot and making a beeline towards the coffee station.

"God please never let me do that in front of him again."

Claire keeps her laugh to a minimum as she can see the color flushed from your face. "Don't worry, next time I'll take lead."

"Bless your soul Claire."

After a quick deep breath in the cooler you're ready to get back into the fray, letting all awkwardness float up into the air and disappear as you approach Bucky's table, coffee in hand and smile wide.

"So what's the verdict?" You asked as you topped off his coffee, moving back to lean against the opposite side of the booth.

"I think I can manage it today."

You nod your head, making a mental note to not bring a box back. "I have no doubts about it. I don't know where you put all this food."

"Special compartment." He replies with a pat to his stomach, pulling a giggle from your lips.

"I see, you must have got the limited edition one, I only have a special compartment for dessert."

He huffs a laugh in agreement, letting his food lie as he leans back in the booth. "There we're the same, I've always had a sweet tooth. Whenever my Ma had the spare money she would bake up a Key Lime pie for my sisters and I."

"Ugh I love Key Lime pie," You mock groaned, holding a hand over your stomach as you thought of the delicious dessert. Looking down at him and the booth, you decide to take the leap, sliding into the booth across from him.

He makes a face, not one of disgust or discomfort, but seemingly surprised and maybe even.. happy, the ghost of the smile across his lips makes your chest bloom with warmth.

"I'll tell you a secret," You continue, lowering your voice and leaning forward as if you two were discussing highly classified topics. "I hated pie as a kid."

Bucky's brows furrowed, clearly at a loss from this new piece of information but he lets you go on.

"It was the way the warm fruit tasted, it was all mushy and gross I couldn't do it."

"I can see that. Mushy cinnamon apples aren't for everyone."

"Right," Nodding in agreement you leaned back, the secretive essence of the conversation passed. "But then one day, someone had brought a Key Lime pie to a birthday party and my mind was blown."

"Really?"

You blew your hands wide at the sides of your head, making a fake explosion noise. "Never in my years did I ever think I would like a pie, but something about the savory of the lime and the sweet of the cream rewired my brain. I'd do stupidly embarrassing things for a good Key Lime pie."

"Good to know."

Your mouth opens then closes, a small smile trapping the stumble of words that threatened to come out.

"What about you?" You blurt out, needing a way to stop the blush that is creeping up the base of your neck. "Got any secrets? Pie related or not."

He sits quietly and for a moment you think you've crossed the line and shattered the illusion of your friendship that you hold so dearly, an apology is on the tip of your tongue when he speaks up.

"Not really, kind of an open book these days. I blame Wikipedia. Everyone already knows everything about me before I get a chance to tell them myself."

Your heart aches at his words, unable to imagine what it must feel like to walk into somewhere and already have opinions formed against you.

"I'm sorry Bucky," You murmur softly, hand itching against the coffee pot handle to reach out to him, your brain scrounging for anyway to make him feel better. "If it makes you feel any better you're like the fifth ex-felon in here."

Bucky's face contorts and you think hes going to be upset by the label but a bark of a laugh escapes his lips, a hand coming up to his jaw as he shakes his head. "It does thank you, nice to know we criminals all have a hub to come home to."

Relief floods over you as he not only laughs at your joke but plays along with it. "If only they knew the big and scary Bucky Barnes liked grape jelly on his toast, the world would lose their minds."

"Who doesn't like jelly on their toast? It's a classic."

"Like you."

"I don't know if I'm 'classic' anymore. Just 'old' feels more accurate."

You stand from the booth, not wanting anyone to come over and ruin this sweet moment you two have built up. "You're not 'just' anything Bucky. You mean a lot more to people than you might realize, myself included."

His eyes widened just a fraction but softened tenfold as he looks up at you, he ducks his head down but you still caught the corner of the smirk on his lips. "Still old."

"More like vintage," You counter, dropping a hand from the pot and letting the tips of your fingers brush across the edge of the table. "Like wine and cheese, and you know what they say about that."

"What do they say?"

You watch his eyes travel down your arm to the way your fingers are gently pressed against the table, then glance back up to yours.

"They just get better with age."

If you had blinked you would of missed it, but with your eyes locked onto his you caught it, the faint red tinging on the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He was blushing, this super centenarian solider was blushing because of you.

You should buy a lotto ticket after this.

"I'll be back with the check."

Once back at the table you set the check down began to stack the empty plates, balancing them in one hand as you handed Bucky one of your favorite pens to sign with, a steel blue gel pen that glides over any paper it comes across and coincidentally matches Bucky's eyes.

You disappear into the back to bus the dishes in the dish pit, Bucky never leaves much of a mess on his plates but you like to stay on the dishwashers good side so you rinse them anyways. When you return Bucky has neatly set the stack of cash on the ticket with the pen set next to it.

"Thank you kindly, how do you want your change?"

"Just keep it."

Brows furrowed you look down at the cash in your hand, eyeballing the bills to see that its definitely more than a 20% tip.

"Bucky this is like a fifteen dollar tip. I can't take that."

"You deserve it, besides don't think I haven't seen you adding your employee discount to the total."

Shit.

"Yeah well that's.. that's different."

He merely shrugs, scooting out of the booth and standing up, his leather jacket donned figure eclipsing yours. You forget how tall he is sometimes considering most of your conversations are held when he's sitting down.

"Keep it," He insists gently, closing your hand around the cash and pushing it towards you. "Please. You always take care of me, this is my way of paying you back, literally."

A soft laugh leaves your lips, your eyes glancing down to your hand where his just was, the feeling of the money now overshadowed by the warmth his palm left behind.

"Fine. Just this once, okay?"

"Atta girl."

"Don't get cocky with me sir, I'll sneak this money right back into your wallet."

Bucky raises a brow in disbelief. "Really? You think you'd be able to sneak past me?"

You narrow your eyes and let them drop over his figure, feigning to size him up. "I bet I could take you."

"In a fight?"

If you could see your face right now you're sure you would melt into a puddle of embarrassment, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock. "In like a.. sneaky fight. To see who's more.. inconspicuous?"

"Okay girlie, whatever you say." He teases with a small laugh, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

You paused for a moment, fingers tapping lightly against the coffee pot, unsure of what else to say that could make him stay longer. "So I'll see you next week?"

"I'll be there."

"Good. See you Friday Buck."

"See you Friday."

He gave you one last look over, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before he turned and made his way towards the exit of the diner.

"Mama!" Erin called out as she weaved through the booths and pulled you aside. "I've got a soccer team who want the TVs."

"How many?"

"Eleven plus three coaches and two chaperones."

A deep breath left your lips as you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the torture this will be. "Yeah go ahead and seat them."

The rest of your shift went by in a weird pace, your feet felt like they were running at one million miles per hours as the world around you slowed. When 7pm finally hit it was like the dawn had broken over the horizon once again, you fell back into the booth and looked around you. All the tables wiped with the floor swept and mopped, silverware rolled and sugar pourers filled to the 80% line.

"You ready to go?" You called out to Claire, lifting your head up to see her sat in the booth behind you separating her bills and counting them out."

"Oh shit I totally forgot, Xander is picking me up tonight, my bad."

"Don't worry about it, see you Monday?"

"Monday!"

A smile curls up at the corner of your lips as you walked through the diner and out the backdoor, reminiscing on the times of being young and in love. It turned your smile bittersweet as you got into your truck, the silence encompassing you and weighing you down. Unwarranted flashbacks of your last relationship flooded through your mind, the good, the bad and everything in between. Before you even realized, tears dropped down onto the fabric of your apron soaking small little circles into it.

You didn't let yourself cry often. It never solved anything and it always left you feeling worse than before, so you kept it under a tight lock and key. After allowing a tear or two to fall you suck in a sharp breath and cut them off, blinking the remaining ones away and letting your breath out and pulling another one in, tracing your square on your thigh as you started the truck and made your way home.

If Bucky could step out of his body just once in his life he would do it now, and he'd use it to smack some sense into himself.

Your words echoed through his head on his bike ride home. You'd called him vintage, and not in the way that people use to try to glamorize something that had lost its place in time, no you meant it in a way that museum honor artists centuries after they're gone.

His grip was iron clad on his handle bars the whole ride home, the wind ripping across his bare face and making his eyes water.

"They just get better with age."

A small shudder slid its way down Bucky's spine as he recalled your each and every word. You seemed to have no idea how deeply he felt for you, yet your words always happened to speak to that empty ache in his heart that he wished nothing more for you to fit into.

He's lost count how many times he's told himself that 'today was the day' that he was going to ask you on on date. Yet every time he gets close to doing so, something stops him and ruins his chance. Sometimes he overthinks it, saying that it's the universes way of saying he doesn't get to be happy, his therapist says that's him confining his happiness to one thing, when in reality its a number of things. His bike makes him happy, sitting next to the window while he drinks his coffee in the morning makes him happy.

But nothing, nothing, makes him happy like you.

Nothing makes him stay up at night replaying conversations in his head, wondering how they would've changed if he had spoken up, like you.

Nothing makes him triple check his outfit, hair and shoes before he leaves the house like you.

A groan of frustration left his lips as he pulled up to his small studio. After he and Sam had finished their business with the Flag Smashers he found this place in upstate New York, it was a quiet little village, away from the loud static that's the inner city.

It was the peace that he needed, but he always felt like he was missing something. Then he found you.

Almost three months later you were the only thing occupying his mind, consuming his every waking second as he counted down each minute until he could see you again.

Parts of him wanted to come in more than just Fridays but he always felt so conflicted on crossing that line and coming off as one of those weird customers he'd heard endless stories about from you.

But god the way your laugh lit up your face when you'd tell them, the way your eyes crinkled and you'd bring a hand to your lips to try and cover your smile, yet it always shined through. It made him melt.

He just needed to suck it up and ask you out, the worst you could say is no.

Then again how would he ever be able to face you again after something as soul crushing as getting rejected?

God, what was wrong with him? He was a soldier, been through more wars and battles than he could count and here he is pacing his apartment for hours over a girl.

"Screw it." He muttered to himself, pulling his jacket back on and trudging out the door, flicking his bike back to life and making his way back to the diner praying that he could catch you before he left.

He tried to keep his mind quiet the whole ride back. Tried not to let that little voice in the back of his head remind him of every single horrible thing he's done, and how he could never amount to be a worthy person in society let alone a partner to such a beautiful soul like you.

It didn't work, but it's the thought that counts.

The sun had already started to set when he pulled back up to the diner, a soft orange glow contrasting against the neon signs in the windows, the familiar smell of grease, smoke and bacon filling the air the closer you got to it.

It wasn't too busy when Bucky pushed through the wide double doors, his eyes scanning the floor for you when another familiar face caught his eye.

"Excuse me," He started, gently reaching his hand out to catch the young ladies attention. "You're Claire right?"

She beamed a smile at him as she turned to full face him. "That would be me. Need something?"

"I uh, I just.. I was just looking for—"

Claire cuts him off with playful lilt of your name. "You just missed her actually."

"Oh."

Silence falls between the two of them and Bucky is internally slamming his head against a wall for even attempting this.

"Actually, I was just going to bring this to her." She pulls out a worn copy of the book 'The Notebook' and holds it out to him. "She left it in the back on her break and forgot to grab it before she left."

Bucky looked from the book to the young woman, unsure of how he should proceed.

She waved it in her hand like a treat to a dog. "Why don't you take it to her so you can tell her whatever it is you came here to say?"

"I don't.. think that would be appropriate."

"God the two of you," She groans as she opens the book up to the dedication page where a stamp was imprinted. "This is her address, bring it by and tell her that Claire asked you to drop it off."

Bucky didn't even have a chance to protest, she just shoved the book against his chest and walked off behind the bar, leaving him to stand there with this dog eared ridden book. He looked down at it for a moment, brushing his thumb over the small squiggles where you had written your name.

Just seeing your name made his heart skip a beat, the thought of seeing you st your house, comfortable and at ease without the restraints of the workplace.

He chews in the inside of his lip for a moment, and before he can convince himself otherwise he's already back outside and revving his bike to life.

You don't live far from the diner, Bucky had the streets in this town before he moved here so it was a simple drive with the book nestled against his chest in his zipped up jacket as he followed the winding roads.

Bucky's heart had never beat so fast as he stood at the fence line of your house. It was a small little thing, couldn't be more than two bedrooms or more than 900sqft. He could pick up on some slight rustling through the walls but nothing more. 

He finally worked up the courage to approach the door, one hand clutching the book as the other lightly knocks at the door. 

"Just a second!" Your voice calls through the door and it already makes Bucky's feet feel light. 

Your footsteps grow louder and he takes a small step back to give you some room when the door swings open, half a sentence already tumbling from your lips. 

"Sorry I totally forgot about it, I was reading on the crates and I just set—" 

All words died in your throat as you saw not Claire, but Bucky standing on your doorstep, book in hand with a look that can only mirror yours. Pure shock. 

"Bucky? What.. what are you doing here?" 

He merely holds the book up in his hand as if it were going to answer the question for him but he cleared his throat. "You're coworker Claire said to bring this to you." 

"Oh. Right." You let out a breathy laugh, taking the book he held out to you with a slight shake in your hand. 

This is it. It's now or never. 

"Actually I went to the diner to see you. I wanted to ask you something when your friend stopped me and gave me your book." 

He watched as you set the book down on a table near the door, your brows furrowing in curiosity as you listened to him go on. 

"I just.. I really like spending time with you, at the diner, and I guess I've just been wondering if maybe you'd like to spend some time together outside of the diner." 

"Oh. Wow." You mumble and Bucky could see the way your hands fidgeted to not cover the smile that was tugging at your lips. 

"I'm um, I'm really flattered Bucky but I—" 

A sudden crash interrupts your sentence and your face contorts, eyes shut as you go quiet before a small yet bold cry echoes from behind you. 

"Shit. I am so sorry, just.. I'll be right back." 

You disappear without another word and Bucky is left standing there, heart on the verge of shattering apart and when you reemerge something new washes over him.

"Sorry." You mutter as you come back to the doorway, only to suddenly be holding an infant at your hip. 

"Um, don't be." He replies quietly, eyes doing their best to not blatantly stare at the new addition to this conversation. "You were saying?"

"Right, um like I said I'm really, really flattered. Like seriously, you are so kind and generous and sweet and funny and offensively gorgeous," You were definitely rambling, you knew and so did Bucky but he let you go on anyways. "I mean Claire calls you Dreamboat, which we've all deemed unfairly accurate,"

His small laugh breaks up your sentence and the look on your face is one of pure mortification. "God don't tell her I said that."

He holds his hands up in defense and watches you let out a small breath, the initial nerves seemingly washed away as you adjusted the mystery child from one hip to the other.

"Sorry, what I'm trying to say is I'm flattered.. but I don't date."

Bucky's face scrunches up into a look of confusion, the previous feeling of teetering on the edge of heartbreak now completely overrun with curiosity.

"You don't date?" He parrots out, his voice gentle yet intrigued. "Because of.." He makes a vague gesture to the child against you, who has seemingly tuned out this entire conversation until now.

"Kind of, it's.. it's complicated." You pause for a moment and a dejected look darkens your eyes before you blink it away, replacing it with a smile as you propped up the child. "This is Levi, Levi this is Moms friend Bucky, can you say hi?"

The child, Levi, looks from you to him, those wide eyes that perfectly replicate yours looked into his soul before a four on top and two on the bottom toothy grin spreads across his face as he excitedly bounces up and down in your arms and waving his arm around aimlessly.

"That means hi."

Bucky laughs at the enthusiastic greeting from Levi, a wide smile of his own on his face before he even realized it. "It's nice to meet you Levi."

And as Bucky looked into those little eyes something warm spread across his chest, planting a new feeling he'd never felt before. The way your arm held him so perfectly, the way his tiny little fists crumpled the fabric of your shirt, the complete and true love you held in your eyes for him.

Oh. That's what it was, love.

Bucky was in love.

"You look exhausted," Bucky murmurs and kisses your neck.

You melt into him.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me," he grins.

He takes your bag from your shoulder and puts it down by the door. You let him guide you toward the sofa and pull you down next to him. 

A glass of wine waits on the coffee table. You reach for it, but misjudge the distance and the glass slips.

You barely register what happened before Bucky catches it in the air.

“Force of habit,” he chuckles, handing it back to you. 

You notice traces of flour on his forearm. Little Natty must have talked him into baking cookies again. 

Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, and you nuzzle against it. 

You love him so much it aches sometimes. The super soldier who can kill a man with one arm and assemble a bomb from your kitchen supplies. The man who folds tiny socks, kisses scraped knees, packs lunches, and makes every room feel warmer just by being in it.

He leans forward, lips almost touching yours. 

"Do you ever regret it?" you ask quietly. 

Bucky's smile appears slowly together with tiny creases around his beautiful eyes.  

Leon glances back at you, body tense. He can’t help but notice how, even with how pale your face has gone, there’s still a feverish flush to your cheeks. “Yeah. Figured.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly before another wave of pain tightens your expression again. He can only watch, body still crouched next to the stove, as your head tilts back, resting against the wall weakly.

The water eventually begins to steam. It's definitely not perfect sterilization. There’s still bits of debris coating the bottom of the pot. But it’s close enough that nobody argues. He’s quick to kneel in front of you again, supplies spread across the floorboards between his knees. Up close, the heat coming off your skin feels genuinely alarming now.

Ashley looks between both of you nervously. “What should I do?”

Your eyes move toward her immediately despite the exhaustion. “Need clean cloth,” you say quietly. “Anything clean.”

Ashley nods quickly and disappears toward the shelves again, clearly grateful for instructions. Her arms are frantic as she tears through the room. Deep down, Leon knows that there isn’t any clean cloth. But he’s pretty sure you know that too. 

Leon exhales slowly before looking back toward your shoulder. “Alright,” he sighs. “Talk me through it.”

For the first time since he met you, you hesitate. Your eyes flit between him and your wound, watching the cut ooze yellow and pulse with your heartbeat. 

“Cut away the remaining stitches first,” you say finally. “They’re trapping contamination.”

Leon’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers grasp the edge of the wrappings around your shoulder.

Slowly, he starts to lift it up. 

It sticks, the fabric stubbornly clinging to your skin. The moment he starts peeling it away, your entire body locks rigid.

“Fuck-!”

Blood and cloudy fluid have dried through the fabric, sealing it partially to the wound beneath. Leon stops immediately at the sound that leaves you; not quite a yell, but close.

Your breathing turns shallow.

“Sorry,” he mutters instinctively.

“Don’t apologize,” you hiss through clenched teeth. “Just do it fast.”

So he does. His hand grabs the edge of the fabric and rips. He’s pretty sure you’re biting your own tongue in order not to scream, judging by the strangled noise that comes from your throat. Immediately, fresh fluid starts to ebb from the cut. Bright red blood starts to drip.

Ashley makes a small noise behind him.

He understands why. The wound is bad.

Far worse than he expected. The puncture tears deep through the upper shoulder, jagged along the edges now that the sutures have ripped apart. Angry redness spreads outward across overheated skin, while swollen tissue glistens wet beneath the lantern light. And near the center, it’s grey.

He doesn’t need to be a medic to understand.

Necrotic tissue.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mutter weakly. “That’s generally the appropriate reaction.”

He reaches for the poorly sterilized scissors first, carefully cutting through the remaining sutures embedded in swollen flesh. You keep talking him through it between breaths, even as your eyes go fuzzy.

“Need all foreign material out… dead tissue too… irrigate after…” Your voice keeps pausing now, each breath shakier. 

Leon notices your hand trembling violently where it braces against the edge of your seat. “You still with me, Rabies?”

“Unfortunately.”

Ashley returns then, with cloth and a half-empty bottle. When he glances at her, he can see that her jacket has had a piece cut from it. The same fabric rests gently in her hand. Her eyes immediately land on the wound, before she jerks her gaze away again, visibly pale.

You catch it instantly. “Ashley.”

The girl looks up quickly.

“Eyes on me,” you say softly. Not the wound. You. And somehow, that’s worse. Even now, half-delirious and septic, you’re still trying to protect her.

The knife finally comes into Leon’s hand. His stomach twists. You see it happen.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He looks up.

“Debridement hurts because the tissue’s still partly alive.” Your voice sounds distant now. Thinner. “That means it can heal.”

He swallows hard, then nods. “Tell me what to cut.”

Your eyes close briefly before reopening. “Gray tissue first,” you whisper. “Anything that doesn’t bleed.”

His fingers go to the leftover strings, pulling them free. He grimaces as bits of dead tissue come out alongside them, clinging to the strings like old food to used dental floss. The thread gets tossed to the side, out of mind, as he readies his knife. 

“Start-” Your words stop for a moment, hidden behind clenched teeth, “Start on the sides. Work your way to the middle.”

Grimly, he nods. The knife comes down, angled towards the upper edge of the cut. The flesh is a sickly dark color, moreso bits of rot rather than normal tissue. He presses down, the silver edge of his knife working into the wound.

The gray tissue peels away in uneven strips beneath the blade, soft and wrong-looking compared to healthy skin. His jaw clenches harder with every pass. Your hand flies from the edge of your chair to his arm, gripping down with enough force to bruise. A choked sound rips from your body, your head slamming backwards into the wall so hard that he’s half concerned you’ve given yourself a concussion.

The smell hits next. Rot beneath blood and alcohol and smoke. It’s putrid, the smell sticking to his nostrils and curling in his lungs. He has to turn his head away for a moment in order not to vomit.

Ashley visibly gags behind him.

You hear it instantly, despite the haze pulling at you. “Breathe through your mouth,” you murmur toward her. “Helps.”

Ashley nods shakily. Leon keeps going.

“Little deeper on the left side,” you whisper after a moment, eyes half-focused on the wound. “That edge’s necrotic too.”

“How the hell can you tell?”

“Color.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

As if to make a point, your pupils meet his, holding his gaze for a moment before dropping back down to the cut. He can see the way your fingers shake as you point to a particularly rotten spot.

“There. Cut deeper there.”

He obeys. Behind him, he can hear the blonde girl’s harsh breathing, accented by the occasional gag. 

The knife presses deeper into the discolored flesh, carving away another strip of dead tissue. This time, blood wells up immediately behind it; dark at first, then brighter. Alive. Your entire body jerks hard enough that his wrist almost slips.

“Oh my god-!” Ashley gasps somewhere behind him.

A broken sound tears from your throat, halfway between a gasp and a strangled cry. Your fingers clamp around Leon’s forearm with bruising force, nails digging through soaked fabric while your breathing turns ragged and uneven.

“Easy,” Leon mutters automatically, though he knows the word means absolutely nothing right now.

Sweat drips down the side of your face. Your eyes squeeze shut so tightly he can see the strain in the muscles around them. “Good,” you rasp after a second. “That’s good. Means it’s viable.”

“You say that like this is reassuring.”

Another section comes away beneath the blade. Blood follows. More this time. He’s quick to pour a splash of vodka over the section to try and disinfect it. It washes away easily, tinted pink from the blood. The smell shifts slightly too. Still rotten, still enough to curl his stomach, but less concentrated now beneath the sharp sting of vodka and smoke.

Leon risks a glance upward. “How much deeper?”

Your breathing stutters unevenly before you answer. “Until the tissue stops looking…” A shaky inhale. “Wrong.”

“That is a terrible medical explanation.”

“It’s not my best work.”

Despite himself, a breath of something dangerously close to laughter escapes him. Exhausted. Disbelieving. The kind that only happens when things have gotten so bad the brain stops processing it correctly.

Ashley looks between both of you like you’ve both completely lost your minds.

Then, the knife catches against something harder beneath the damaged tissue.

You go rigid instantly. Leon feels it happen before you even speak. Every muscle in your body locks tight beneath the fever heat pouring off your skin.

“Wait,” you whisper sharply.

He freezes. “What?”

Your eyes open halfway, struggling to focus downward. “Lower.”

Carefully, he angles the lantern closer. Something pale glints wetly beneath the blood. Not bone. Not rigid, infected tendons.

Wood.

A splinter, if it could be called that. It’s more like a wood chip, embedded angrily in your flesh. 

Leon stares at it. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The laugh that escapes you sounds borderline delirious. “Remember the cabin?”

“The psycho who ripped your shoulder open?”

“Yeah.” Your head tips weakly back against the wall again. “Guess he left a souvenir.”

Ashley makes another horrified noise.

“Okay,” Leon mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Okay. Fine. Of course there’s wood in there.”

The splinter sits buried deep in swollen tissue, darkened at the edges from infection. No wonder the wound kept worsening. Every movement had probably driven it deeper. Leon exhales slowly through his nose, before setting the knife aside and reaching for the tweezers from the sewing kit.

“They’re not sterilized,” you mumble.

“I know.”

“Vodka.”

“I know.”

A dry, exhausted chuckle, “Just checking you’re still smart under pressure.”

He dumps alcohol across the metal anyway. It glints up at him. Then, he looks back up at you. “This is gonna suck.”

Your eyes crack open just enough to glare weakly at him. “No fucking shit.”

“Right. Stupid statement.”

Ashley edges closer despite herself, pale and visibly trying not to panic. “Can’t you just leave it?”

Both of you answer at once. “No.”

Ashley flinches slightly. You swallow hard before continuing, voice thinner now. “Foreign object means ongoing contamination. Infection won’t clear otherwise.”

Your speech is delayed and unsure. Not slurred, exactly. But slower now. Like every sentence has to fight through static before reaching your mouth. Your pupils look glassy beneath the lantern light.

He hates it.

“Stay awake,” he grunts firmly.

“Bossy.”

“Stay awake.”

Your fingers twitch weakly against his sleeve in acknowledgment. Then, he grips the splinter with the tweezers and pulls.

You scream. Not the restrained sounds from before. Not the choked gasps you’d been swallowing down. No, this noise is raw and guttural, tearing from your body as your torso jerks and twists away from the pain. Ashley jumps violently at the sound.

The wood comes free all at once with a wet tearing sensation, nearly two inches long and soaked dark red at the end. Fresh blood immediately spills from the cavity left behind.

For one horrible second, Leon thinks you might actually black out. Your entire body folds forward hard, breathing shattered into ragged, painful gasps while your hand claws blindly against his arm, searching for something to anchor to.

“Hey,” he says sharply, dropping the tweezers. They drop emptily to the ground with a clicking noise. “Hey, stay with me.”

You don’t answer.

“Ashley!” Leon snaps.

The girl is quick to step forward, hands shaking. “I-I’m here!”

“Cloth. Now.”

She scrambles immediately, pressing the torn fabric into his waiting hand. He presses it firmly against the wound. You make a broken noise against his shoulder, body trembling violently beneath his grip.

“Pressure,” you gasp weakly after a moment. “Need pressure until it clots.”

“I know.”

Your forehead ends up half-slumped against him now, fever-hot skin damp with sweat. For the first time since he met you, you stop trying to hide how badly this hurts.

Honestly? That scares him more than the blood.

A broken noise leaves you as he presses the fabric in harder, watching as the thick material soaks through with dark crimson.  Your breathing comes in uneven drags against him, hot enough that he can feel the fever through layers of soaked clothing. One of your hands is still tangled weakly in the sleeve of his jacket, fingers twitching every few seconds like your body can’t decide whether it’s conscious or not.

Ashley hovers beside both of you helplessly. “Is… is she okay?”

“No,” you rasp immediately.

Leon almost laughs despite himself. “Good. Still mean. That’s promising.”

Your head shifts slightly against his shoulder, eyes barely slitting open. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

Another weak sound leaves you as he carefully eases the blood-soaked cloth back enough to inspect the wound again. The difference is immediate.

The cavity looks cleaner now. Still angry. Still swollen and ugly beneath the lantern light, but healthier tissue finally shows beneath the ruined gray sections he removed. Fresh blood beads along the edges instead of cloudy discharge.

Still infected. But salvageable. At least, he hopes so.

“You need to flush it out,” you murmur after a second, words delayed. “Before closure.”

Ashley quickly grabs the kettle before Leon even asks. Steam curls weakly from the spout as she kneels beside him with shaking hands. “I can help.”

Leon nods once. “Slowly.”

The first pour makes your entire body seize. Hot water mixed with vodka spills through the open wound, diluted alcohol immediately washing pink down your arm and onto the floorboards beneath you. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as your head falls back against the wall again.

“God fucking damn it-!”

Ashley nearly jerks the kettle away. “I’m sorry!”

“Keep going!” you hiss instantly, though your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. When she hesitates, Leon is quick to guide her hand back, pouring the water again. He watches contaminated fluid pour free from the wound in thin streams, carrying diluted blood and tiny dark flecks of debris with it. More wood splinters. Smaller ones.

“Damn.” he mutters.

Your eyes stay shut. “Told you… souvenir.”

“You’re never allowed to say that word again.”

Ashley makes a weak noise somewhere between horror and laughter. The sound dies quickly when another tremor rolls through your body. This time, you’re shivering. Violent enough that he immediately notices.

Your teeth click together audibly as another wave hits you. One hand tightens hard against his sleeve again while your breathing turns thin and shallow. 

Ashley’s face pales. “Why is she shaking like that?”

“Fever,” Leon answers automatically.

You give a tiny motion of your head against the wall. “Shock too.”

That word settles heavily into the room. He looks back at the wound again, then at your face. Your skin has gone frighteningly pale beneath the fever flush now. Sweat glistens across your forehead. Your pupils look unfocused whenever your concentration slips for even a second. You keep drifting. Every few moments, your eyes close just a little too long.

“Hey.” Leon’s hand moves to your jaw before he can think about it, fingers rough against hot skin. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes drag back toward his slowly. “Trying.”

“You’re doing a shitty job.”

A faint twitch touches the corner of your mouth. Better.

Leon exhales quietly through his nose before looking back down. “Can we close it now?”

Your focus drops sluggishly toward the wound. It takes a second too long for you to answer. “No.”

His stomach sinks immediately. “Why not?”

“Too infected.” Your words slur slightly around exhaustion. “If you close it now… bacteria gets trapped inside.”

Ashley looks horrified. “So what do we do?”

“Pack it.”

He blinks. “Pack it with what?”

“Cloth.” A weak swallow. “Loose enough to drain. Otherwise abscess risk increases.”

Ashley visibly swallows nausea.

“Okay,” Leon says slowly. “Okay. We can do that.”

Your eyes drift shut again. This time, they stay closed. Leon’s chest tightens instantly. “Hey.”

No response.

 “C’mon.”

A pause. Then, finally, a weak hum against his shoulder. A breath hisses out from between his clenched teeth. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters quietly.

Your lips move faintly. “I do what I want.”

He ignores the sudden tightness in his chest and reaches for the torn strips of fabric Ashley brought earlier. Carefully, far more carefully than he ever thought himself capable of, he begins feeding the cloth into the wound cavity the way you instructed.

You twitch violently at the first touch.

“Easy,” he murmurs automatically.

“Feels like you’re stuffing a gunshot wound with sandpaper,” your words are hoarse and dry.

“That’s weirdly specific.”

Even though your eyes are closed, he can see them roll beneath your eyelids. “You asked me not to joke earlier.”

“Yeah, well. I changed my mind.” He sighs.

Ashley watches silently as Leon works, hands clasped tightly together in front of her chest now. Every so often her eyes flick toward your face instead of the wound itself, like she’s checking whether you’re still conscious. Honestly? He’s doing the exact same thing.

By the time he finishes, his hands are slick with diluted blood and alcohol. The wound is still ugly as hell, packed loosely beneath fresh bandaging improvised from Ashley’s ruined jacket, but the spreading gray tissue is gone. For now.

You look half-dead against the wall. But your breathing has steadied slightly. That’s enough for him to cling to.

Slowly, he leans back onto his heels, exhaustion hitting him all at once now that his hands stop moving.

Ashley breaks the silence first. “So…” Her voice wavers. “Did it work?”

Neither of you answer immediately. Then your eyes crack open just enough to look toward her. “Ask me again,” you mumble weakly, “if I’m still alive tomorrow.”

You actually manage to huff out a laugh at his joke, and once he explains who sent him, with enough detail to be sure he's who he says he is, you let your shoulders fall.

Leon finds something warm and gooey growing within him in the next hours as you traverse the rest of the ghost town with him. You smile at his jokes, you trust him more than he thinks he would in your position. There's something irrevocably empathetic about your nature; a hope that he clings to unintentionally.

And when the two of you hole up in a safe house to shelter from a roaring storm, he knows he's in deep trouble. Because just after he'd fought off the last of a hoard of infected, tripping over debris and falling branches— just after you've piled furniture in front of any doorway and window— you're approaching him cautiously. Like you would a frightened dog.

"I think that tree got you," you mutter, and he's not sure why, but he doesn't flinch away from your touch. Your fingertips are soft and he knows you've just met, but something electric fizzes beneath them. He tells himself it's just been too long since he's been close to someone, that it's hormones. Adrenaline. Whatever.

"You got any bandages in one of those pockets?" It's kind of funny, he thinks. That he's here to rescue you, to guide you out of this hellhole, and yet he's leaned against a wall while you tend to his wound that's probably not even that big of a deal. But apparently it is to you, and you seem satisfied when he produces a few bandages from his belt pocket. You borrow his water to wash the gash as best you can. It's not deep, but it's a risk of infection, nonetheless. You insist as much at his protests.

He tries to hide the shiver in his body when you brush his hair back from the wound to smooth the bandage on. The rain patters against the old house in a dull noise, and all he can here is your gentle breath as you move away with a pleased expression. Leon finds himself wishing you'd stay close.

"Are you okay?" The question catches him so off-guard his brain short-circuits. There's no tone of humor in your voice; no hint of amusement across your features. You're pretty as ever, just as he'd subconsciously noticed the longer he studied you, and the gentleness of your expression brings out a new epitome of beauty that has his pulse thrumming.

"What?" Is all he can manage, and you repeat your question. He doesn’t know how to respond. Nobody’s ever asked him that. What finally comes out is half an answer. “...It’s part of the job.”

“Yeah, but are you okay?” You touch his arm and he flinches a little, but doesn’t move away. “Just because it’s something you have to do, doesn’t mean it’s emotionless.” This was probably the third thing you've done that ruined him. Because it played over and over again in his head. Your lack of hesitation in reaching out to him; like he deserved care or some sense of stability. It wasn't a obligatory offering of therapy from the government; it was a genuine ask. A concern for his well-being, even if you had only met a few hours prior.

And that was only the beginning.

Even after you had returned home safely, Leon still thought of you. In the med-bay while the both of you had been separated for clearance. In the debrief room while he's interrogated by his superiors. In the hallway when he sees you reuniting with your family members. You spot him from over the shoulder of one of them, and his heart skips when your lips curl into a smile. Like you're happy to see him again. Like you appreciate him as more than just a contracted savior.

Leon's twisting his wrist in his hand behind his back as you approach him. Like a nervous kid. You're thanking him again, even after he's told you probably ten times it's not needed. And then you're thrusting your phone towards him and asking for his number. In case he needs someone to talk to. And he's putting it in as you tell him you'd like to buy him dinner. And he swears there's a hint of a flirt in the tone of your voice.

You meet him a few days later at a diner. It's late, and the joint has only two other people seated at the bar. It feels all too much like a date, and the fact that Leon had agonized over what to wear for two hours prior didn't help. Seeing you cleaned up and grinning, smelling of perfume and something sweet makes his palms sweat. He's not sure the last time he went on a date, even if this wasn't that, it made him as nervous as one.

You soothe his nerves easily. Laughing, asking him about work, his nonexistent hobbies. He feels something warm crawl up his neck the more you gaze at him, like you care for him. And even if he won't let himself believe it, you certainly do.

"Your job must be so hard on you," you muse, tracing a finger over the top of your milkshake's glass. It's long gone now, both of you having eaten what seems like an hour ago. But you have yet to move. "I can't imagine the things you see. Having to process that. You're braver than most, you know?"

"Easy tiger, you might hurt yourself stroking my ego that hard." He scoffs, feeling a bit sheepish. You say it like you mean it. Like you're not buttering him up for something in return. And maybe it's because you've been a part of all of it firsthand; maybe because you see right through him. The frowns, the brow twisted in perpetual stress. Shoulders tense and ready for a fight, even now, in a cozy diner.

"You should work on that, tough guy," you raise an eyebrow at him. He meets your gaze steady, for once that night, and feels himself wanting to reach across the table to touch you. To feel your soft fingers against his skin again. You pull him in like you're magnetized to his very being. It's maddening. Leon wonders if it's possible to fall in love this fast. He has to be crazy. He's just lonely. Right? "Letting someone care about you and all. It's not as hard as your broody eyes make it out to be."

Leon's struck silent by your words. They're not a confession, really. Not with the way you say it so easily, like it's obvious and like it wouldn't take him ten years to build the courage to say something like that out loud. And you only worsen his struggle when you're sliding next to him in the booth and reaching for the bandage on his forehead. It'd been replaced during his medical clearance, but he honestly hasn't even thought to check it since then. And god, he's glad he hadn't.

Because you're pushing his hair back again, and you're so warm next to him, and the scent of your perfume is clinging to him. The bandage has already peeled up on the side from being held on too long, and you mumble an ask if you can remove it. Leon barely hears himself say yes. The adhesive goes without struggle, and you smile at the now closed, already scabbed over cut underneath. Your thumb rubs away some of the remnants of the adhesive, and Leon's eyes betray him when they flicker to your lips for half a second.

If it were anyone else, they may have missed it. But you're observant, you care, and you notice. And Leon feels his heart drop to his stomach when you pull away. You're talking to him again like nothing's shifted, a reasonable distance between the two of you now. But you're still at his side.

He loses the fight to pay the check, but doubles your tip before you stand to leave. He walks you to your car, and just before you bid him goodbye, you turn back to engulf him in a hug. He can't make his brain work fast enough to hug you back. Before he can even process it, you've pulled back, planted a kiss on his cheek, and climbed into the driver's seat. He stands there in the moonlit parking lot like a lost puppy.

The next time he sees you in person, it's another date (but not a date) at the same diner. He'd actually managed to ask you, and you'd replied in half a second with an eager yes.

At this point, you'd had what felt like thousands of conversations. Texts and phone calls between work that had the both of you attached to your cells like a lifeline. Every time, you always started the conversation the same. That you were just checking up on him. Like he was the civilian that was rescued, that his experience in that ghost town wasn't just another day on the job.

A few weeks of knowing each other and you were already far removed from that scared mess of a person in the corner of a run-down house. You're a shining star in Leon's vision, a radiating sunbeam that made him feel like he had purpose again. Like maybe he's a person again.

This time, you choose to sit next to him from the beginning of the night. He can smell your perfume again, and he leans just a little bit closer to you. Your heart is pounding in your ears at his presence. Everything is so wonderfully fuzzy. Sugary sweet laughter between the two of you and brushing shoulders. Time flies fast and soon enough it's passing midnight, and he feels a little bad because you're beginning to yawn.

You allow Leon to pay this time. He feels a small sense of pride at being the one to care for you, even in such a miniscule way.

Leon walks you to your car. His hands are behind his back again as you lean against your driver's side door. You could've unlocked it and bid him goodbye by now. As in it's a hypothetical possibility. But you're locked on the way the breeze shifts his hair, and his blue eyes dragging over your face. It's not even an option. You're glued in front of him, asking how work's been. Which is code for are you okay? Always checking in. Maybe if were someone else, he'd have been annoyed by now. But its you. It's you and your caring eyes, your ginger words that are so damn genuine. It's been a long, long time since he'd felt that painted so heavily on him, imbued into his heart.

He's watching you with something close to hunger. There's a softness to it; rounding his sharp eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hands are twisted behind him, almost shy, and you wish they'd pull you closer to him.

Your features are soft in the glow of the neon sign in the parking lot, lit pink and blue as you peer at him through your lashes.

"It's almost healed," you suddenly say, eyes just above his own. His breath hitches as you brush his hair back, fingers tracing over the baby pink line where the ugly gash used to be. He thinks maybe you've done more brain damage to him than a tree branch ever could, because he feels a little drunk on your encroaching closeness.

You've somehow creeped closer as you look him over, and before he knows it you've placed your palm against his chest.

"Maybe this is forward, but," you brush down the collar of his jacket, dragging your eyes up his face. "I think I could fall in love with you, Leon." His mouth goes dry. Suddenly his heart has flown upwards in his throat.

"Do you want to?" Your smile grows wider and you huff.

"I kind of think I already am," you tilt your head and press closer. He's sure you can feel his heart pounding beneath your fingers curling in his shirt. "You can touch me, you know," you trace a finger across his shoulder, as if giving him permission to free his hands from their nervous bind. He does so ever so slowly, losing any sense of willpower to keep his touch to himself. Foolishly, he thinks steadying his hands on your hips will help him. Instead, he's sent into a dizzyingly warm headspace when you pull him against you. He's caging you into your car door, and the look you give him is as if this is what you've wanted this whole time. "Do you want to?"

God, he does. He's not sure had a chance to stop it. Like doesn't feel like a proper explanation of the pull, the need he has for you next to him. The lift in his spirit when you ask him how he is, when you check in with him because you've been thinking about him. The way you send him falling over backwards to do anything for you, and the way he aches knowing that you've cared for him this whole time. So casually, so fully, even when you barely knew him. It's only grown stronger. His hold tightens on you and he ducks his head with a groan. He nearly keels over right there in the parking lot when you guide his gaze back up to yours with a hand on his cheek. He feels like a whiny dog when he utters his next sentence, but he could care less. It's the only thing that will slow his racing heart.

"Fuck, can I kiss you?"

Most of the boxes are gone now, unpacked and broken down in the garage. The walls aren't quite as bare, photographs slowly finding their places among crooked picture frames and shelves that Steve insists are straight. The fridge is covered in magnets, the kitchen drawers are organised according to her system, not Steve's, and every room carries little traces of them.

Their home.

Still new enough to make her smile whenever she says it.

The bedroom smells faintly of her perfume.

Something soft and floral, lingering in the air as the late evening light filters through the curtains, catching on the mirror and the scattered little things across her vanity – lipstick, a brush, a pair of earrings set carefully beside each other.

Downstairs, music crackles faintly through the speakers. Something Steve insisted on putting on 'for atmosphere,' even though no one’s arrived yet.

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress for what must be the tenth time.

It doesn’t need fixing.

She knows it doesn’t.

Still – her fingers fuss with the fabric anyway, tugging slightly at the waist, flattening something that isn’t wrinkled.

"Okay, so I think the tape deck might actually be-"

Steve’s voice cuts off the second he steps into the room.

She sees it happen in the mirror.

The way he just… stops.

His hand still on the doorframe, his expression going completely still, eyes fixed on her like he’s forgotten whatever he was about to say.

"Wow."

Her lips twitch into a small smile, a faint blush rising as she glances up at him through the mirror.

"Hi," she says softly, almost shy all of a sudden, before her gaze drops again, fingers going back to smoothing the dress. "Do you think it’s alright? I’m starting to think it’s a bit much, I don-"

His hands find her waist before she can finish.

Warm. Familiar.

He steps in close behind her, pulling her gently back against his chest, their reflections lining up in the mirror.

"Darling," he murmurs, voice softer now, but certain, "you look phenomenal."

She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head slightly, even as the blush deepens. "That’s a big word for you."

"Hey," he protests lightly, a smile pulling at his mouth, but he doesn’t miss the way she’s deflecting.

He never does.

His grip tightens just a little, grounding, and he leans in, brushing a slow kiss just beneath her ear.

"Okay," he murmurs against her skin, voice dropping into something teasing, "maybe I’ve been expanding my vocabulary..."

Another kiss – lower this time, softer.

"...For occasions like this."

She exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing as she melts back into him, her hands coming up to rest over his where they sit at her stomach, fingers tracing absent patterns along his skin.

"You’re ridiculous," she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.

"Mm," he hums, lips brushing her neck again. "Still right, though."

She smiles at that, just a little helplessly, before turning slightly in his arms, only as much as he’ll let her.

"Which earrings?"

She lifts one from both options, holding them up above her shoulder so he can see them.

Steve presses one last kiss to her neck before pulling back just enough to actually look, one arm still looped securely around her waist.

He studies them like it’s the most important decision he’s ever made.

Then he reaches out, tapping one.

"That one."

She tilts her head. "Any particular reason?"

"Yeah," he says simply, taking them from her. "They’ll match your eyes."

Her breath catches – just slightly – and she looks away, smiling despite herself.

"Shut up."

"Never."

Before she can reach for the other, his hands are already there.

He turns her gently to face him fully, his touch careful, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, even though they very much don’t.

She stills, watching him.

There’s something about the way he concentrates – brows slightly furrowed, tongue just barely pressing to the inside of his cheek – that makes her chest feel warm and tight all at once.

He’s so gentle.

Like she’s something delicate.

Like she matters.

Even though she could do this in seconds, she doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush him.

Because this-

this is way better.

When he finally gets the first one in, he leans back just slightly to check his work, then moves to the second, just as careful.

"Hold still," he murmurs, unnecessarily.

She smiles. "I am holding still."

"Could be more still."

She laughs softly, but obliges anyway.

When he finishes, his fingers brush lightly against her jaw as he pulls away.

"There," he says, satisfied.

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"Thank you."

But the way she looks at him lingers a second longer.

Says more than just that.

And he knows it.

His hand comes up briefly to cup her cheek, thumb brushing her skin before he lets her go.

She turns back to the mirror, giving herself one last check. Turning slightly, smoothing the back of her dress, glancing over her shoulder-

–and then–

smack.

"Steve!"

She jumps, laughing, hand flying back to swat at him as he grins behind her.

"Sorry, sweetheart."

He doesn’t sound sorry.

Not even a little.

His hands slide back to her hips, pulling her flush against him again, chin resting briefly on her shoulder.

"I did say you looked phenomenal."

"Oh my god," she laughs, shaking her head, but she’s leaning into him again anyway.

Always does.

His lips find her neck again, slower this time, more deliberate – like he’s testing the waters.

She hums softly, eyes closing for just a second as she lets herself sink into it.

Just a second.

Then her eyes open again, catching the clock on the wall.

"Steve," she murmurs, breath a little uneven, "people are gonna start arriving in..." she squints slightly, "...like, eight minutes.”

He kisses a little lower.

Finds that spot that makes her inhale sharply.

"Good thing," he murmurs against her skin, voice warm with amusement, "I only need five."

"Steve-!"

But he’s already turning her, hands firm on her waist as he spins her to face him, kissing her before she can properly protest.

She laughs against his mouth, hands coming up to his chest as he starts guiding her backward.

"Steve, we really shouldn’t-"

"Probably not," he agrees easily, like it means nothing.

The back of her knees hit the bed.

She lets out a surprised little laugh as she sits back slightly, his hands still holding her there, his mouth brushing along her jaw now.

"Seriously," she tries again, though it’s softer now, less convincing.

His hand slides- just enough to make her breath hitch, a soft sound escaping her before she can stop it.

He freezes.

Then slowly pulls back.

He freezes.

Then slowly pulls back.

"…Okay," he says, far too composed, like he’s making a noble sacrifice. "You’re right. I’ll stop."

There it is.

That tone.

Barely there, but she knows him.

She stares at him for half a second, breath uneven, lips parted, eyes flicking briefly – traitorously – to the clock on the wall.

Seven minutes.

Her gaze drifts back to him.

To the way he’s looking at her.

To the way his hands are still resting at her waist like he hasn’t actually let go of the idea at all.

She exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh.

"Okay," she says, already leaning in, already closing the distance between them. "But you better make it quick."

His eyebrows lift – just slightly, impressed – and then she’s kissing him again before he can respond.

It’s not tentative this time.

It’s warm and certain and wanting.

She pulls back only for a second, breath brushing his lips. "And don’t ruin my hair."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he murmurs, smiling.

Then she’s kissing him again, deeper this time, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair, holding him there.

Her other hand moves lower, finding the line of his waistband, and-

Steve lets out a quiet laugh against her mouth, something a little disbelieving, a lot fond.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he’s already pulling her closer, hands slipping down to find the hem of her dress, fingers brushing warm skin as he lifts it just enough.

She exhales softly into his mouth, pressing closer, like she can’t quite get enough of him.

Like she never does.

His forehead bumps lightly against hers for half a second, both of them a little breathless, a little giddy with it.

"Jeez," he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking over her face like he’s trying to take it all in at once, "you really are phenomenal."

She laughs quietly, but it melts into something softer as she kisses him again.

And the world narrows.

Just for a little while.

A few minutes later-

The bedroom is quieter.

The air warmer.

Softer, somehow.

She stands in front of the mirror again, smoothing her hands over her dress – again, though this time there’s a faint flush still lingering across her cheeks, her lips a little more pink than before.

She adjusts one of her earrings – still in place, thanks to him – and takes a steadying breath.

Behind her, Steve is already halfway out the door, running a hand quickly through his hair, trying (and failing) to make himself look a little more put together.

“They’re here!” he calls, already moving down the hallway.

“Go!” she calls back, laughing under her breath. “I’ll be down in a second!”

His footsteps thud down the stairs, followed by the distant sound of the front door opening, his voice greeting someone brightly, easy, warm, like nothing happened at all.

She lingers for just a moment longer.

Her eyes flick, almost unconsciously, to the bed.

Sheets slightly rumpled.

A quiet, intimate kind of mess.

Her smile turns soft.

Fond.

A little flustered.

"Insatiable," she murmurs to herself, shaking her head just slightly.

Then she reaches over, flicks off the bedroom light, and pulls the door closed behind her-

carrying that warmth with her as she heads downstairs,

to their home,

already full of life.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Part two!!

Sorry it took so long, I started writing a completely different part two and intended this to be part three instead and push everything back a part but... I think I'm just gonna make what I was writing like a drabble? Then maybe I can just add extra parts that don't need to be read within the context of the story but they are just cute and you get to see a bit more of their relationship??

All likes, follows, comments, reblogs and requests are very much appreciated - I love hearing from you guys! 💙

Much luv & thx,

bvnny 💛

Nancy and Robin walk up ahead of you, while Steve and Eddie clamber to avoid the vines behind, talking about… Ozzy Osborn? You shake your head. Every now and again you see Nancy and Robin turn around and glance at Steve. You can tell they’re worried about the two of you. You’re not sure what’s going on between Steve and Nancy this week. You weren’t the type to feel insecure over exes or friendships or any of that, but it felt like Steve was brushing you off to the side.

When you said as much after he tried to ditch you and the kids to join Nancy and Robin at the library, his defensiveness had startled you.

-

“So what if I wanna make sure Nance is being careful?” his tone was sharp.

“Steve, she said she could handle it. Did you forget that she went toe to toe with a giant meaty blob last year and won?”

“That was because of El and you know it,” he pointed a finger at you and you felt your chest crumple in at the action. You try to give him an olive branch

“It just— I’m probably being stupid, and I know this isn’t why, but it feels like seeing her again has brought up all of these.. unresolved feelings for you. I just, I guess I need reassurance that’s not the case here,” you sigh out. Hopeful that this will absolve whatever miscommunication has settled into your relationship.

Your stomach drops when Steve’s face screws up instead. “Oh, so that’s what this is, huh? You dont trust me.”

Your mouth falls open. “What?! Steve, no, I told you it’s probably just me-“

He cuts you off. “No, you know what? For once I don’t want to have to be the babysitter. If you can’t work through this yourself, maybe we should just take a break from all of this.”

Your heart cracks. “You don’t mean that,” you whisper.

Steve scoffs. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t want another person to take care of right now.”

Your lower lip shakes as tears threaten to spill over. “Fine,” your voice cracks as you walk past him and out of the Wheelers’ basement.

-

When deciding who would be going out to lovers lake to investigate the gate, Steve had pushed for you not to go. It was Robin who called him out on his behavior when he finally relented.

Still, seeing him get pulled under the water, his expression shifting from confused, worried, and finally to fully terrified made your stomach turn. You dove in after him without a second thought, and when you came out of the gate to see him getting torn apart by those bats, you almost lost it.

After you had all somehow gotten rid of the brood guarding the gate, Steve rounded on you so fast you stumbled back into Eddie, the other boy steadying you with his hands on your shoulders. “What the hell were you thinking following me down here?” He seethed.

“Steve, what is your problem? I’m your girlfriend and I was worried about you! Or did you forget that?” You scoffed.

He shakes his head, panting from the exertion of fighting off the bats still. “It was a stupid idea. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah and you could’ve been eaten alive!”

He opens his mouth to retaliate, but you’re both cut off by Robin pointing out the swarm of bats heading your way. Which leads you to now, you walking alone between the group. You think you see skull rock in the distance and breathe a sigh of relief, picking up your pace to hopefully get this over with faster.

You hear his voice call your name before you feel the sting of sharp needles in your leg, it giving under you instantly as you cry out, splayed face first across the forest ground. You thrash against the force, throwing your elbows back until you hear a squeal and it relents for a moment, allowing you to flip yourself over. You see it hover above you before it dives back in, biting the flesh of your thigh. You scream out as you try to pry it off of you.

“Steve!”

You feel a pair of arms under your shoulders and hear Nancy next to your ear. “You’re gonna want to close your eyes.” You do as she says. You hear Steve grunt, an object hit the bat as it squeals again, and feel your flesh tear out of your body as the creature’s sent flying in the other direction.

Your scream echos across the trees, your entire leg is on fire, and panic sets in as you look up at Nancy, eyes wide. She opens her mouth to say something but Steve rushes in before she can get the words out.

“There’s gotta be more coming, we have to get to skull rock.” His eyes rake over you, grimacing as he assesses your leg. Nancy steps back and stands.

“I.. won’t be able to walk,” you manage through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, I figured as much, honey. Hold still, okay?” The bitterness from earlier is missing from his tone, but when you look at him, his face is still set with hardness at the edges. Still, you nod as best as you can, looping an arm around his shoulders as he gently picks you up in a bridal carry. You whimper as your leg is jostled but bite your cheek to stop yourself from crying.

Steve starts walking, careful not to trip any vines. Eventually, Skull Rock comes into view. You feel your vision blurring at the edges as you try not to think about how much blood you’ve lost. Your head lolls, falling against Steve’s shoulder as you huff.

“Hey, hey, stay with me honey. You hear me? No passin’ out!” A sharp blade of fear works its way through you at his voice. If Steve is scared, what chance do you really have? You feel tears streaking down your cheeks, unable to control them anymore.

“Quick, get her under here,” you hear Robin’s voice at the edge of your consciousness. Shuffling, and then you’re being set down under the formation. You see Steve’s face above yours, eyes wild. Nancy kneels next to your leg, makeshift tourniquet in hand. You look over at her and shake your head, eyes wide. “N-no,” you mumble out. Steve clears your hair out of your face, turning your head towards his. “Hey, hey, she’s gonna have to, babe. You’re—“ he braces himself. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”

You look at him, blinking slowly before closing your eyes and nodding, hand fisting into the bottom of your jacket. You feel Nancy wrap the tourniquet around your leg and squeeze your eyes tighter. You feel Steve’s hand take your own away from the end of your jacket and squeeze gently. Nancy counts to three and yanks the tourniquet secure. You cry out, but it comes out as more of a whimper from the exhaustion. Instinctively, your body curls towards Steve’s, cheek brushing against the coarse hair on his chest. His arm comes up behind your back instantly, trying his best to soothe you. Your breaths are short, gasping, but the dizziness has stopped. Nancy sighs. “Okay. That should hold until we can get you back to Steve’s. But we should get going, and fast.”

Steve nods and hauls you up into his arms again. The weight of everything starts hitting you as you start to cry softly against him. Steve ducks his head a little so you’ll hear his lilting voice. “Shh, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Repeated over and over like a prayer.

You look at him, his face streaked with dirt, the angry ring of welts around his neck, hair wild. “‘M sorry, Steve,” you whisper. His brows furrow, confused. “Sorry I had to become another person you have to take care of,” you whisper. His face crumples with regret. “Oh honey…” his voice is wrecked. “I was being an idiot.”

Your eyes droop, heavy with exhaustion and emotion. “Talk ‘bout it later, kay?” You manage to slur, giving into sleep. You feel a kiss on your temple as you fade into unconsciousness in his arms.

-

You don’t remember how you got back to the Steve’s house as you blink yourself awake in his bed. You’re in an old pair of gym shorts, near bandages wrapping around your thigh. You grab the water sitting on the nightstand and finish it off in a few seconds. The door creaks open gently and Steve walks in. His face brightens when he sees you. “You’re awake, thank god,” he sighs, sitting next to you on the plush mattress. You nod slowly, not having the energy to talk yet.

“Listen, honey, I was an idiot the other day for saying that stuff to you; for being so mean to you. You didn’t deserve that. There’s nothing going on between Nance and I, I swear. I just— we’ve all been through so much shit over the past few years. I just fucked up, when I said I should go with them, okay? I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Steve. I think it’s just.. hard because she was your first love. You don’t forget that bond easily, and then she’s also been through all of this crazy upside down stuff with you. And she’s smart and pretty and…” you scoff at yourself. “It just caught up to me. Because you—you’re my first love, so I guess I got a little insecure and then hurt when you didn’t reassure me right away.”

Steve leans closer to you, tucking you under his arm. You go willingly, cuddling into his chest. “Nance.. she taught me a lot. About myself. But, at the end of the day, we didn’t work as a couple. And you know what?” You look up at him. “I’m glad for that. Yeah, it sucked when it all went down but I’m glad it didn’t work out because otherwise, we never would’ve started talking that night we were helping Dustin and Lucas and Max at the junkyard. Or if we had, I would’ve been a dick. And I never would’ve fallen in love with the best girl I know,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your head.

You sniffle, wiping at your tears. “I love you Stevie, I’m sorry you have so much on your plate.”

He shakes his head. “Like I said, I shouldn’t have said that. This group of people.. looking after everyone, it gives me a purpose. I’m thankful for it, even if it drives me a little crazy sometimes.”

You chuckle softly. “You’re allowed to admit that we drive you crazy. I know what we’re capable of.”

He laughs but shakes his head. “Not you, sweetheart. Never. When that bat attacked you and you were bleeding out.. you looked so scared and in pain, and it scared me. I don’t wanna lose you, and with that fight it felt pretty damn close,” his voice is thick with tears. You reach up to wipe a stray one off of his cheek before leaning in to kiss him. He tenses for a moment before melting into you, wrapping you even closer in his arms.

“I’m not going anywhere Steve. We’re good, yeah? Just… next time, take a minute if you need it, and talk to me about what’s on your mind, okay?”

He nods. “Anything for you, honey. I love you.”

“I love you too, Steve.”

The engine roared to life beneath you.

The vibration travelled through the frame and up your spine.

A tingling sensation between your legs, betraying what you were trying not to make happen tonight. 

Then you were moving.

The city blurred around you.

Streetlights flickered past.

Warm summer air rushed against your skin.

At first you kept your distance.

Hands barely touching him.

Conscious of every inch.

Every accidental brush.

Every shift in movement.

Then he took a corner.

Your balance disappeared instantly.

“Shit-”

Your hands grabbed automatically.

Fingers bunching into his shirt.

Leon steadied the bike.

“Got you.”

Two words.

Nothing more.

Still.

Your chest tightened.

Because he said it so naturally.

Like he always would.

Like he always had.

The rest of the ride passed in a blur of city lights and engine noise.

And for the first time all evening you weren't thinking about work.

Or bills.

Or the café.

Or nursery pickups.

Or whether Freya would wake up before seven.

You were just there.

Pressed close enough to feel the warmth radiating through his back.

Close enough to remember exactly what it felt like to belong beside him.

Which was dangerous.

Because the closer the restaurant got, the harder it became to forget that none of this was really yours anymore.

The restaurant was nicer than you expected.

Before, back in 1998, Leon and you were always on a budget, but now it seemed you were the only one on a budget. 

“You hate this already,” he observed.

You glanced up from the menu.

“No.”

“You do.”

“I don't.”

“You looked at the wine list and got nervous.”

“I looked at the prices.”

That earned a laugh.

A real one.

The kind that softened his entire face.

“You're not paying.”

“That's not the point.”

“It literally is.”

You rolled your eyes.

Some things never changed.

The waiter arrived.

Leon ordered first.

Then immediately ordered the drink you wanted before you had the chance.

You blinked.

He noticed.

“What?”

“How’d you know?”

His brow furrowed.

“It’s you.”

The answer came so quickly it caught you off guard.

Like it wasn't even something worth mentioning.

Like remembering you was automatic.

The waiter disappeared.

You looked down at your hands.

Suddenly very interested in the table.

“You still do that.”

You looked up.

“Do what?”

“Avoid eye contact when you're embarrassed.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I'm not embarrassed.”

“You are.”

“Shut up.”

His smile widened.

Small.

Victorious.

Dangerous.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The candle between you flickered softly.

Outside, city lights blurred against the window.

Inside, it felt strangely private.

Leon rested one arm against the table.

Watching you.

Not intensely.

Just...

Looking.

Like he was trying to make up for years of absence all at once.

“What?”

His eyes softened.

“Nothing.”

“You keep staring.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be.”

A pause.

Then- 

“No.”

Your heart skipped.

Because he didn't look away.

Didn't joke.

Didn't retreat.

Just held your gaze.

“I'm not sorry.”

The air shifted.

Tiny.

Almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Enough that you suddenly became very aware of how close the table felt.

How warm the restaurant was.

How blue his eyes still were.

God.

This was a terrible idea.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

You looked away first.

Coward.

He smiled into his drink.

And somehow that was worse.

“So,” you cleared your throat. “Where’d you get the funds for a place like this.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He said sternly, eyeing you up across the table.

“Hmm.” You looked down, playing with a ring on your finger. “Very mysterious Mr Kennedy.” 

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“You hate that.”

“Hate what?”

“The mysterious thing.”

“Because it's annoying.”

“It keeps me interesting.”

“It makes me want to throw things at you.”

That earned a quiet laugh.

“Fair.”

The waiter arrived with your drinks then, saving Leon from whatever comeback he was about to make.

You thanked him automatically.

Leon waited until the waiter disappeared before speaking again.

“You still do that.”

You frowned.

“Do what?”

“Thank everyone.”

Your brows lifted.

“Most people do.”

“No.”

He shook his head.

“Not like you.”

You looked away immediately.

There it was again.

That feeling.

Like he was paying attention to things nobody else noticed.

You picked up your glass.

“You're weird.”

“Probably.”

“Definitely.”

His smile widened.

For a moment the conversation drifted.

Work.

The café.

Marco setting increasingly expensive things on fire.

Rachel threatening increasingly creative forms of violence.

Freya.

Mostly Freya.

Leon listened to every story like it was the most important thing he'd ever heard.

You noticed that.

The way he never interrupted.

The way his expression softened every time her name came up.

The way he asked questions.

Little ones.

The ones that mattered.

“What cartoon is she obsessed with now?”

“Still anything dinosaurs- or fairies.”

“She made me watch the same one three times.”

“Only three?”

He groaned.

“Don't.”

You laughed into your drink.

“She made Rachel learn the theme song.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

His head dropped into one hand.

“Poor Rachel.”

“Don't let her hear you say that.”

“Never.”

A comfortable silence settled.

Not awkward.

Not forced.

Just...

Comfortable.

You hadn't realised how much you'd missed that.

Sitting across from him.

Talking.

Watching his face change when he laughed.

Watching him relax.

For a second he looked less like the man who disappeared for months at a time.

Less like the man carrying secrets he couldn't tell you.

Just the Leon from before, your fresh faced police man in training. 

Then he caught you looking.

Your eyes immediately dropped to your glass.

Coward.

A faint huff of amusement left him.

“Caught you.”

“Shut up.”

“You were staring.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was thinking.”

“About?”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Nothing.

Exactly.

Leon's grin turned crooked.

The old one.

The one you hadn't seen nearly enough these past few years.

And suddenly your chest hurt.

Because it would've been so easy.

All of this.

If life had just left the two of you alone.

The thought hit harder than you expected.

Maybe Leon noticed.

Because some of the amusement faded from his face.

“Hey.”

Your eyes lifted.

His expression had softened.

“What?”

A pause.

Then-

“You look happy.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Tonight.”

His voice was quieter now.

More careful.

“You look happy.”

The words landed somewhere deep.

Somewhere dangerous.

You looked away first.

Again.

And when you spoke your voice came out smaller than intended.

“I am.”

For a second neither of you moved.

Leon just watched you.

Like hearing that mattered more than anything else you'd said all evening.

And maybe it did.

“Me too.” He sighed.

“Well, you've got great company.”

He laughed.

A proper one this time.

Head dipping slightly.

Eyes closing for half a second.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd heard that sound from him.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not the tired huff he gave when something was mildly amusing.

An actual laugh.

Warm.

Unfiltered.

The kind he used to have before life got its hands on him.

“Wow.” He shook his head slightly. “Five years and you're still impossible.”

You grinned over the rim of your glass.

“Its six years, and you're still obsessed with me.”

“How could I not be.”

The answer came far too quickly.

Your smile froze.

So did his.

A beat.

Then another.

Leon looked away first.

“Jesus.” He muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him.

His ears were red.

Actually red.

And suddenly the situation became unbelievably funny.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

“Leon Kennedy.”

“Don't.”

“You flirted.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was making an observation.”

“You were flirting.”

“I wasn't.”

“You should know better.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You're enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth.

God.

There he was.

The man you'd fallen in love with.

Not the ghost who came and went.

Not the tired voice on the end of a phone line.

Just Leon.

Sitting across from you.

Arguing about nonsense.

The food arrived shortly afterwards, rescuing both of you from yourselves.

For a little while conversation became easier.

Safer.

You stole food off his plate.

He complained.

You stole more.

He let you.

And neither of you acknowledged that he'd deliberately ordered things he knew you'd like.

Eventually your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

“Can I ask you something?”

His eyes lifted.

“Depends.”

You rolled yours.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“The disappearing.”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Immediately you regretted it.

The atmosphere shifted.

Not ruined.

Just...

Changed.

Leon's expression softened.

Then closed off slightly around the edges.

The familiar look.

The one you hated.

“I can’t- ” He said quietly.

Your gaze dropped to the table.

“Sorry.”

“No.”

His voice was firm enough to make you look up.

“You don't have to apologise for asking.”

A pause.

His thumb traced slowly around the stem of his glass.

“I just don't have an answer.”

There it was.

The wall.

Not angry.

Not defensive.

Just there.

You looked down again.

“Right.”

Silence settled.

Not quite comfortable anymore.

Leon exhaled slowly.

“I wish I could tell you.”

You laughed softly.

Humourless.

“You always say that.”

“I know.”

“You know how frustrating that is?”

“Yeah.”

“You really don't.”

His jaw tightened.

Something flickered behind his eyes.

Pain.

Guilt.

Maybe both.

“Maybe not.”

The answer caught you off guard.

Because usually he'd defend himself.

Usually he'd retreat.

Tonight he just...

Took it.

“I'm trying.” He admitted quietly.

Your chest tightened.

“Leon-”

“I know it doesn't look like it.”

His eyes finally met yours again.

Steady.

Tired.

Honest.

“I know I'm asking you to trust someone who keeps leaving.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because for once he wasn't dodging around it.

Wasn't pretending it didn't exist.

He saw it.

The damage.

The hurt.

All of it.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because you still didn't know how to fix any of it.

Neither did he.

“It’s okay-” You started, but his face had turned from his old self to the trauma ridden version in front of you. 

“It’s not.” “I just want to help-” “I cant burden you with that-”

“What happened?” You blurted. 

He stayed quiet. 

“I cant say.”

“Raccoon City.” You said, just matter of factly. 

“Please-”

“I thought you were gone, Leon.” 

“I can’t talk about this.” He barked, setting his cutlery down loudly on the table. 

The noise attracted a few unwanted glances.

Both of you froze.

Leon closed his eyes.

Immediately.

Like he regretted it the second it happened.

A slow breath left him.

Then another.

His hand came up, rubbing across his face.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

You stared at him.

Not because he'd raised his voice.

Because he'd apologised.

“You don't have to apologise.”

“Yeah.” He laughed quietly. Humourless. “I do.”

Silence settled between you.

The restaurant suddenly felt too loud.

Too bright.

Too full of people.

Leon stared down at the table.

At his hands.

At anything except you.

“You ever have one of those memories?” he asked quietly.

Your brows furrowed.

“What kind?”

“The kind that doesn't stay in the past.”

Your chest tightened.

His jaw shifted.

Eyes fixed firmly on the table.

“You know it's over.”

A pause.

“You know you're safe.”

Another pause.

“But your head doesn't.”

You didn't interrupt.

Didn't move.

Leon swallowed hard.

“I don't get to leave it there.”

The words came out rough.

Honest.

Painfully so.

“It comes with me.”

Your throat tightened.

“Leon-”

“I see things.”

His laugh was bitter.

Tiny.

“Smell things.”

He shook his head once.

“Sometimes I wake up and it takes a minute to figure out where I am.”

Your eyes burned.

Because for the first time in years he was actually telling you something.

Not everything.

Not even close.

But something.

“I thought if I kept it away from you...” He exhaled sharply. “If I kept all of it away from you then maybe you'd never have to carry any of it.”

Your heart broke a little.

Because suddenly it made sense.

Not the disappearing.

Not the secrets.

But the intention behind them.

The stupid, self-destructive intention.

“You idiot.”

Leon blinked.

Actually blinked.

“What?”

“You absolute idiot.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you think that's how this works?”

His expression softened.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Doesn't stop me trying.”

A laugh escaped you.

Small.

Watery.

You hated him a little for that.

Leon looked at you for a long moment.

Then quietly-

“I’ve missed a lot.”

The words almost disappeared beneath the noise of the restaurant.

You knew exactly what he meant.

The first steps.

The birthdays.

The scraped knees.

The first words.

Everything.

His eyes dropped.

“I know that.”

And there it was.

The thing underneath all of it.

Not guilt for being late.

Not guilt for leaving.

Grief.

For years he could never get back.

For a daughter he loved from thousands of miles away.

For a life that kept happening without him.

Your hand moved before you thought about it.

Crossing the table.

Covering his.

Leon went completely still.

His eyes dropped to your hand.

Then slowly lifted to your face.

“I know.” you said softly.

Nothing more.

Just that.

Because there wasn't anything else to say.

For a second he looked like he might fall apart.

Instead his fingers curled slightly beneath yours.

Holding on.

Just for a moment.

Before the waiter appeared with dessert and both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

The interruption was almost embarrassing.

You immediately reached for your water.

Leon became deeply interested in the drinks menu.

Neither of you looked at each other.

“Right.” You cleared your throat.

“Right.”

The waiter set the plates down.

Smiled knowingly.

And walked away.

You wanted the ground to open.

Leon looked equally thrilled.

“Nice save.”

“Shut up.”

A laugh escaped him.

Softer now.

The heaviness from before hadn't vanished entirely, but it had eased.

The conversation drifted again.

Easier topics.

Safer ones.

Though every now and then you'd catch him looking.

The same way he'd always watched you.

Like he was listening even when you weren't speaking.

Like he was afraid to miss something.

At one point you reached for your drink.

So did he.

Your hands brushed.

Barely.

A stupid little thing.

Nothing.

And yet both of you stopped.

Your eyes met.

Leon's gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

So quick you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.

Almost.

Heat crept up your neck.

You looked away first.

Again.

Coward.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“Still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Run away.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“I'm sitting right here.”

“Mentally.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You shook your head.

But you were smiling.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His expression softened immediately.

Like seeing you happy was still his favourite thing in the world.

Which was dangerous.

Because suddenly you couldn't stop wondering what would've happened if life had gone differently.

The thought sat between you.

Unspoken.

But present.

And judging by the look in Leon's eyes, you weren't the only one thinking it.

“Can I take you somewhere?” He said abruptly.

“Like where?” 

“You’ll see.” 

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“No.”

“No?”

“No mysterious Leon plans.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“Trust me.”

“That has historically gone terribly.”

“Fair.”

You pointed your fork at him.

“Can I finish first?”

The second the words left your mouth you knew.

Leon knew too.

His brows lifted.

Just slightly.

That stupid, infuriating smirk appearing a second later.

Your cheeks immediately went hot.

“Oh god.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You thought it.”

“I absolutely did.”

“Leon.”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

“You walked into that one.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“This is awful.”

“I'm having a great time.”

“I'm never speaking again.”

“Good luck with that.”

You looked up long enough to glare at him.

The grin on his face only widened.

God.

There it was.

That version of him.

The one that used to make your stomach flip with a single look.

The one who knew exactly how to tease you without crossing a line.

The one you'd spent years trying not to miss.

“Eat your dessert.” He said.

“You're the worst.”

“Probably.”

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏

The city lights blurred together as the motorcycle cut through the evening.

At some point you'd stopped worrying about where Leon was taking you. 

Stopped pretending you weren't enjoying yourself.

Your arms rested around his waist now.

The wind tugged at your hair.

The summer air was warm.

And for the first time in a very long time your head felt quiet.

Leon shifted slightly as the bike took another corner.

One hand briefly left the handlebar.

Finding your wrist.

Just for a second.

A silent check-in.

You squeezed his side in response.

His hand returned to the bike.

Nothing more said.

The road gradually became less familiar.

Less city.

More residential.

Your brows furrowed.

Where the hell was he taking you?

Ten minutes later the motorcycle slowed.

Then stopped.

The engine rumbled beneath you before finally dying altogether.

Silence settled around you.

You pulled off your helmet.

Looked up.

And froze.

A house with a small front garden and a white fence.

The kind of place children drew with crayons.

Leon climbed off first.

You remained firmly planted on the bike.

Staring.

“What?”

His expression was almost nervous.

Almost.

“Why are we at somebody's house?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

Immediately suspicious.

“Leon.”

“Just come inside.”

“No.”

A sigh.

“Please?”

“Whose house is it?”

His gaze dropped briefly.

Then lifted again.

“Yours.”

The answer came without him needing to speak. 

“Oh my God.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Yeah.”

You stared.

Then stared some more.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“You bought a house?”

His laugh was quiet.

“You say that like I bought a spaceship.”

“You bought a house.”

“Technically.”

“Technically?”

“I haven't actually spent much time here.”

You climbed off the bike slowly.

Still staring at it.

A porch swing.

Flower beds.

Curtains in the windows.

It looked lived in.

And somehow that made it worse.

“Why?”

The question came out softer than intended.

Leon looked at the house.

Not you.

The house.

Like he wasn't entirely sure what he thought about it either.

“Because I kept thinking about home.”

Your chest tightened.

He swallowed.

“I didn't really have one.”

A pause.

Then a faint shrug.

“So I bought one.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

Because suddenly it wasn't about money.

Or property.

Or whatever mysterious government salary he apparently had.

It was Leon, standing in front of a house he'd barely used, trying to build a future he was never actually around to live in.

The thought hurt.

“Come on.” He said quietly.

You followed him up the path.

Past the little gate.

Past the flowerbeds.

The porch light cast soft gold across his face as he pulled a key from his pocket.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

Leon stepped aside.

Letting you go first.

And for some reason that simple gesture made your stomach flip more than anything else had all night.

“Welcome home.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Immediately his expression changed.

Like he'd said too much.

Like he'd revealed something he hadn't meant to.

You looked back at him, and without being able to hold back, you hugged him. 

Your face pressed deep into his chest, soft and warm. 

The scent of leather and the musk of his cologne flooding your senses. 

Your eyes flicked over his face.

The tiredness.

The stubble.

The faint scar near his jaw you didn't remember him having.

Your chest tightened.

“Hi.” you said softly.

A confused laugh escaped him.

“Hi?”

“Hi.”

His smile appeared slowly.

Crooked.

You hated how much that smile still affected you.

Hated it.

Your hand lifted before your brain caught up.

Fingers brushing lightly against the side of his face.

Leon froze.

Completely.

Like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

The look on his face almost broke your heart.

Because nobody touched him anymore.

His eyes closed for half a second.

The air felt strangely warm.

The distance between you suddenly felt very noticeable.

Very small.

“Leon.”

Your voice came out quieter than intended.

“Yeah?”

You swallowed.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

You saw it.

And judging by the way his jaw tightened, he knew you'd seen it too.

For one reckless second you thought about it.

About closing the gap.

About not thinking.

About letting yourself have something.

After years of missing him.

Your hand remained against his cheek.

His own lifted slightly.

Then stopped.

Giving you every chance to pull away.

Your heart hammered against your chest.

“...This is a bad idea.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Leon let out a slow breath.

A humourless little laugh.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

Which somehow made it worse.

“Definitely.”

“Yeah.”

His voice was rough now.

You looked away first.

Coward.

A smile tugged at his mouth despite everything.

He leaned in first, capturing your lips in a deep and wanton kiss. 

You melted into it, hands roaming his shoulders, squeezing at his biceps.

He moaned into the kiss, his arms immediately going to lift you.  

You faltered backwards. 

“I’m not the lightest, Leon.” 

“Don’t care-” He huffed, picking you up with relative ease. 

He pulled you back into the kiss, suckling on your lower lip and sliding his tongue into your mouth. 

You pulled back again, squealing his name. 

“Leon- seriously.” you laughed, stopping yourself to look into his eyes. “I don’t look the way I did- before Freya.” 

“Don’t care-” He repeated, one hand going to the back of your head, pulling you back to his mouth, his tongue darting out and wetting your lower lip.  

Your back found the wall next to the front door as you both continued. 

“Need you-” He grunted as he pushed you up, his hand squeezing your cheek passionately. 

“Take me then.” A new found confidence surged in your throat.

Without hesitation Leon carried you to the stairs, climbing up and opening the door at the top. 

The slam behind him let you know you weren’t gonna make it back to the apartment tonight…

Leon’s POV

“Daddy look!” Freya squealed. 

Leon huffed, this was a lot harder than he thought it was going to be. 

“Coming princess.” He sighed, his eyes leaving his laptop and travelling to the mess in the middle of the living room. 

Freya had dumped out all of her toys in the middle and was using the window sill, the fire escape, and the bookcase as a dollhouse - or more accurately a doll village. 

Leon walked over nonchalantly before clocking the steady stream of water pouring out of the fire escape and onto some very angry civilians below. 

“Freya!” he shouted, lifting the cup and looking down to see a heavyset man hurling abuse in his direction. 

He shut the window quickly and placed the cup on the coffee table with a sigh. 

“Sorry dada.” Freya frowned, her big puppy eyes looking up at him. 

“It's okay baby, just- lets not play at the fire escape anymore okay?” 

She nodded sweetly and went back to playing with her dolls, thrusting a dinosaur into his hands. 

At first, Leon was unsure of how to play with her. His hand cautiously thumped the dinosaur on the floor amongst the array of other toys. 

But eventually , he got the hang of it, losing himself in the mindlessness of pretending to be a talking dinosaur. 

“No daddy-” Freya laughed, grabbing the dinosaur from his hands. “Dino doesn’t drink smoothies.” 

“What? Even dino’s need their 5 a day.” He grinned. 

“You’re funny.” She giggled, dropping her toys and standing up. “Can we have lunch now?” 

Lunch. Shit. 

Hadn’t thought of that one.. 

“Of course…” he trailed off, picking himself up off the floor. “What do you want?” 

“Marco makes me lunch.” Freya smiled ear to ear. 

“Hmmm that's not what mum told me.” Leon’s brow raised. 

“But he does!” Freya protested. “And, I miss mummy soooo much.” 

Leon sighed, what a manipulator. Then he smiled, hands folded in front of his chest, “I guess we could, it's only downstairs.” 

Freya ran to the door in an instant, her socks causing her to slide and fall next to the door. 

She grabbed her shoes without  a second thought and rammed them onto her feet, fastening the velcro with ease. 

“Ready!!” She yelled, sitting with her feet out in front of her. 

“Wow,” Leon dragged on, “didn’t know I was father to The Flash." 

“HURRRYYYYY!” she whined. 

“Alright, geez.” Leon huffed, grabbing his shoes. “You’re really like your mum, you know that?” 

Freya nodded confidently, her toothy grin irresistibly cute. “Auntie Rach tells me all the time.” 

“Hmmm, figures.” Leon huffed, standing up and grabbing the keys. “Show me the way, little lady.” 

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Reader's POV

The door to the cafe had barely shut all morning. 

A seemingly endless stream of people kept piling in and out. 

Barely any sit ins though, which was a plus on a day like today. 

“Babe-” Rachel touched your back. “Take over I’m bursting-” 

You nodded in response, sliding over to the espresso machine and reading the receipt on the counter. 

“Two americanos, can do.” You huffed, grinding the coffee beans. 

“Need a hand?” Avery called from the kitchen.

“You’re alright, check on Marco.”

“I'm always being checked on,” Marco shouted back immediately. “Nobody trusts me.”

“Because you set a towel on fire last week.”

“It was a controlled experiment.”

“It was arson.”

The bell above the door chimed.

Ding-ding-ding.

You barely looked up.

“Good Afternoon, what can I-” The words died in your throat.

Leon stood in the doorway.

Freya immediately spotted you.

“MUMMY!”

Every customer in the café turned.

Your daughter launched herself across the floor like a tiny missile.

“Freya-” Leon started.

Too late.

She crashed into your legs at full speed.

You laughed despite yourself, crouching to catch her before she took both of you out.

“Hey baby.”

She wrapped herself around your neck.

“We came for lunch.”

“We?”

She pointed dramatically behind her.

Leon stood by the door looking exhausted already.

One hand hooked into his jacket pocket.

The other carried a tiny pink backpack.

“Apparently,” he said.

You bit back a smile.

“Daddy doesn't know how to make lunch.”

“I absolutely know how to make lunch.”

Freya gasped.

“He made Dino drink smoothies.”

“Wow.”

“He needs his five a day.” Leon defended himself. 

“Notorius carnivore, but okay.”

Freya giggled loudly between you.

Rachel emerged from the back carrying a tray.

She froze.

“Oh good,” she deadpanned. “It's him.”

“Afternoon Rachel.”

“Debatable.”

Leon didn't even react anymore.

Which somehow made it funnier.

Freya immediately reached for Rachel.

“Auntie!”

Rachel abandoned all hostility instantly.

“Hello pumpkin.”

The betrayal was immediate.

Leon pointed.

“See?”

“Don't.”you huffed

“She likes her more.”

“Well, yeah.”

Freya had already forgotten both of them existed.

“Auntie Rachel look.”

“Wow.”

“And this.”

“Wow.”

“And THIS.”

“Wow.”

You watched Rachel suffer through twenty consecutive toy demonstrations before finally looking back at Leon.

He looked tired.

But what's new. 

Whatever was happend down in South America was chewing pieces off him.

“Sleep well?” you asked quietly.

His eyes found yours.

“Like a baby.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then- 

“Mama.”

You looked down.

Freya held both hands up dramatically.

“Carry me.”

“You can walk.”

“No.”

“You literally ran in here.”

“No.”

Leon snorted into his coffee.

You glared.

He immediately looked away.

The bastard was smiling.

“Daddy carry me then.”

“See?” Leon said. “I'm the favourite now.”

Freya immediately shook her head.

“No.”

The silence that followed was glorious.

Rachel nearly dropped a cup laughing.

You pressed your lips together.

Leon looked genuinely offended.

“Wow.”

“Sorry dada.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

“No.”

Another burst of laughter escaped you.

And for a moment-

Everything felt normal.

Like none of the years in between had happened.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

You walked out of the cafe for a smoke, Leon trailing behind you and leaving Freya inside with Rachel, Avery and Marco. 

“I wanted to ask,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck. “You want to go out, tonight?” 

“Leon, I have Freya.” you said softly, lighting your cigarette. 

“No, I know, but can Rachel take her. We need some time, alone.” He looked away at the word alone. 

You felt horrible for him and his predicament, and some part of you desperately wanted a date. 

“Alright, I’ll ask. No guarantees.” 

“Awesome.” He smiled, as wide as his tired eyes would let him. “We’ll get dinner.” 

“Sure thing Romeo.” You huffed. “No funny business though. I can’t handle another Freya.” 

He huffed out a laugh. 

“No funny business.” 

You narrowed your eyes.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Mmhm.”

Leon looked offended.

You took another drag of your cigarette.

“Besides,” you added. “You couldn't handle me.”

That earned a proper laugh.

“Sure.”

“You couldn't.”

“Whatever helps you sleep.”

You rolled your eyes.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The easy silence surprised you.

It shouldn't have.

Not anymore.

Eventually you flicked ash into the tray beside the door.

“Well.”

“Well.”

“You gonna stand there all afternoon?”

Leon shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Probably.”

“You have a child inside.”

“I know.”

“Who is almost certainly committing a crime.”

His eyes drifted toward the window.

A beat.

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“She definitely is.”

You both turned at exactly the same moment.

Through the café window Freya could be seen standing on a chair.

Marco was trying to get her down.

Rachel appeared to be encouraging her.

“Great.”

“Fantastic.”

“Your fault.”

“My fault?”

“She got your energy, Rookie.”

“Not a rookie anymore.”

You gave him a look.

“Still.” You shrugged. “Rookie to me.” 

“You never even saw me in uniform.”

“I wish.” You blurted before you could stop yourself. 

“Oh, is that right?” His voice lowered. 

“Shut up.” Your cheeks flushed red. 

“Mhmm, okay.” 

“Shut up!” You laughed, nudging his shoulder. 

A beat. 

That silence intruded again. 

“I missed your laugh.” 

“That all?” You teased, surprising yourself. 

“No-” He looked down, hands on his hips. “But I’ll save that for later. 

Rachel’s fist banged on the window behind you. 

“No funny business Mr Kennedy!” She yelled. 

Freya’s face squished against the glass. 

“Thats you told.” You giggled, stubbing out your cigarette and going to open the door. 

Leon followed behind, his body too close for comfort as you pulled the door open. 

Your back met his chest for a moment and his hands instinctually went to your hips. 

Then, inside, he was far away again, loitering at the door instead of coming in. 

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏

Rachel had removed herself from the window and had begun counting the till when you approached.

“No.”

You blinked.

“I haven't asked anything yet.”

“No.”

“Rachel.”

“No.”

“Rach.”

“Nope.”

You sighed heavily.

Across the room Leon immediately found something very interesting on the ceiling.

Coward.

“You don't even know what I'm asking.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don't.”

“I absolutely do.”

Avery snorted from behind the espresso machine.

Marco looked between everyone like he was watching live television.

“She's asking if you'll watch Freya.”

Rachel pointed triumphantly.

“See?”

You glared at Marco.

“Traitor.”

“I'm Italian,” he said solemnly. “We thrive on drama.”

“Can I finish asking?”

“No.”

“Rachel.”

“No.”

“Rachel.”

“No.”

“Rachel.”

“Fine.”

You immediately smiled.

“Thank you.”

“I haven't agreed yet.”

“Yes you have.”

Rachel groaned.

“You're both impossible.”

“Love you too.”

“Shut up.”

Freya looked up from colouring.

“Can I stay with Auntie Rachel?”

Rachel's expression melted instantly.

The hypocrite.

“Of course you can, pumpkin.”

“Ha.”

“Don't.”

“Ha.”

Rachel pointed at you.

“One word and I'm charging babysitting rates.”

You gasped dramatically.

“You'd charge a single mother?”

“Absolutely.”

Marco nearly fell over laughing.

“That's evil.”

“I'm aware.”

“Marco's staying too, right?” Freya grinned ear to ear. 

Rachel froze.

Marco froze.

Avery immediately looked away.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Your brows lifted slowly.

“Oh.”

“Don't.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don't start.”

“Marco's staying, huh?” You looked down at Freya. 

Rachel looked ready to commit a felony.

Marco suddenly became fascinated by the kitchen and walked away as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you two…?.”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I did not..”

You burst out laughing.

Rachel looked seconds away from throwing something.

“Go on your stupid date.”

“It's not a date.”

Rachel stared.

Then at Leon.

Then back at you.

“Sure, babe.”

You hated how smug she looked.

Especially because she was probably right.

Avery laughed as she swept the floor. 

“Oh and don’t do what you did last time.” Rachel said sternly. 

You furrowed your brow. 

“No funny business, Rach.” you huffed. 

Avery giggled “You’re stronger than me.” 

“Avery!” you and Rachel shouted in unison. 

“What… look at him.” She huffed, turning to glance at Leon, whose hands were still on his hips, his eyes flicking between the ceiling to the floor. 

“Yeah, okay.” Rachel sighed. 

“Guys.” 

“No, no he’s your problem.” Rachel held her hands up. “He’s just nice to look at.”

“Jesus Christ.” You huffed. “She goes to bed at 7 by the way so, I want her asleep when I get back. 

“Yes Ma’am.” Rachel saluted. 

“Oh and Rachel,” you paused, grinning ear to ear. “Don’t fuck Marco in my apartment please.” 

Rachel choked.

Avery screamed.

From the kitchen came the sound of something metal hitting the floor.

You were already walking toward the door.

Leon laughing beside you.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The laughter followed you out onto the pavement.

Mostly Rachel's.

You could still hear her shouting something through the café door as it swung shut behind you.

The door closed.

Silence.

Well.

Almost silence.

The city buzzed around you as evening settled over the street.

For the first time all day, it was just the two of you.

You immediately became aware of it.

So did Leon.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

You adjusted the strap of your bag.

Neither of you said anything.

“...Well.”

“Wow.” Leon glanced sideways at you. “You really are funny.”

You snorted.

“Thank you.”

“Thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

Then his gaze drifted toward the apartment building across the street.

“You wanna head up?”

You hesitated.

“Probably shouldn't show up to dinner smelling like espresso and burnt toast.”

“Oh good, so I’m not having a stroke.” He snorted. 

You ignored the one liner.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

Leon nodded once.

“Take your time.”

You started walking backwards toward the building entrance.

“Don't disappear.”

Something flickered across his face.

Small.

Gone almost immediately.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

The words landed heavier than either of you intended.

Your smile faltered slightly.

So did his.

Then you pointed at him.

“Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes.”

You disappeared inside before you could overthink it.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏

Rachel was waiting when you opened the apartment door.

Arms folded.

Leaning against the kitchen counter.

Looking insufferably pleased with herself.

“Oh good.” She grinned. “The date survived the first five minutes.”

“It's not a date.”

“Mhmm.”

You kicked your shoes off.

“Did you climb the fire escape?”

“Of course.”

“You’re insane!”

Rachel looked offended.

“I am an amazing friend.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Then headed for your bedroom.

Rachel immediately followed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on.”

“No.”

“I need to see the outfit.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do.”

You groaned as she slipped into the room behind you..

“Rachel.”

“What?”

“You're nearing thirty.”

“And?”

“You act sixteen.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

Rachel sat cross-legged on your bed.

“Get changed.”

You threw a pillow at her.

She caught it.

Smug.

Infuriating.

Unfortunately helpful.

Twenty minutes later you stood in front of the mirror.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough effort that you immediately regretted making it.

Rachel noticed.

“See?”

“See what?”

“You wanted it to be a date.”

Your face heated.

“No.”

“Babe.”

“No.”

“You changed three times.”

You pointed aggressively.

“That means nothing.”

“It means everything.”

A knock echoed through the apartment.

Both of you froze.

Rachel's grin became genuinely evil.

“Oh my God.”

“Rachel.”

“He's here.”

“Rachel.”

You grabbed your bag.

“Goodbye.”

“Hope you get boned.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“You absolutely should.”

You opened the door.

Immediately stopped.

Leon stood in the hallway.

And for a second neither of you spoke.

Because apparently he had changed too.

Dark button-up.

Sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Hair still slightly damp.

Like he'd actually tried.

Which felt unfair.

His eyes lifted.

Found yours.

Stopped.

A beat.

Then another.

Something shifted in his expression.

Soft.

Almost surprised.

“You look...” He cleared his throat.

Your stomach flipped.

“Hm?”

His gaze flicked away.

Then back.

“Nice.”

Brilliant.

You smiled despite yourself.

“You too, where did you-.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well you look handsome.” 

Behind you came the sound of Rachel violently fake-gagging.

The spell shattered instantly.

Leon laughed.

You covered your face.

“Please ignore her.”

“Can't.”

“Fair.”

Rachel appeared over your shoulder.

“Have fun!”

“Rachel.”

“Use protection!”

“RACHEL.”

The door slammed in her face.

The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.

Then Leon laughed again.

The bastard.

“You ready?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡͏

When you got outside, his gaze drifted toward the street.

Toward the motorcycle.

Then back to you.

A little more cautious this time.

“Question.”

“What?”

“You okay on the bike?”

The concern in his voice caught you off guard.

“If not,” he continued. “I'll call a cab.”

You blinked.

Then smiled slightly.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“I did it before.”

“Different now.”

His eyes dipped briefly.

Toward your apartment. 

Then back to you.

“You don't have to do anything.”

Something warm settled in your chest.

“We'll take the bike.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Okay.”

Mounting it was a different story.

You stood beside the motorcycle staring at it.

Then at your outfit.

Then back at the motorcycle.

Leon watched the process unfold in real time.

“You alright there?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

That was answer enough.

You planted one foot on the ground.

Immediately lost all grace.

“Jesus Christ.”

Leon bit the inside of his cheek.

“You wanna laugh?”

“Not particularly.”

“You do.”

“A little.”

You shot him a look.

He finally gave up and laughed.

The sound hit you square in the chest.

God.

You hated how much you missed hearing it.

“Okay.” You muttered. “Move.”

“Move?”

“Move.”

Leon stepped closer.

Not teasing now.

Just helping.

One hand settled carefully at your waist.

The other steadied the handlebars.

The contact was brief.

Barely there.

Still.

Your stomach betrayed you immediately.

“There.” he said softly.

You climbed on.

Successfully this time.

“See?”

“Don't get smug.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Liar.

Leon swung onto the bike a second later, settling in front of you.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then the reality of the situation hit.

Your hands.

You weren't sure what to do with them.

Three years ago you would've wrapped yourself around him without thinking.

Now everything felt different.

Complicated.

You hesitated.

Leon glanced back over his shoulder.

“You can hold on.”

Heat rushed into your face.

“I'm aware.”

“Right.”

A beat.

“You look like you're trying to solve a math problem.”

“Drive the bike, Kennedy.”

His shoulders shook.

Laughing again.

Eventually you placed your hands carefully against his sides.

Keeping space between you.

As much space as a motorcycle allowed.

Leon didn't comment.

Didn't look back.

Just reached for his helmet.

“Ready?”

You swallowed.

“Ready.”

The woman smiles, squeezing her arms around your waist once before lifting her head back. Just to make sure the curtain is still closed, especially around the stubborn cracks along the shower walls. Her vanilla scent, mingled with something bright and citrusy, swirling through your space.

“Only you.”

You place one hand over hers, the other rising to your face to wipe water from your lashes. The metal of the shower tap reflects you both.

“Don’t let Chris hear any of this then.”

A chuckle leaves Jill, arms loosening slightly as she shifts to stand beside you. Blue eyes bright, bob now flattened by the wetness, giving it a softer length.

“It’ll be our secret,” she says softly, eyebrows twitching for a moment before lifting just slightly. “Is everything alright with you?”

“Yeah, just feeling lightheaded.”

It wasn’t the truth, nor was it exactly a lie. Your body felt drained, as if its energy were dissolving into the rising heat. Joining the mist that climbed toward the ceiling vents and disappeared into the system above. Still… something else lingered beneath it.

Something that couldn’t be named or easily held.

The Raccoon Police Department carried a strange atmosphere these past few days. Even the air itself felt slowed, as if time had thickened, moving with a quiet unnatural awareness. Faces you rarely noticed before now seemed sharper, more present. Indoor plants you had passed countless times appeared oddly vivid, their leaves almost luminous under the sterile light. Even the cracks in the stone walls seemed intentional, like they were holding fragments of a forgotten story.

It felt as if something was urging you to notice everything. To linger. To cherish what would normally pass unseen. A distant instinct whispered beneath it all. That time itself was nothing but a cycle of loss and erosion.

For everything.

For all that fades.

As an officer, these thoughts were not something to act upon, especially in your line of work. At best, they would be grounds for being advised to take a break. At worst, a quiet and polite removal from duty under the guise of concern.

You don’t realize how deeply you’ve drifted into that daze until the shower head’s melody shuts off with a soft mechanical click. The sudden absence of running water makes the room feel sharper. Colder and quieter. Jill’s arm loosens fully, one hand catching the rolling tap to shut it off completely.

A few stray droplets still fall from the edge of the tiles, ticking softly against the floor.

“Don’t want you falling down on me, especially here of all places,” she says, her arm sliding from your bare skin. Her fingers trail away for a second longer than necessary before she steps back. The nudity between you both is ignored, acknowledged only in passing glances that blur the line between duty and familiarity, but still settle into something strangely natural.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Don’t think the lieutenant would want to hear about his daughter getting hurt in the showers… all naked,” she adds, a faint teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, eyes flicking briefly toward the curtain before she looks down in humour.

That earns a quiet laugh from you as you pull the curtain open. The plastic shifts with a wet scrape, sticking for a moment before giving way. A soft huff leaves your lips while you reach for the towel, wrapping it around yourself and tightening it once below your armpits. The fabric is slightly rough against damp skin, pulling warmth back into you in uneven patches.

The smaller towel goes over your hair, pressed down and left to hang slightly crooked as it absorbs the last of the water. A few strands still slip free near your neck.

You step out carefully, the floor faintly cold under your flip flops. Thankfully familiar, the kind of small discomfort you’ve learned to ignore in places like this. The locker room air feels still, filtered, faintly smelling of soap and metal.

Jill follows in quiet silence, water dripping lightly from the ends of her hair as she adjusts her stance beside you.

“Speaking of Lieutenant Branagh, your dad’s been looking for you. I forgot to mention it this morning.”

Pushing open the door to the ladies’ locker room, you hold it back for her. A rush of cool air washes over your damp skin, carrying the faint scent of detergent and old tile. Jill catches the door with a soft mutter of thanks.

“What’d he say?”

“Something about wanting to discuss the rookie’s secret welcome party.”

A quiet groan leaves you.

“Oh yeah, he’s been pretty reluctant about that. To think it’s in two months, he’s rushing.”

“I think it’s nice.”

“I guess… it is a sweet welcoming gesture, even for a cop.”

Turning into the aisle of your locker row, you weave past the familiar columns of metal doors until reaching the familiar one. Your hand finds the circular lock without much thought.

“I heard the guy’s around my age, which is why dad is so keen on me being there.” Rolling your eyes slightly, you lift two fingers in quotation. “To make him feel safer.”

A reminiscing smile tugs at Jill’s lips.

“Marvin always did have a soft spot.”

The lock clicks.

“So he’s that kind of rookie?” She continues to be curious.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Nothing?”

You shrug, pulling open the locker door.

The scent of lotion and clean fabric greets you immediately. Reaching inside, you grab the bottle before letting the towel loosen from your body and drop onto the bench. Across from you, Jill leans against her own locker, watching with no shame and mild curiosity.

The locker room settled into its usual quiet.

Outside, the station carried on as always, but here every sound felt softened by distance. Conversations became muffled echoes beyond the walls. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting pale strips of white across the floor.

If the lighting were dimmer, this might have been one of your favorite places in the entire department.

“Dunno. Haven’t seen a picture of him or anything.” You unscrew the lotion cap. “Think his name was Leon something.”

“Let’s hope he spends more time learning how to be a cop than triggering the lieutenant’s dad mode.”

A snort escapes you as you pull a sports bra and a clean pair of underwear from your bag.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m even going, so I’m sure he’ll survive. Besides…I wouldn’t dare flirt with the new guy.” You shake your head with mock offense. “…i’m very professional.”

“Who knows,” Jill drags out the words, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Maybe he’s exactly your type.”

“Hmm. Doubt it.”

“You never know.”

She tosses her towel onto the length of the bench before turning back to her locker. Reaching inside, she retrieves a hairpin and stubbornly works it through the annoying side of her damp hair, pinning it away from her face.

“People can surprise you at any given time, y/n.”

Her words drift over like a cloud across a night sky.

Silence settles comfortably between you both as you continue dressing. Fabric brushes against skin. Lockers click open and shut further down the room. Above, the fluorescent lights buzz softly, filling the space with their familiar hum.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” you murmur after a moment, rubbing lotion into your hands. “Though I doubt my soulmate would be—”

“I didn’t say anything about a soulmate.”

The interruption is immediate.

Looking up, you find her smiling. Lips flipped inward, leaving behind a thin line of a smile as she fought back a laugh.

“I mean—”

A laugh escaped her before you could even defend yourself.

So frozen by your own words, defeat seemed to adore you right now. Whatever response had been forming died before it could reach your tongue, the awkwardness she so rarely saw in you creeping into the open, bare and welcoming.

“What a lover girl.”

There was nothing to say.

Feeling your face grow warm, you simply shook your head. Letting the comfortable silence fall between you, spending the remainder of your time drying your hair by the sinks. Mirrors clouded faintly from the lingering heat of the showers.

Jill clearly had something on her mind.

Every now and then, you’d catch her looking your way. The glances never lingered long enough to be questioned, yet never disappeared completely either.

But you don’t say anything.

Once done, you fastened your duty belt around your waist. The familiar weight of your holster, radio, and cuffs settled against your hips. Jill, who had finished earlier, leaned against the wall nearby. Straightening herself at the sound of your approach, she pushed herself off it, turning toward the door.

The station greets you immediately.

Officers moved through the corridors with practiced purpose, conversations blending into a steady background murmur.

Barely any steps pass before a familiar voice reaches you from the far end of the hall.

“Agent Branagh.”

Turning to look over your shoulder, you stumble into a pair of familiar forest tinted eyes. Standing by the edge of the hallway, arms crossed behind his back. Tall, confident, and poised like a force of his own flesh. Bodies passed by him, muttering cheerful professional greetings.

Which he of course, politely responded to.

Looking back at Jill, you offer a nod before walking away. Through busy bodies and past hazy, washed out wallpaper.

“Captain,” you greet the man with a nod.

He smiles, extending an arm behind him, gesturing in a direction. “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

“Is it about the placement swapping? I have already delivered my input on declining the spot.”

“No,” he chuckles, slight bashfulness hidden beneath warmth. His taller frame blocks the sunlight from you as you walk beneath the high ceilings. “Though not that I can say I’m not delighted with your decision.”

“….”

The silence lasts for a moment. He leads you down the hallway, opening the lounge door for you first and muttering a small, “Ladies first.”