sammy

Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.

Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.

You'd promised you would.

You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.

But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.

I know you're awake | 2:49 AM

Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.

yes. | 2:52 AM

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.

Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else. 

Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.

Good | 2:53 AM

Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM

The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.

You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.

But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.

You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

yeah? | 2:55 AM

what about? | 2:55 AM

There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love. 

And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.

You know what about | 3:00 AM

You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.

that's not an answer | 3:00 AM

ari | 3:00 AM

You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time. 

I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM

Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels. 

you're an asshole | 3:02 AM

I know | 3:03 AM

Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM

And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.

You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.

i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM

There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.

Probably not | 3:06 AM

But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM

Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now. 

Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.

You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers. 

fine | 3:09 AM

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.

One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text. 

20 minutes | 3:10 AM

Be ready for me | 3:11 AM

The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.

Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.

Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.

Wear that black set | 3:13 AM

You know the one | 3:13 AM

You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes. 

You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.

The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.

── ⟢  ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹ 

The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.

You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.

You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.

Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.

He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. 

The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.

His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.

But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic. 

“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”

“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.

“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.

The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart. 

You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.

“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”

“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”

He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.

“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.

“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”

You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.

Instead you kiss him.

His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”

Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.

“Come here, baby.”

He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.

You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.

His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.

“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”

The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.

The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.

A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.

“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”

Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.

“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”

When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.

One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively. 

“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”

His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.

“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”

So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.

“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”

The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.

Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.

“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.

“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.

“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”

The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.

But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.

The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.

But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him. 

“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.

“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing. 

More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern. 

He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”

The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.

“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.

“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear. “Talk to me.”

But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.

More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.

“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”

For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.

“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”

“I'm serious—”

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip as his tongue drags slowly across his own. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”

The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob

He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.

He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”

Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.

His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.

“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.” 

His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit.

“See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.

Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.

“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and you can barely focus on the words. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”

Your protests begin dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. The tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.

“Please, please, please—”

You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored. 

Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a moan that vibrates through his chest. 

“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”

He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.

The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself, and you can’t help the eager noise that escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening. The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.

A drop of precum slides down to streak against your inner thigh before his big hands close around your hips. With an ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning, he drags your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.

The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”

“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again. 

“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.

“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”

“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”

Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.

“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”

“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”

“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”

You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”

He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.

“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”

“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”

He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”

You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.

“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”

You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.

“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”

You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.

He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.

“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.

“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”

You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.

His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”

A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.

“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”

A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.

“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”

Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.

He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”

He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”

You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.

“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”

“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”

“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”

You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”

His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”

You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.

You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”

You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender. 

Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.

When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.

“Mm, look at the mess you're making.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess baby, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”

He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the look on his face stops your breath in your chest.

That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.

It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson is looking at you right now.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”

more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33

💤 FALLING ASLEEP ON THEM unintentional closeness → realization / softness / caretaking 💤 "Have a nice nap?" / "I thought you were going to sleep forever." / "Shh, go back to sleep baby."

🌙 GOLDEN HOUR that in between moment → realization scenes / soft almosts / quiet tension 🌙 “It’s weird… everything looks different right now. You do too.” / “If I say something, will it ruin this?” / “We should probably go. - Yeah… just—give me a second.”

🧺 PICNIC BASKET something hidden inside → secrets revealed / gifts / unexpected confessions 🧺 “That wasn’t in there earlier. - “Yeah. I didn’t know how to give it to you.” / “You brought this… for me?” / “If I show you, you can’t pretend you didn’t see it.”

🪑SAVED SEAT someone always leaves space for you → quiet devotion / unspoken care / to be loved is to be known 🪑 “You always sit there. - Only when you’re here.” / “Was this—saved? - “It usually is.” / “I didn’t think you’d come. - “I didn’t think you’d leave me a spot.”

🌌 FIREWORKS ENDING silence after the noise → emotional comedown / realization / loneliness or peace 🌌 “It’s really quiet now.” / “I liked it better when I couldn’t hear myself think.” / “So… what happens after this?”

☀️ SUNBURN caretaking + vulnerability → tending to someone / soft touches / quiet intimacy ☀️ “Hold still—you’re gonna make it worse.” / “You don’t have to take care of me like this. - I know.” / “Does it hurt? - Not as much as you hovering.”

🍴 "TRY MINE" sharing food & sharing space → intimacy / trust / soft flirting 🍴 “Here—just take it. - “I could’ve asked. - You never do.” / “You always give me the better one.” / “Try it? For me?”

🪑 FOLD OUT CHAIRS side by side conversations → late-night talks / emotional honesty 🪑 “Funny how it’s easier to say things when we’re not looking at each other.” / “We’ve never actually talked about this, have we?” / “If I say it now, I can’t take it back.”

🛏️ AFTERNOON NAP lazy, quiet closeness → drifting in and out of sleep together / accidental cuddling 🛏️ “You’re still here. - “Wasn’t planning on moving.” / “Did I fall asleep on you? - “Yeah… didn’t mind.”/ “We should get up. -“In a minute.”

⏳ WAITING for them to show up + change → doubt / hope / payoff reunion ⏳“You said you’d come back.” / “I almost stopped waiting. - “Almost?” / “You’re late. - “I know. I’m still here.”

🧃 JUICE BOX playful, youthful energy → carefree chaos / laughter / childhood nostalgia 🧃 “You just sprayed that everywhere. - Worth it.” / “When did we start acting like kids again?” / “Don’t laugh—I’m serious. - “That’s the problem.”

🌾 TALL GRASS half-hidden, tucked away → private conversations / secret kisses / hiding from others 🌾 “No one can see us out here.” / “We shouldn’t be hiding. - “Then why are we?” / “It feels different when it’s just us.”

🕶️ SUNGLASSES seeing + not seeing → stolen glances / hiding feelings / perception vs reality 🕶️ “I can tell you’re staring. - You can’t even see my eyes.” / “You hide behind those a lot. - “Maybe I need to.” / “Take them off. - “Why?“ - So I know what you’re thinking.”

🧁 CUPCAKES small celebrations → “it’s not a big deal” birthdays / quiet milestones / soft surprises 🧁 “It’s not a big deal. - “Then why’d you remember?” / “You got these for me? - “Don’t make it weird.” / “Make a wish. - “You already know what it is.”

🪵 WOODEN FENCE leaning, waiting → watching from afar / longing / quiet observation 🪵 “You’ve been standing there a while.” / “I didn’t think you’d notice me.” / “You always look like you’re about to leave.”

🧂 POTATO CHIPS light, messy, impossible to eat just one → casual closeness / reaching into the same bag / lingering touches 🧂 “You’re gonna finish the whole bag. - “Watch me.” / "My hand was already there. - “So was mine.” / “You don’t mind sharing? - Not with you.”

🎆 FIREWORKS big emotions, louder than expected → confessions / overwhelm / emotional release 🎆 “I can’t hear you—what did you say?” / “I said I—” boom / “Fine. I’ll say it again.”

🍽️ PAPER PLATES temporary but meaningful → fleeting moments that still matter / this won’t last, but it’s real 🍽️ “This is kind of temporary, isn’t it?” / “Does it matter if it is?” / “I think I’d still choose this.”

🔕 MISSED CALL almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been 🔕 “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.” / “You were supposed to be there.”

🍦MELTING ICE CREAM time running out + fleeting moment → rushed confession / “before it’s too late” energy 🍦 “It’s gonna melt. - “Then say it faster.” / “We’re running out of time. - “Then don’t waste it.” / “Just—before it’s gone…”

💫 WATCHING THE STARS TOGETHER sneaky love + soft touches → falling asleep together / naming the stars after each other / forced (welcomed) proximity 💫 “That one’s yours. - “You can’t just claim stars.” / “You’re closer than you think.” / “If we stay like this, I might fall asleep. - “Then stay.”

⛺ BONFIRE warmth in the dark → storytelling / vulnerability / shared silence ⛺ “You don’t have to tell the whole story.” / “It’s easier in the dark.” / “I didn’t think anyone was listening. - “I always am.”

🌊 LATE NIGHT LAKE SWIM daring love + hidden feelings → romantic tension / almost confessions 🌊 “It’s freezing. - “You jumped in first.” / “You look different out here.” / “If I say something stupid, blame the cold water.”

🍯 HONEY slow, golden, lingering → drawn-out tension / soft touches that last too long 🍯 “You’re taking your time. - “I’m not in a hurry.” / “You always do that—linger.” / “Say it already. - “Not yet.”

🎇 FIRECRACKER sudden, sharp reaction → arguments / impulsive confessions / tension snapping 🎇 “Why are you acting like this?” / “Because you won’t just say it!” / “Fine—then listen.”

📸 DISPOSABLE CAMERA captured moments → memories / realizing feelings after the fact / almost too late 📸 “Don’t delete that. - “I wasn’t going to.” / “You kept all of these? - “Every single one.” / “That’s when it started, wasn’t it?”

🌧️ SUDDEN RAIN plans interrupted → running for cover / laughter / forced closeness 🌧️ “Run! - “Where?”/ “You’re soaked." -“So are you.” / “We should’ve checked the weather.” - “I’m glad we didn’t.”

🌳 SHADED TREE relief from the heat → safe space / emotional grounding / leaning on someone 🌳 “Come sit. You look like you need it.” / “It’s cooler here.” - “Stay, then.” / “You always find the quiet spots.”

🐜 ANTS tiny annoyance crowding into a big moment → interrupted confession / forced proximity / comedic tension 🐜“Don’t move—there’s—” / “Why are you so close?” - “Because you won’t stop moving.” / “This is not how I pictured this going.”

🍓 STRAWBERRIES soft, indulgent, a little romantic → feeding each other / quiet affection / yearning 🍓 “Here—try it like this.” / “You’re staring.” - “You make it hard not to.” / “You always give me the sweeter ones.”

✨ SPARKLERS brief but bright → momentary romance / realization of feelings / magical moment ✨ “It won’t last long.” / “Then don’t waste it.” / “Look at you—you’re glowing.”

🎡 CARNIVAL NEARBY distant music and lights → yearning / wanting something more / chasing a feeling 🎡 “We could go, you know.” - “Or we could stay.” / “You ever feel like you’re missing something?” / “I think this is enough.”

🍋 LEMONADE something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution 🍋 “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / “It gets better, I promise.” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."

💛 BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN aware of fleeting happiness + trying to memorize the moment → noticing details / fear of losing it 💛 “You’re doing that thing again.” - “What thing?” - “Trying not to forget.” / “Say something so I remember this right.” / “I wish I could pause this.”

📦 LEFTOVERS what’s left behind → memories / things unsaid / emotional residue 📦 “You can take this with you."/ “Feels weird packing it up." /“Not everything gets finished.”

☕ MORNING AFTER PICNIC soft aftermath → quiet conversation / reflection / “we should do this again” ☕ “We should probably talk about yesterday.” / “Do you have to go?” / “Same time next week?”

🧻 NAPKINS cleaning up a mess → vulnerability after something goes wrong / wiping tears / gentle care 🧻 “Hey—look at me.” / “It’s just a mess. We’ll fix it.” / “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”

🍉 WATERMELON sticky fingers, shared bites, sweetness that lingers → first kisses / almost kisses / teasing intimacy 🍉 “You’ve got juice all over your hands.” / “Then help me clean it.” / “You missed a spot.”

🍞BRUSHING NON-EXISTENT CRUMBS OFF crushing hard + scared to admit it → lingering touch / excuse for contact / care disguised as habit 🍞 “Hold still.” / “There’s nothing there.” - “I know.” / “You don’t have to find excuses.”

🌬️ SUMMER BREEZE soft, barely there → almost touches / words left unsaid / quiet longing 🌬️ “Did you feel that?” / “You almost touched me.” / “Almost doesn’t count.”

🚗 IN THE TRUCK BED open air, close proximity → stargazing / late-night talks / accidental intimacy 🚗 “There’s more space than I thought.” - “Not really.” / “You can lean if you want.” / “Don’t fall.” - “Then don’t move.”

🫙WATCHING THE FIREFLIES COME OUT summer crush → not realizing how close the other is / brushing hands 🫙 “You’re closer than you were a second ago.” / “Don’t scare them off.” / “I wasn’t looking at the fireflies.”

💬 OVERHEARD CONVERSATION something you weren’t supposed to hear → misunderstandings / accidental confessions 💬 “How long were you standing there?” / “Long enough.” / “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

🏡 BACKYARD LIGHTS soft glow at night → slow dancing / late-night confessions / lingering after everyone leaves 🏡 “Dance with me.” - “There’s no music.” - “There doesn’t have to be.” / “Stay until they turn off.” / “Just one more song.”

🎈WATER BALLOON FIGHT chaotic love + messy aftermath → picking pieces from their hair / hanging up wet clothes / sharing a towel 🎈 “You started it!” - “You escalated it!” / “You’re soaked.” - “So are you.” / “Come here—hold still.”

🥗 PASTA SALAD thrown together but somehow perfect → unlikely dynamics / found family / chaotic group settings 🥗 “This shouldn’t work, but it does.” / “Kind of like us.” / “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

🍒 CHERRIES sweet with a hint of tension → playful teasing / “tie the stem” flirting / building tension 🍒 “You’re not actually going to try that, are you?” / “Watch me.” / “You’re unbelievable.”

🧺 PACKING THE PICNIC preparation as love → doing things for someone before they even ask 🧺 “You already thought of everything.” / “I know what you like.” / “You didn’t have to do all this.” - “I wanted to.”

🌻 WILDFLOWERS simple, soft, meaningful → “i saw this and thought of you” / gentle love 🌻 “These aren’t anything special.” - “They are to me.” / “You picked these?” - “I saw them and—yeah.” / “You think of me when you’re not here?”

🌅 LAST SUMMER TOGETHER knowing it’s ending → goodbye energy / nostalgia / unresolved feelings 🌅 “Let’s not talk about what happens after.” / “Just this once, okay?” / “I’m going to miss this.”

🚶 WALKING AWAY choosing distance → self-protection / heartbreak / growth 🚶 “Don’t follow me.” / “If I stay again, I won’t leave at all.” / “This isn’t me giving up.”

🎶 PORTABLE RADIO music drifting through the air → dancing / memory-triggered moments / song-associated love 🎶 “You remember this song?” / “Don’t laugh—dance with me.” / “We used to—” - “I know.”

🥪 SANDWHICHES carefully made, quietly thoughtful → acts of service / knowing someone’s preferences / domestic intimacy 🥪 “You cut the crusts off.” - “You hate them.” / “You remembered that?” / “I always do.”

🤝 “WE'RE JUST FRIENDS” until it’s clearly not → blurred lines / tension / denial 🤝 “We’re not doing anything wrong.” / “Then why does it feel like we are?” / “Say it—we’re just friends.”

🧊 COOLER what’s kept hidden → secrets / things unsaid / emotional walls 🧊 “What else are you keeping in there?” / “Stuff you’re not ready for.” / “You don’t have to hide it from me."

✨ anything else i should know? just this: take your time, enjoy the process, and don’t overthink it

this collab is about capturing a feeling. something warm, fleeting, and worth holding onto 🌼

for any more questions/curiosities feel free to send a message my way so we can figure it out! thank you all so much and i can't wait to see what you guys write!

throwing a few tags out there, don't feel pressured into doing anything i just thought i would spread the word and make the blanket big enough for us all ✨

Relationships between students and teachers were strictly forbidden. Yet after the tension of being trapped alone with your art history professor speaking so emotionally about certain pieces ended with your lips against his, and the contents of his desk shoved to the floor…office hours turned into sessions consisting of you being pressed into the plush of his mattress.

"I just…I don't understand," you mused, featherlight fingertips running the length of his bare thigh.

"What don't you understand, darling?" he asked, turning his attention away from the book he was reading to peer at you over his glasses.

"Was it, like, super cold in ancient Rome, or…?"

With a deep sigh like he knew an in-depth conversation was about to be had, he discarded the paperback to the beside table. "I assume it would be around the same temperature it is today, why?"

You hummed in acknowledgement, eyes focusing now on the growing bulge concealed by his boxers. "So, did Michelangelo just give David a small dick just because? I mean, I don't know, if it was my friend who was sculpting me nude I'd want him to take some artistic liberties."

Bucky - who had become accustomed to you saying unfiltered thoughts about classic art pieces - was speechless.

Patting his thigh, you moved to settle between his legs on your stomach. "Don't worry, Professor. I promise if I pass your class, I'll sculpt you out of marble so everyone can know just how well endowed you are."

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain @larissareidbarnes @castielscaplan @juniebjonesin @angelryex

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami @dreamersweb92 @onyx8514 @dragonflydewdrop

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel @buckysdecaflove

It happens on a Tuesday.

You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.

You home.

No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:

Eventually. Why?

There’s a longer pause this time, then,

Found something.

You grin at your screen.

If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.

Three dots disappear, then reappear.

Not an appliance.

You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.

By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.

You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.

White.

And glaring at you.

You blink.

“…Is that… a cat?”

The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.

“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.

“She followed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Home?”

He nods once.

“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”

“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”

On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.

“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.

Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.

“She’s so small.”

He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”

“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.

“She’s not—”

“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.

Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”

“He probably deserved it.”

“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.

“He existed near her.”

“That’s not a crime.”

You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.

“You brought her here.”

“She wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”

He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.

“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”

She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.

“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.

He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”

You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”

“She needed one.”

You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.

She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.

Bucky goes very still at the sound.

“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.

“She likes me.”

“She tolerates you.”

“She loves me.”

“She met you ten seconds ago.”

“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.

Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.

You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”

His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”

“She absolutely is.”

He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.

“You know… we’re not—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”

But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.

Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.

Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”

You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.

“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.

“She deserves it.”

He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”

“She was defending her territory.”

“She weighs less than the pigeon.”

“She has spirit.”

He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.

“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”

“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s judging you right now.”

You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.

“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.

He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.

Click. He looks up at the sound.

“You take too many pictures.”

You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”

“I’m building a cat tree.”

“Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.

He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”

“She’s fragile.”

“She scratched a grown man.”

“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.

You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.

You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.

And now, your cat.

One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.

The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.

Chosen.

Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.

Bucky stirs.

“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.

“Claiming me.”

He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”

“She gets it from you.”

He cracks one eye open to look at you.

“I’m not territorial.”

“You absolutely are.”

He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.

Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.

When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.

New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.

You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.

At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.

The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.

It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.

He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.

Click.

He doesn’t look up.

The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.

Like he always does here.

You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.

There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.

“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Click.

He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”

“Maybe.”

“Why.”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”

“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.

You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.

She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.

“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.

“She always judges me.”

“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.

“I am not weak.”

“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Click.

The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.

Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.

He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.

The subway platform becomes another favorite location.

You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.

He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

You lift the camera.

Click.

He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.

The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.

You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.

He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.

The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.

Click.

He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.

“Do what.”

“That.”

He frowns faintly.

Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”

“Like what?”

You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.

It becomes your favorite.

Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.

“Who is he to you?”

You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”

The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.

Your boss smiles faintly.

“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.

Lucky.

You think about that word the whole way home.

You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.

You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”

He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.

“Hey.”

You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.

“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”

The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.

He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”

His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”

“What?” You blink.

He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.

“Buck.”

He exhales slowly.

“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.

Your chest aches.

“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.

His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.

You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.

Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.

Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.

You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.

It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.

You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.

“What's wrong,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.

It slips into something quieter one night.

You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.

“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.

“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”

“Yeah. People who know how.”

You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”

“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”

“I’m not losing—”

You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.

Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.

Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.

You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.

“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”

“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.

His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.

He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.

It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.

So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.

You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.

He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.

Your chest tightens.

“Buck,” you murmur softly.

He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.

You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.

The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.

It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.

“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”

You huff quietly. “I can tell.”

Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.

By morning, you’re tangled.

Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.

You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.

He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.

You are.

You both are.

And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.

You don’t notice it at first.

That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.

You’re tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.

It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.

You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.

You don’t move.

And then they close again.

It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .

“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.

Too late.

The train lurches forward again.

The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.

You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.

The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.

“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”

You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.

So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.

You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.

And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.

You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.

Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.

Keep walking.

Don’t react. Don't—

They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.

There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.

He answers on the first ring.

“What broke?”

Any other time it would make you laugh.

Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”

It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.

“Where are you.”

You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.

“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”

“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.

“Stay on the phone.”

Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”

“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.

Your breathing stutters.

“Buck—”

“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”

Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.

You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.

The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.

You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”

You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.

The drive is quiet.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.

Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.

You’ve seen that look before.

Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.

Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.

“I know,” he says.

But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.

He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.

Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.

You shake your head. “No, I—”

His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.

“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.

The kiss isn’t careful.

It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.

It’s desperate.

Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.

“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.

The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath stutters.

There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.

His voice drops, quieter but steadier.

“Be mine.”

The words land heavier than anything else tonight.

“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”

You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.

“I am,” you say.

There’s no hesitation in it.

“I've always been yours, Buck.”

His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.

“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”

He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”

Your answer comes easily.

“Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.

His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.

The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.

You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"

"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."

The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."

A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.

You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."

"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.

His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.

His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.

"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."

"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."

A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.

"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."

You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, please—"

His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."

And god, does he take his time.

His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.

"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.

"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."

You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.

"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."

His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"

"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.

His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.

"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.

He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.

"Good?" he rasps.

"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."

He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.

"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.

You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.

He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.

His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.

Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.

You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.

Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."

A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.

"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."

You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.

He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.

The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.

Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.

The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.

Everything feels warm.

Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.

You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.

You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.

Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”

His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.

“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.

Your stomach tightens immediately.

“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

No answer.

You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.

Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.

“There you are,” you breathe.

His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.

“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”

You stop yourself.

Thought what?

That he left?

That this disappeared overnight somehow?

The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.

“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.

There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.

“C’mere.”

You let him.

He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”

A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.

“There she is.”

The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.

“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.

The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.

You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Like he’s still convincing himself.

He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.

Where you want to be.

You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.

“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.

Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.

Bucky's staring at a blank wall in his apartment.

It’s been blank for three months.

He hasn’t put up art, hasn’t mounted shelves. Hasn’t even leaned anything against it to pretend he might one day decide. The paint is that neutral off-white landlords choose when they don’t want tenants getting ideas, it reflects the late afternoon light in a way that makes the room feel larger than it is.

Larger. Emptier.

He folds his arms over his chest and studies the wall like it’s a problem he’s been assigned.

He’s “free” now. No handler. No mission briefs. No coded directives slipped under doors or encrypted messages lighting up burner phones, no one telling him where to go, who to be, or what mistakes to fix. He thought freedom would feel big. He thought it would be loud in a good way, like fireworks or a door kicked open. He thought it would feel like breathing after being underwater too long.

It doesn't.

It feels… empty.

The kind of empty that echoes. The kind that makes every sound in the apartment too sharp, the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the faint traffic noise drifting up from the street.

He shifts his weight.

Bucky knows what you need to have in today's world to do something, to be something that matters. He doesn’t have half of it. He never went to college, the war kind of interrupted that. He doesn't know where he would start with a resume, “Assassin, covert operative and international fugitive” doesn’t format well in bullet points. He tried LinkedIn, once, then deleted it in under five minutes after they asked what his minimum salary was at a past job.

He doesn't have a plan, he's got what he always thought he wanted from his life and now that he has it, it's collecting dust in his empty apartment.

He knows what he does have. A truck. Old yet reliable, rebuilt twice over with his own hands. Mechanical skills. He can fix almost anything with an engine. Most things without one. A terrifying resting face, that he’s been told scares even the brutalist of criminals away. More than once.

And time. So much time.

He runs a hand over his jaw, exhales, and finally looks away from the wall. He tried therapy. He still goes once a week where he sits on a couch across from a woman who asks him what he wants now that he’s allowed to want things.

He doesn’t have an answer.

He tried the gym. That just made him feel like he was waiting for something.

He tried walking around Brooklyn without a destination. That lasted two hours before he found himself counting exits and scanning rooftops out of habit. Freedom is supposed to come with direction, that’s what people imply. You earn it, and then you use it.

Bucky doesn’t know how to do that, how to do freedom. He moves into the kitchen, if you can call it that. It’s more of an open counter situation, and pulls open a drawer. Inside are exactly three pens, a rubber band, and a folded takeout menu.

He grabs a pen. Stands there for a long moment. Then he finds a pad of paper in another drawer that thick, slightly yellow, the kind meant for grocery lists and tears off a sheet. He sits at the small table by the window. The city moves outside. Car horns, voices, someone laughing. Someone arguing, a siren in the distance.

He stares at the blank page. He doesn’t need a career, per say. He needs… something to do. Something simple. Something useful. So he writes in block letters.

NEED HELP?

He pauses. That’s vague, he thinks, but maybe vague is good. He continues. Adding in things like, Protection. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.

He considers crossing out “stuff.” Leaves it. He taps the pen against the table thinking with a hum, people won’t call a stranger without reassurance.

He sighs and writes: Not a serial killer.

He leans back and stares at it. It’s terrible. And honest.

He adds his name and cut little strips into the page, writing his number on each one as a DIY tearoff. He learned that word from Sam when he told him he should look up some DIY key holders for his apartment.

He studies the finished product. It looks like something a bored teenager would tape to a telephone pole as a joke. So he makes another one.

And another.

By the time the light shifts toward evening, there are fifteen slightly crooked, slightly uneven flyers spread across his table. He stares at them like they might explain themselves. This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is civilian nonsense. And it is defintely not a plan. But at least it’s something, and it's better than staring at a blank wall trying to guess how many layers of paint are on it.

He grabs a roll of tape from under the sink, shrugs into his jacket, and gathers the stack. The hallway outside his apartment smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s overcooked dinner. He heads down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, an old habit, and steps out into the early evening air.

Brooklyn hums.

He’s lived here long enough now that the rhythm of it doesn’t jolt him anymore. It’s background noise instead of threat assessment, mostly. He tapes the first flyer to a lamppost outside his building, presses the tape flat with his thumb and steps back.

It looks ridiculous, he moves on to the next one anyway.

He tapes one outside a laundromat, another near a bus stop, one by a small grocery store on the corner. He hesitates outside a coffee shop, then shrugs and sticks one to the bulletin board already crowded with yoga class ads and guitar lessons and “ROOMMATE WANTED” strips.

He doesn’t overthink it.

If he overthinks it, he’ll stop.

By the time he’s done, the stack is gone and his hands are slightly sticky from tape residue. He stands on the sidewalk, truck parked at the curb, and looks around. That’s it. That’s his grand re-entry into civilian life.

A handful of flyers that say “Not a serial killer.”

He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and climbs into his truck.

Three days pass.

Nothing.

His phone remains silent except for spam calls and a pharmacy reminder. He tells himself that’s expected. That people use apps now, platforms and ratings with verified accounts. Not hand-scrawled paper tabs.

On the fourth day, he walks past the lamppost outside his building. The flyer is still there completely untouched. No numbers torn off. Rain has wrinkled the edges slightly, but the ink hasn’t bled. He stares at it longer than necessary thinking maybe he should take them down.

Before someone reports him.

Before someone thinks it’s suspicious. Before he has to admit that even offering help isn’t enough to make someone need him.

He leaves it up.

A few blocks away, you’re struggling with a box labeled “KITCHEN???” in thick black marker.

The label is inaccurate. It contains exactly one mug, three mismatched plates, and an alarming number of tangled charging cables. You’re sweating. You’re slightly overwhelmed yet feeling the most giddy you had in years.

You’re trying to balance the box against your hip while fishing your keys out of your bag with the other hand. That’s when you see it.

The flyer, taped slightly crooked to the lamppost.

NEED HELP? Rides. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff. Not a serial killer. – Bucky 718-325-7038

You blink.

Then you laugh. Out loud and it echoes a little on the sidewalk, surprising even you.

“Not a serial killer,” you repeat under your breath. “Well. That’s reassuring.”

You shift the box to your other hip and step closer.

The paper is slightly damp at the edges. The handwriting is bold, deliberate. Careful in a way that suggests the person writing it wasn’t joking, exactly. Just… blunt. There are little handmade tear-off tabs at the bottom with a phone number.

None of them have been taken.

You glance up and down the street. It’s early afternoon. People moving, cars passing, no one paying attention. You tug one of the tabs free. The paper rips with a soft, decisive sound. You fold it once and tuck it into your back pocket.

“Just in case,” you murmur to yourself, like that makes it reasonable.

You don’t actually intend to call. But something about it, about the absurd honesty that makes this new neighborhood feel slightly less intimidating. Like there are real people here.

Like maybe you didn’t just move into a city of strangers.

You juggle your box again and finally get the building door open. Inside, the hallway smells like old wood and someone’s incense. You don’t know a single soul here.

Not one.

After six hours in Brooklyn you have a new apartment, new job starting Monday, no furniture besides a mattress you haven’t unwrapped yet. You drop the box inside your door and lean back against it, exhaling.

You did it. You moved. This means you’re brave now. It also means you’re also starving, sweaty and slightly terrified. You pull the little tab out of your pocket and look at it again.

Bucky. Not a serial killer.

You snort softly, slipping it into your purse that sat in the kitchen, if you can call it that, next to an array of takeout menus left littered on the counter by the previous tenant. Just in case. You sit back on your heels, breathing slightly heavier than necessary, and let your gaze drift to the small strip of paper sitting on the counter.

It looks small there. Almost insignificant.

Like it couldn’t possibly matter.

You push yourself up with a quiet exhale, brushing dust from your palms as you take in the apartment again—really take it in this time. The stacks of boxes are a little less intimidating than they were this morning. You’ve made progress. There’s a mug in the sink now, your mug. A hoodie draped over the back of the door. Your shoes kicked off by the wall like you plan on staying.

It doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place anymore.

Not entirely.

You move slowly through the space, opening a box here, shifting something there. You line your toiletries along the bathroom sink, straighten the sheets on the mattress you finally unwrapped, plug in a lamp so the corners don’t feel quite so shadowed. Each small action presses you further into the room, like you’re anchoring yourself piece by piece.

Like you’re proving to yourself that you’re really here.

Brooklyn.

You pause in the middle of the living room, hands settling on your hips as the quiet settles around you again. It’s different now. Not as sharp. Still unfamiliar, but… softer at the edges. Outside, the city hums. Car horns, voices drifting up from the street, music faint and distant like it’s being carried on the air just for you.

You step closer to the window, the one you’ll later learn sticks, and peer out at the street below. People move like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they belong to the rhythm of it.

You want that.

Not just the city. Not just the apartment.

The feeling.

You glance back at the room. At the half-unpacked boxes, the bare walls, the life that hasn’t quite settled into place yet. You could stay in tonight. Finish unpacking. Eat something out of a container balanced on your knee and fall asleep early.

That would be the easier choice, the safer one. Your fingers tap lightly against your thigh as you consider it. Then you shake your head.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, quieter but firmer. “That’s not why you came here.”

You didn’t drive hours and sign a lease you can barely afford just to sit in silence and wait for your life to start. You didn’t leave everything familiar behind just to recreate it in a smaller space.

You came here to live.

Even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you don’t know what you’re doing yet. Especially then. Your gaze drifts back to your purse for a second, to the place where you tucked the little tab away. Something about it lingers in your mind, faint but present. Not a plan. Not even a real option.

Just… a possibility.

You grab a different jacket from one of the boxes, tug it on over your clothes, and glance at yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. You look a little tired. A little overwhelmed.

But there’s something else there too.

Something brighter.

“Okay,” you say softly, like you’re making a deal with yourself. “One drink.”

You grab your keys, hesitate only a second, then head for the door. The lock clicks behind you with a soft, final sound.

Hours later, the city feels very different.

Louder, warmer, brighter.

You hadn’t meant to drink that much. It just sort of… happened. One conversation slid into another. Someone bought you a round because you mentioned you’d just moved. You laughed more than you expected to. The music felt good in your chest.

You wanted to feel like you belonged.

Now you’re standing on a sidewalk that looks vaguely familiar but not enough, the neon sign behind you flickering slightly, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.

Your phone battery blinks 4%.

You squint down the street.

How do people get taxis here? Do they just… appear? You raise your arm experimentally. Nothing happens. A group brushes past you, laughing. You step aside too quickly and nearly trip off the curb.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay.”

You could Uber.

You open the app only to find surge pricing.

Of course.

You check your wallet. Not nearly enough cash after buying that last round and leaving a surmisable tip for the bartender, who was kind enough to let you know that you had put your jacket on inside out after your third drink.

You glance around again, the city suddenly less charming and more overwhelming. Your stomach dips and fear spreads low and cold. You don’t know where the nearest bus stop is, or which line to take, you don’t actually know which direction your apartment is from here.

The alcohol in your system stops feeling warm and starts feeling inconvenient. You dig through your purse, fingers fumbling past lip gloss, receipts, keys.

Your hand closes around paper. You pull it out.

Slightly crumpled.

NEED HELP?

You stare at it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half mortified.

This is insane. You shouldn’t.

You absolutely should not text a stranger who specified he isn’t a serial killer. Your battery drops to 3%. You hesitate for three long seconds.

Then you type.

Hi. Are you real?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

Bucky’s phone vibrates against the table. The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.

He freezes and for half a second, his brain does something old and dangerous—threat assessment, immediate spike of adrenaline, body already half-rising.

He grabs the phone to see an unknown number.

A text.

He stares at it. His pulse does not settle. Are you real? That could mean anything. That could mean someone found him, that could mean trouble.

Or—

Another text comes in.

I think I need help.

His jaw tightens.

He’s already standing. He doesn’t deliberate, doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs his keys off the counter, shoves his feet back into his boots without tying them properly, and is out the door in under thirty seconds.

The truck engine roars to life beneath him, familiar vibration steadying something inside his chest.

He types one-handed at a red light.

Location?

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Then:

Outside Harper’s. On 5th I think. By the hot dog guy??

He knows exactly where that is. He’s there in four minutes.

He spots you before you spot him.

You’re sitting on the curb now, elbows propped on your knees, arguing mildly with a man behind a food cart about whether mustard counts as a vegetable.

You look… small.

Not in stature. Just in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard to seem fine.

Bucky parks sharply at the curb and steps out. The night air hits him cool and sharp. The city noise presses in — laughter spilling from bar doors, the hiss of the food cart grill, bass thudding faintly through brick walls.

He scans automatically. No visible threat, no one crowding you. Just you. He approaches slower.

“You texted me?” he asks.

You look up and squint as if were the middle of the day and not half past one in the morning. Your eyes travel from his boots to his shoulders to his face.

“You’re not a serial killer, right?” you ask, entirely serious.

He blinks. “No.”

You consider him for another beat.

“Okay, good.” You try to stand. It does not go smoothly. Your foot catches the edge of the curb and you pitch forward slightly.

His hands are on your arms before you hit the ground. Gloved yet warm. Steady and solid.

You freeze for a second, looking up at him from far too close. He smells like clean soap and something faintly metallic. His grip is firm but not bruising.

“You needed help because you’re drunk?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind.

“I needed help,” you correct, wobbling slightly. “Because I don't know how New York works. And I also may be a little drunk.”

He exhales slowly.

“Why didn’t you take the subway?”

You blink at him. “…There’s a subway here?”

He just stares at you, something in his expression shifts and his irritation drains. Not completely but enough for a soft breath to leave his lips as he stands back to look at you.

“How long you been here?” he asks.

"What time is it?"

He glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til two."

“Like twenty hours,” you reply honestly.

That adds up, he thinks to himself and nods once.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”

He keeps one hand lightly at your elbow as he guides you toward the truck. You talk the whole way over-explaining where you live.

“Okay so it’s near a brick building over by a big brown bridge—which I know doesn’t help because they’re all brick—but there’s like… a plant in the window? I think? And the stairs creak.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

He already knows the building, he’s driven past it a hundred times just like he has every building in Brooklyn. He opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated and steady before closing it gently. Inside the truck, the world feels smaller, quieter. You lean your head back against the seat with a relieved sigh.

“Thank you for being real,” you mumble.

He starts the engine. “You text random numbers often?”

“Only the ones that clarify they aren’t serial killers.”

A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet laugh.

It’s brief. Quiet and low, but real. And you smile at the sound without realizing it. As the truck pulls away from the curb, Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye to see you’re watching the city pass by, like it’s something you’re still deciding whether to trust.

He understands that feeling more than he’d like to. And for the first time in days, the empty space in his chest feels… lightly occupied.

He parks in front of your building with the kind of precision that suggests he’s memorized the street long before tonight. The engine rumbles low beneath you for a moment before he turns the key and everything settles into quiet. The sudden absence of vibration makes the world feel oddly still, like stepping off a moving walkway and having to find your balance again.

You peer out the window.

“Oh,” you breathe, surprised. “This is it.”

“I know,” he replies simply.

Of course he does.

He’s already out of the truck before you’ve fully processed that, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. When he opens your door, the night air curls cool around your flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of rain drying on concrete.

You slide down from the seat carefully this time. He keeps a hand hovering at your elbow—not gripping, just there. Just in case.

The building looms a little taller than it had earlier in the day. Dark windows. Narrow staircase just inside the glass door. The porch light flickers faintly like it’s unsure of its commitment to illumination. You hesitate on the sidewalk. It’s not the alcohol now. It’s the strange awareness that this is the end of something. A brief pocket of safety in a night that could have gone differently.

He notices.

He always notices.

“Up you go,” he says quietly, nodding toward the door.

You move together toward it, footsteps uneven on your part, measured on his. The city continues behind you—cars passing, someone shouting down the block, a siren wailing faint and far—but here on the stoop it feels contained. Close.

You fumble slightly with your keys as your fingers don’t want to cooperate.

He waits.

Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands behind and to the side, broad shoulders blocking some of the street’s draft, presence steady and grounded like a wall you can lean against if you needed to.

The key finally slides into the lock.

You pause before turning it.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the residual warmth coming off him, the faint scent of clean cotton and motor oil and night air. You glance over your shoulder. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something softer at the edges. The crease between his brows less pronounced than earlier, the sharp lines of his jaw less guarded.

“You can call again,” he says, stiff but sincere. “If you need something real.”

Not judgmental. Not mocking.

Just… open.

And you smile. Not the bright, tipsy grin from earlier. Not the exaggerated one you’d been wearing in the bar to prove you were fine. This one is quieter and softer. It reaches your eyes.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

His name leaves your mouth gently, like it belongs there.

Something in his chest shifts. He hasn’t heard it like that in a long time. Not as an order. Not barked across a battlefield. Not attached to expectation or obligation.

Just his name. Warm. Human.

He clears his throat lightly.

“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he adds, almost gruff again as if to steady himself. “It’s loud. And it smells weird in the summer. But it’s… alright.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll brace myself.”

He nods once, gaze drifting up to the building behind you.

“Hope the city treats you well.”

There’s more under that than the words carry. A quiet wish. A hope that it doesn’t chew you up the way it can. That it gives you something instead of taking.

You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary.

“Maybe it already has,” you say before you can overthink it.

His mouth opens slightly, like he might respond to that. Instead, you turn the key. The lock clicks open and you push the door inward and step across the threshold, turning back just before it closes fully.

He’s still there. Hands in his jacket pockets now. Shoulders squared against the night air. Watching to make sure you’re inside. Safe.

You lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight, not-a-serial-killer.”

A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

The door shuts.

The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes softly through the stairwell. He waits, hums while he counts to five.

Listens for movement inside—footsteps climbing stairs, a door opening above. When he hears the faint creak of wood and the muffled thud of something being set down, only then does he step back.

Only then does he turn toward his truck.

The city hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. Still buzzing. Still alive. But something in him feels… different. Lighter, maybe.

Or at least less empty.

He slides into the driver’s seat and rests his hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine yet. You called, out of all the numbers in the world, you called him. Not because he was assigned, not because he was ordered, but because you needed help. And he showed up. The thought settles deep, warm and unfamiliar.

Upstairs, you lean back against your closed apartment door and exhale slowly. Your heart isn’t racing anymore. Your head still spins faintly, but beneath that is something steadier.

Safer.

You push off the door and wander toward your mattress, kicking off your shoes halfway there. The apartment doesn’t feel quite as cavernous now, the corners less shadowed, the silence less sharp.

You fish your phone out of your purse and glance at it.

2% battery.

You type quickly before it dies.

Made it upstairs. Thanks again.

You hit send.

Across the street, Bucky’s phone buzzes just as he turns the key in the ignition.

He looks at the screen, the corners of his mouth just barely ticking upwards, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.

Then he types back.

Good. Get some sleep.

He hesitates before typing out another message.

City’s easier in the morning.

He sends it before he can reconsider. Upstairs, your phone dies before you see it.

But somehow, curled up on your mattress with the window cracked just enough to let Brooklyn’s nighttime hum drift in, you sleep a little easier anyway. And downstairs, parked at the curb a moment longer than necessary, Bucky sits in the quiet of his truck and realizes that for the first time since he put those flyers up with his number—

He hopes it rings again.

The buzz of his phone comes just as Bucky’s settling into the quiet.

He’s halfway through reassembling the carburetor of a bike he doesn’t even own, just something he found on the curb and decided to fix because his hands need purpose the way lungs need air, when the vibration skitters across his kitchen counter.

He stares at it. Unknown number, again.

His jaw tightens automatically. Old habits.

It buzzes again. He wipes his hands on a rag before picking it up, thumb hovering like he’s about to disarm something instead of open a message.

Hi. It's me again. But it’s not a drunk emergency. I can’t open my window and I think I’m suffocating.

He blinks.

Then another message.

I’m not actually suffocating. Probably. But it’s very dramatic in here.

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

He types back with one thumb.

Be there in five.

A heart appears immediately.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The building looks different in daylight. Less romantic, with more peeling paint and crooked mailboxes.

He takes the stairs two at a time anyway. You door is already open when he reaches the third floor.

You're standing there like you've been pacing, hair pulled into a messy twist that’s given up in several places, socks on, oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. No makeup this time, no glittering party lights reflected in your eyes.

Just… you.

Sober. And clearly mortified.

“Oh my god, hi,” you blurt, words tripping over each other as soon as you see him. “I promise I’m not dying. I just—okay so I tried to open the window and it wouldn’t budge and then I panicked and convinced myself the oxygen was running out and—”

“You know that’s not how air works, right?” he says flatly.

Your mouth snaps shut. “…I did. In theory.”

He steps inside without another word, brushing past your shoulder. You smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy. The apartment is small and bare, boxes still stacked like uneven towers along the walls.

The window in question is in the living room. Old frame. Painted shut.

He walks over, studies it for three seconds.

“You tried pulling?”

“Yes.”

“Pushing?”

“Yes.”

He grips the bottom sash, metal fingers bracing, flesh hand curling over the wood. A small twist of pressure. A sharp upward shove.

The paint seal cracks with a soft pop and the window slides up. Cool Brooklyn air spills in within thirty seconds. He steps back.

You just stare at it, then at him. “…I hate you a little.”

“Join the club.”

You press a hand over your face, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I’m not helpless.”

“Never said you were.”

“You definitely implied it.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I implied you’ve never met a window before.”

Your eyes narrow, but there’s laughter dancing behind them. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m efficient.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Sometimes it is.”

You huff, crossing your arms—but you're smiling. Bright and unfiltered, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight hitting bare skin.

It’s… a lot. He’s not used to a lot.

He clears his throat. “You’re not suffocating.”

“Thank you, Doctor Barnes.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You grin. “Mechanic Barnes?”

“No.”

“Freedom Flyer Guy?”

He gives you a look and you laughs again, softer this time. “Sorry.”

A pause settles between you. Not heavy. Just… there.

You shift your weight. “So. I owe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I absolutely do. You just saved my life.”

“You were never in danger.”

“You don’t know that. What if I had spiraled? What if I started hyperventilating? What if I fainted and hit my head and then actually suffocated because the window was closed?”

He just stares at you. “…That’s not how any of that works.”

You point at him triumphantly. “See? You care.”

“I care about physics.”

You beam like he just confessed undying devotion, your eyes twinkling as they bore into his. He looks away first.

“I’m not charging you,” he says.

“I’m not letting you leave without compensation.”

His brows draw together. “Compensation.”

“Yes.”

“I fixed a stuck window.”

“You provided emergency ventilation services.”

“You’re impossible.”

You step closer, hands on hips now, chin tipped up in stubborn determination. “I’m ordering takeout.”

“That’s not payment.”

“It is if you stay and eat it.”

His instinct is to refuse.

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t sit.

He doesn’t… stay.

But the apartment is quiet except for you and the faint rush of air through the open window. The city noise floats in—distant traffic, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog barking.

You look at him like you expect him to bolt. Like you're used to people bolting.

He exhales slowly.

“Fine,” he says. “But nothing fancy.”

Your face lights up like he just handed you the moon. “Yes!”

He winces slightly at the volume.

“Sorry!” you whisper immediately, clapping a hand over your mouth. “I get excited.”

“I can tell.”

You grabs your phone, already scrolling. “Okay, what do you like?”

“Food.”

You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”

“Anything.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Any strong opinions about noodles?”

He blinks at you.

You gasp, soft yet dramtic. “You don’t have strong noodle opinions?”

“I was alive before noodles were complicated.”

“I don't know if that's a joke or not but that’s deeply concerning.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

You settle on something Thai. Spicy. “It’ll be here in thirty.”

He nods once.

Then you both look at the apartment. No couch yet, no chairs. Just boxes and hardwood floors.

You drop down cross-legged without hesitation. “Floor picnic?”

He hesitates a fraction of a second before lowering himself across from you, back resting against a stack of sealed boxes labeled BOOKS in loopy handwriting.

For a moment, you just sit there.

It’s quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, just… new. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So. You fix windows often?”

“Second one this week.” he deadpans.

“Wow. You’re basically a specialist.”

“I’ll update the flyer.”

Your laugh bursts out of you before she can stop it, bright and easy. “Please do. ‘Professional Window Hero.’”

“Hero’s a stretch.”

“You got here in, like, five minutes.”

“You were two blocks away.”

You blink, lips parting in light suprise. “You live that close?”

He nods and your smile softens. “That’s… nice.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Feels less scary knowing someone I’ve technically met before is nearby.”

He shifts slightly. “You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”

You tilt your head. “Are we strangers?”

The question hangs there. He studies you face, watching the open curiosity, no edge, no ulterior motive.

“Mostly,” he answers.

You nod slowly, accepting it without flinching. “Okay. Mostly strangers who eat Thai food on the floor.”

“Accurate.”

You lean back on your palms, looking around the half-empty room. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet.”

“It’s fine.”

“I moved here four days ago and everything still feels… unreal.” Your voice softens at the edges. “Like I’m house-sitting someone else’s life.”

He doesn’t interrupt. You glance at him, gauging if he’s listening.

He is.

“I was just…so tired,” you say, quieter now. “Of dreaming about things that only existed when I was asleep.”

He frowns faintly. “Like what?”

“Everything.” You laugh, but it’s not as bright this time. “The job I wanted. The city I wanted. The version of me that wasn’t waiting around for something to happen.”

The breeze moves through the room again, stirring the edges of unpacked papers.

“So I stopped waiting,” you continue. “Packed up my car. Drove here. Signed a lease I could barely afford. Figured if I was going to be scared anyway, I might as well be scared somewhere interesting.”

He studies you gently.

“You moved without knowing anyone.”

“Yep.”

“That’s reckless.”

You grin. “You know some people would call that brave.”

“Debatable.”

“See?” you say, pointing at him. “This is what I mean. You see the worst-case scenario. I see the possibility.”

“I see reality.”

“I see potential.”

“You see suffocating from a closed window.”

You laugh again, bright again and unashamed. “Okay, that one was dramatic.”

“A little.”

“But you still came.”

He looks down at his hands, the metal rubs againt the glove as the leather glints under the overhead light.

“You asked me too,” he says simply.

You watch him for a second too long, stirring something warm and heavy that starts to press at his ribs when the knock at the door saves him.

You scramble up, nearly tripping over a box in your haste. “Food!”

He hears your cheerful thank you through the doorway, the rustle of paper bags, and the quick shuffle back. You set everything between you two like it’s treasure and the smell fills the apartment. You eat straight from the containers, knees occasionally bumping.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

Easy.

But it does.

Bucky watches you, the way that you talkswith your hands, animated, telling him about the tiny coffee shop you found that morning. About the subway map that “looks like abstract art.” About how you got lost for forty minutes and ended up discovering a park you now claims as yours.

“You got lost on purpose,” he says.

“I absolutely did not.”

“You just said you walked in circles.”

“That’s exploring.”

“That’s inefficient.” he grumbles.

You grin around a bite of noodles. “I bet you would’ve hated it.”

“I would’ve brought a map.”

“I had one!”

His face falls. “And you still got lost.”

You points at him with your sauce stained chopsticks. “You’re missing the point.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The point is I was somewhere new. Alone. And it didn’t feel lonely.”

He pauses mid-bite. You don’t seem to realize what you've said until a second later. Your eyes flick to him, softer now.

“Not entirely,” you amend gently.

The air shifts and he swallows the rest of his bite.

“You won’t always feel new here,” he says.

“I know.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I hope not completely.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want it to stop feeling like possibility.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, he’s still figuring out what possibility even looks like. You finish eating slower than necessary, even when you're done neither of you rush to stand.

Eventually, you gather the empty containers, stacking them neatly.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For showing up. Even when it’s just… windows.”

He nods once. “You can call again.”

The words come out stiffer than he means them to.

“If you… still need something real,” he adds.

Your smile this time is different. Softer, bright but less blinding, more intentional.

“Okay,” you say. “I will.”

He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans and you walk him to the door. The hallway light flickers overhead as you unlock it fully, stepping into the frame like you're guarding it.

He lingers on the threshold.

“I think you'll fit in just fine here,” he says, the words awkward but sincere. “It’s loud. And expensive.”

You laugh softly.

“And,” he adds, after a beat, “it’s not the worst place to start over.”

Something in your expression shifts.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

It lands somewhere deep in his chest just as last time. Warmer than he expects. He nods once, because he doesn’t trust his voice.

“Goodnight,” you say.

“Lock the door,” he replies automatically.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yes, sir.”

He turns and heads down the stairs. Halfway to the landing, he hears the soft click of your lock sliding into place, and the ghost of a smile curves across his lips.

Only then does he keep walking.

The third time you text him, you stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.

Hi. Hypothetically— If someone bought shelves and then realized drywall is apparently not just… wall… what would that someone do?

Three dots appear almost immediately.

That someone would wait.

You grin.

For?

Me.

He shows up with a drill slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.

You open the door before he knocks this time, already smiling. “Hi.”

He pauses just slightly at the sight of you barefoot in paint-splattered shorts and one of those oversized band tees you sleep in. Your hair’s half-clipped up, pencil tucked behind your ear like you’ve been architecting something serious instead of arguing with brackets.

“You didn’t start without me,” he says.

“I considered it.”

“It's good you didn't. You would’ve hit a pipe.”

“I resent that.”

“You should.”

You step aside to let him in, eucalyptus and mint no longer the dominant scent of your place—now it smells like sawdust and fresh coffee and something citrusy you insist on spraying in the mornings because it “feels productive.”

He surveys the wall you’ve chosen. “What’re these for?”

“Plants, books, maybe a tiny ceramic frog. I don’t know yet. It’s about potential.”

He huffs. “Everything’s about potential with you.”

“And everything’s about worst-case scenarios with you.”

“It keeps you from flooding your apartment.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He levels you with a look.

You grin.

He gets to work, movements efficient, measured. Flesh fingers steady, metal ones precise throught the stretch of their leather glove. The hum of the drill fills the apartment, and you sit cross-legged on the floor watching like it’s a live performance.

“You know,” you say over the noise, “most people would charge for this.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t?” You ask curiously.

“You fed me.”

“That was one time.”

He glances at you. “You planning to stop?”

You blink. “…No.”

“Then we’re square.”

The shelves are up in under twenty minutes. You clap softly when he finishes, which earns you a flat look from Bucky.

“What?” You mutter.

“It’s a shelf.”

“It’s a level shelf!”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You don’t mention it. You just notice.

The dresser comes next.

You absolutely could’ve waited for building management to help. Or ordered professional movers.

But instead:

I have made a mistake. The dresser is winning.

He’s there in seven minutes. You open the door breathless, like you’ve been wrestling furniture for sport. “It’s heavier than it looked online.”

“They always are.”

He takes one look at the narrow hallway, the impossible angle to your bedroom door, and just nods once.

“Lift when I say,” he tells you.

“Yes, sir,” you reply brightly.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

You bite back a smile.

The two of you maneuver the dresser inch by inch. Your hands slip once and he steadies it without thinking, metal arm braced, body angled to shield yours from the corner.

“Careful,” he mutters.

“You’re the one who said lift.”

“You’re the one who didn’t bend your knees.”

“You sound like a gym teacher.”

“You’d have hated school with me.”

You laugh, breathless, as the dresser finally slides into place against your bedroom wall before you collapse onto the floor dramatically.

“We did it,” you declare.

“I did it.”

“You emotionally supported.”

“I told you what to do.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.

“Okay,” you say one afternoon, holding up the subway map like it’s an ancient scroll. “Explain this.”

He stares at it. Then at you. “It’s color-coded.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It literally does.”

You’re standing at the entrance of the station, the late afternoon rush building around you. The air smells like hot concrete and something metallic.

“I get on the blue one,” you say slowly, “unless it’s express? Or local? And then it skips my stop? Why does it skip my stop.”

“Because it’s express.”

“Why would I want that?” You ask.

“So you get somewhere faster.”

“But not where I need to go.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

You beam at him behind the map. He steps closer, crowd pressing in around you. His shoulder leans into yours as he points at the map. “You take the local during rush hour if you’re only going a few stops. Express if you’re crossing boroughs.”

You squint. “And how do I know which is which?”

He gestures to the small black circles versus the white ones.

Your head tilts. “Oh.”

“You didn’t see that.”

“No.”

He sighs, but it’s softer than it used to be. “Stay to the right on the stairs. Don’t stand in the doorway, and if the train’s packed, wait for the next one.”

“I don’t mind packed.”

“You will.”

You grin up at him. “You’re very protective over public transit etiquette.”

“I’m protective over not getting shoved.”

The train roars into the station. You hesitate for half a second before stepping forward, his hand finds your elbow without thinking, guiding.

“Move with the crowd,” he says quietly near your ear. “Don’t fight it.”

You nod. Inside, it’s warm and loud and close.

You look up at him, eyes bright. “This is kind of fun.”

“It’s not.”

“It is if you decide it is.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go of your elbow until your stop arrives. After that, he walks you through shortcuts like he’s revealing state secrets.

“Cut through here if it’s raining.”

“Take the side exit after ten p.m.”

“Don’t get on the empty car.”

“Why?” You ask.

“Just don’t.”

You salute dramatically. “Yes, subway sargeant.”

“Don't call me that.”

You grin. You don’t stop.

You teach him photography in payment.

“Okay, your turn,” you tell him one evening, camera strap looped around your wrist.

He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“My livelihood.”

“It looks old.”

“It’s film.”

He pauses. “They still make that?”

You gasp. “You wound me.”

You press the camera into his hands, guiding his fingers over the body. “Manual focus. No screen. You have to feel it.”

He studies it carefully, brow furrowed in concentration the way it does when he’s fixing something delicate.

“You adjust the aperture here,” you say, stepping closer. “Shutter speed there. It’s slower. Intentional.”

He glances at you. “Like you.”

You blink and find his eyes, his gaze like a soft sky blue with a dark edge that held the color in, looking at you like you were the eye of the storm. You look back. He looks away first.

You swallow your smile. “Exactly like me.”

You teach him how to look for light instead of just objects. How shadows tell stories. How grain makes things honest. He listens, really listens, so you start bringing the camera everywhere. To the bodega. To the park. To the subway platform at golden hour.

And somehow—he’s in half the frames. Leaning against brick walls. Looking out over the water. Brow creased at something you said.

He notices eventually.

“You take a lot of pictures,” he says one afternoon when you snap another shot of him sitting on the stoop outside your building.

“I’m a photographer.”

“Of me.”

You lower the camera slowly. “You’re in good light.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

You don’t tell him that you’ve started a folder at work labeled The Brooklyn Study. That half of it is just him, that your boss called the shots “intimate” or that you flushed all the way to your ears and clutched the folder to your chest.

You keep that part to yourself. For now.

Over the next few weeks, the calls keep coming.

Is this radiator supposed to sound like it’s screaming?

He arrives to find you crouched in front of it like it’s a wild animal.

“It’s air in the pipes,” he says.

“It sounds haunted.”

“It’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You watch him bleed it carefully, steam hissing softly.

“You’re very calm around loud, angry noises,” you observe.

He doesn’t answer that.

Sometimes you call and you don’t actually need help.

I think the shelf is… slightly crooked.

It isn’t. He adjusts it anyway.

The hallway light flickers weird.

He tightens the bulb.

Sometimes you just say:

Are you busy?

And when he answers no, you say:

Good.

You sit on the floor again. Or on your fire escape. Or at the small kitchen table you finally bought.

You talk. About work. About how strange it is building a life from scratch. About how sometimes the quiet feels too loud. He pretends he doesn’t notice that those are the nights you text the latest. He pretends he doesn’t notice that you hover a second longer when he stands to leave.

He pretends a lot.

But he starts remembering. Your coffee order—oat milk, no sugar. The way you wrinkle your nose when something’s too spicy. The fact that you hum when you’re editing photos. He starts bringing tools without being asked. A level. Extra screws. A small toolkit he leaves under your sink “just in case.” He checks your building door after you close it.

Always.

You start saving him leftovers.

Tiny labeled containers in your fridge. For Window Hero. Emergency Noodles. Do Not Skip Dinner.

He pretends he doesn’t see the notes but he eats every single one.

One afternoon you hand him a stack of redesigned flyers. His brows lift.

“They were tragic,” you say unapologetically. “No tear-off tabs, no clear services listed and a terrible font choice.”

He flips one over. It’s cleaner and more organized. Still blunt, but somehow warmer.

FREEDOM HELP. Need something fixed, carried, explained? Text. I show up.

Your number added beneath his in smaller print: Subway translations available.

He looks at you slowly. “You added yourself.”

You nod. “I’m your marketing department.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“You needed one.”

A beat.

“…They’re better,” he admits.

You beam like you just won an award.

You start calling him before small problems become big ones. He starts answering before the second ring and soon the loneliness shifts. It doesn’t disappear, not all in one big fell swoop. It settles between you instead of sitting on your shoulders, in shared silence instead of empty rooms. One evening you sit beside him on the stoop, camera resting in your lap.

“You know,” you say softly, “I thought moving here would fix everything.”

He stares out at the streetlights flickering on. “Did it?”

“No.” You smile faintly. “But it gave me something to build with.”

He nods once. You bump your shoulder against his.

“Thanks for showing up,” you add quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulder presses back.

“Thanks for calling,” he says.

It starts small. So small to the point you hadn't even realized anything, until you did and now it's all you can think about. A brush of his shoulder lingering a second too long. The way your apartment feels less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home when his boots are by the door. The way silence doesn’t scrape at you when he’s sitting in it too.

You try not to think too hard about it at first.

You tell yourself it makes sense. He’s the only person you really know here. Of course you call him. Of course you look for him in a crowd on the subway platform without meaning to. Of course your camera finds him before it finds anything else.

It’s proximity. Convenience, familiarity even.

It’s not—

It’s not the way your stomach flips when he says your name like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to drop. It’s not the way you start cooking too much on purpose. It’s not the way you check your phone at night hoping for a text that never comes because he doesn’t text first.

You sit with that realization longer than you’d like.

Because if it’s not just circumstance…

Then it’s choice, and you know what choosing feels like now. It feels like packing your life into boxes and driving toward something uncertain, it feels like standing in a city that doesn’t know you exist and deciding you belong anyway.

It feels terrifying.

The night you call him, nothing is broken. There's no screaming radiator, no crooked shelf, no stuck window. You’re standing in your kitchen staring at two bowls with steam curling up and realizing you only need one, your thumb hovering over his name for a long moment.

Then you press it. He answers on the second ring.

“What broke this time?”

You huff a soft laugh despite yourself. “Hi to you too.”

A pause. “…Hi.”

You swallow. “I don’t need anything fixed.”

Silence stretches across the line. You can almost picture his face—brows drawn together, jaw tight, waiting for the catch.

“…Then why am I coming over?”

The words slip out before you can overthink them. “Because I don’t want to eat dinner alone.”

You don’t try to make it lighter, you don’t fill the quiet with a joke. You just let it sit there. On the other end, you hear him breathe in slow and measured. You almost backtrack, almost say never mind, it’s stupid, forget it.

But then:

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line clicks dead and you stand in the middle of your kitchen for a long moment, heart beating louder than it should.

When he knocks, you’re suddenly aware of everything. The new couch you finally unpacked and assembled, the lamp casting soft amber light across the room, the way your hair looks, the way you look.

You open the door.

He’s in a dark Henley tonight, paired with his usual leather jacket, hair slightly wind-tousled from the walk. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees you standing there, not panicked. Not flustered.

Just… waiting.

“You’re not bleeding,” he observes.

“Disappointing, I know.”

He steps inside anyway. The apartment smells like garlic and sesame oil. Like home, almost.

“I made too much,” you say, gesturing to the dishes in the sink behind you like evidence. “Again.”

“You always do.”

“I don’t.” You pout.

“You do.”

You shut the door behind him, softer than usual.

“I have a couch now,” you announce, like it’s a milestone.

He looks at it. “You assembled it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“…Is it going to give out under me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Sit down and find out.”

He does, carefully, like he expects it to collapse out of spite.

It doesn’t. You sit beside him with a ghost of a smirk, knees brushing for a second before you both subtly adjust. The rest of dinner rests on the coffee table. The TV stays off as the city hum drifts in through the cracked window he fixed weeks ago.

For a while, you just eat. Not rushed, not quiet in a strained way, just something simple and easy.

You steal a glance at him when he’s not looking. The soft concentration when he untangles chopsticks, the way his shoulders don’t seem as tight here. You realize something slowly, like stepping into water and not noticing how deep you’ve gone until it reaches your ribs.

You don’t just call him because he’s helpful, you don’t just want him around because he’s familiar. You want him here.

Specifically. His dry comments, his steady presence, the way he fills space without overwhelming it. You want more than borrowed time and fixed shelves. The realization settles in your chest, warm and terrifying.

You clear your throat gently. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances over. “You usually do.”

“Why did you put up the flyers?”

His jaw shifts and you watch the way he looks down at his hands, at the faint scuffs on metal and skin.

“I didn’t know what to do with my time,” he says finally.

You wait but he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?” you ask softly.

His mouth tightens, like you’ve stepped near something he doesn’t show people.

“I spent a long time not choosing anything,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now. Less deadpan. “Where I went. What I did. Who I was.”

The words land heavy between you, thickening in the air, you don’t interrupt.

“I was… useful,” he continues. “Just not in a way that was mine.”

Your chest tightens.

“When that stopped,” he adds, “there was just time. And I didn’t know what to do with it.”

The room feels smaller, the air growing warmer.

“So you made yourself available,” you murmur.

He nods once. “That’s it.”

You study him carefully, the rigid line of his spine, the way he holds himself like he’s bracing for impact even now.

“You’re not bored,” you say gently as his eyes flick to yours.

“You’re just not used to choosing.”

The words hang there and something shifts in his expression. Something almost… soft. Not dramatic, not loud. But it hits, hard. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his gaze drops, then lifts again slower this time.

He looks… startled, like you handed him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

“I didn’t want a job,” he says, almost to himself.

You stay very still.

“I wanted…” He exhales through his nose. “Purpose.”

The word settles between you like a fragile thing.

“You have that,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head faintly. “Fixing windows isn’t purpose.”

“No,” you agree softly. “But showing up is.”

His eyes meet yours again, steady and searching for something. You wonder if he sees it in you.

“You wanted someone to need you,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth is there, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t deny it. And you realize something else at the same time, something that makes your pulse stumble.

You do need him. But not because you can’t lift a dresser, not because the subway map confuses you, not because you don’t know anyone else. You need him in the way you need someone to witness your life as it unfolds. To sit beside you while it’s messy and unfinished and becoming.

“Well I need you,” you add softly. "Not… just to fix a shelf or move a heavy dresser."

His shoulders loosen a fraction and you feel your heart let out a beat that you didn't know could make. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of you. Maybe it’s just gravity curling around you both and pressing in on you, but when your knee presses fully against his this time, and neither of you pulls away.

The city hums outside, your couch holds steady beneath you. There's a beat that passes between you two, and when your eyes find his he looks at you like he’s seeing you differently now. Not as a problem to solve, not as a task to complete. But as a choice, and you realize, heart thudding slow and certain—

You want him to choose you, not because you’re the only person here, not because you called first. But because he wants to sit on this couch, eat these noodles, share this quiet.

And because he wants to do it wth you.

He exhales slowly.

“I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “not eating alone.”

Your chest warms. “Good,” you whisper.

The quiet after your words doesn’t feel fragile anymore.

It feels aware. He’s still looking at you differently—like the ground shifted half an inch and he’s recalibrating his balance. The takeout cartons sit forgotten on the coffee table, noodles going cold. Your gaze drifts, hesitant at first. To his hands. You’ve seen it, of course. Noticed it the first night he fixed your window. The glint of metal under warm apartment light when his jacket would slip past gloved wrist he seamless line where steel warms.

But you never asked. It felt like staring, like something earned, not taken.

You swallow softly. “Can I ask you something else?”

One brow lifts faintly. “You’re on a roll tonight.”

Your eyes flick down again, then back up to his face. “Your arm.”

He goes very still. You feel it instantly—that subtle tightening, the way his spine straightens like he’s bracing for something sharp.

“I’ve noticed it,” you add quickly, gentle. “Obviously. But I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make it a thing.”

His jaw shifts once.

“It is a thing,” he says evenly.

“I know.” You tilt your head slightly. “But it’s yours.”

That makes something in his expression soften. Barely. You shift on the couch so you’re angled toward him more fully. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”

He studies your face carefully, like he’s searching for pity. You don’t give him any, just curiosity, quiet and steady. After a long moment, he flexes his metal fingers once. The faint whir of internal mechanics hums low in the room.

“Lost… the original,” he says, voice stripped down. No performance. No deflection. “A… long time ago.”

You nod once, not pressing.

“It was replaced,” he continues. “Not exactly by choice.”

There’s weight there. History and shadows you don’t ask him to drag into the light tonight, you don’t need details to understand it wasn’t simple.

“It works better than the first one,” he adds, almost wry. “Stronger.”

“I’ve noticed,” you murmur, thinking about the dresser. The effortless way he steadies things. The careful control he uses so he doesn’t break them.

He glances at you. “Doesn’t always feel like mine.”

The honesty in that lands softly against your ribs, you hesitate, then softly murmur. “Can I see it?”

The question hangs between you. He searches your face again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he says finally.

He turns slightly on the couch, resting his forearm along his thigh. The metal catches the lamplight—dark grey and golden seams, subtle scratches from use. Not polished or pure ornamental but real. You lean closer without thinking, breath slowing. Up close, it’s intricate, not just plating but delicate etchings along the fingers, tiny grooves and segments that shift when he flexes.

“It’s…” You shake your head faintly, almost in awe. “It’s kind of beautiful.”

He huffs softly. “That’s a new one.”

“I mean it.”

You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. Your fingers hover for half a second before brushing lightly over the plating of his knuckles. Cool and solid, smooth in some places, faintly textured in others. You trace the seam where metal curves into the back of his hand, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of it, by the contrast of it against the warmth radiating from the rest of him.

He watches you instead of your hand. Your touch is careful, not clinical, just… curious.

“It doesn’t scare you?” he asks quietly.

You glance up, still brushing your fingertips lightly over the steel.

“No,” you say simply.

He studies you like he’s trying to understand how that’s possible.

“It’s part of you,” you add. “Why would that scare me?”

Something shifts in his breathing. Your thumb grazes the edge of his knuckles again, softer this time. Not examining, just feeling as he flexes his fingers once under your touch, almost experimentally.

You smile faintly. “Does… can you feel that?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Everything?”

“Mostly.”

You nod slowly, still tracing the lines like you’re memorizing them, you don’t flinch, you don’t hesitate. You just let your hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. When you finally look back up at him, you realize how close you’ve gotten.

Your knees are pressed fully against his now, your hand still resting over metal and seam and strength. There’s no fear in his eyes, just something open, something quietly undone.

“You don’t have to be useful all the time,” you murmur.

His throat moves when he swallows.

“I know,” he says.

But the way he says it sounds like he’s still learning how to believe it, your fingers slide gently from his knuckles to his wrist, resting there feeling the vibrational hum where a pulse used to sit.

The air between you feels warmer now, denser, like fog settling in over rolling hills. The radiator ticks softly in the corner, no longer screaming—just settling into itself. The lamp beside the couch casts everything in gold, softening edges that usually feel sharper in daylight.

You’re still sitting close. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through denim and cotton, close enough that you can feel the faint shift of his breathing when you inhale.

“I like coming here,” he adds after a moment.

It sounds almost reluctant. Like admitting it costs him something, but he says it anyway. It makes a small smile pull at your mouth.

“I know that too.”

The words land gently between you, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be dressed up. You shift on the couch, turning toward him fully now. Your knees slide against his thigh, your shoulder brushes his arm.

You shift closer without standing, without moving anywhere but forward.

“You’re the first person I called when I didn’t know what to do,” you say quietly.

You hadn’t meant to say that tonight, it just feels like the right place to put it. His jaw tightens, then loosens as he swallows.

“You’re the first person who’s called me because they just…” He exhales slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “Wanted me there.”

The air shifts. Not into anything heavy or suffocating but charged, like the moment right before a thunder cloud in a summer storm breaks but, softer. You can hear your own heartbeat now. It doesn’t feel frantic, it feels certain.

He moves first. Slowly, so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist. Not touching yet, just lingering there giving you time.

You don’t shift back, you don’t flinch. Instead, you lean the smallest fraction closer in silent permission. His fingers settle at your side, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can see the hesitant question in his eyes.

You answer it by closing the distance. The first brush of his mouth against yours is careful. Testing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard, but you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen it. It’s not dramatic, there are no fireworks, no sweeping orchestration.

Just warmth. His hand shifts at your waist, thumb pressing gently like he’s confirming you’re real. Your fingers slide up to his shoulder, curling into fabric. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, like he’s memorizing it. Soft, unhurried and a little uncertain but real, very real. You can feel the exhale he lets out against your mouth, the way tension leaves him in slow increments. When you pull back, it’s only an inch.

Foreheads nearly touching, his breath mingles with yours and it's like the seconds slowed around you, the whole world dipped into this sedated ease.

You’ve been kissed before. In doorways, in cars, in moments that burned bright and faded just as fast. This isn’t that. This feels like sitting on your couch with noodles growing cold, like subway maps and crooked shelves, like someone showing up every time you asked.

Like belonging. His thumb brushes lightly against your side again, almost absentminded.

“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your face one last time.

You smile, softer than usual.

“I didn’t call you because I was lonely,” you whisper.

His brows knit faintly.

“I called because I wanted you.”

Something in him settles at that, deep in his chest and curling through his ribs. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is less hesitant, still gentle but more sure. Fuller as you let out of a soft breath against him. Your hand slides up into his hair. His metal fingers flex slightly at your waist, cool through cotton but steady, controlled.

Then you feel it, something blooming behind your heart, not sparks or chaos. Just the steady warmth of something choosing you back. Outside, a car passes, someone laughs down the block. Inside, on your newly unpacked couch, with half-eaten takeout and lamplight glowing gold, you kiss him like this was always where you were headed.