Sleep didn’t come (naturally, because when does it ever?) and before he could comprehend the exhaustion of the day ahead, the sun was rising and the background chatter of the city began to flow into conversation. Cars honking. Sirens. People laughing on their commute. Dogs barking. God, it was all too much. It is all too much.

Ever since his body mutated, ever since he saw a photo of you on Ned’s Instagram with your arms wound a little too tight around a guy far too handsome to be considered a friend, ever since he swiped too far into the post to see said-guy’s lips kissing your cheek in a separate photo, he’s been slipping into a skin that doesn’t feel like his own. It’s hollow and dark and far too lonely for someone who has been craving the simplicity of human touch for four years, craving you. Your touch. Your love. Only for it to be gifted to someone else. The photos haunt him, even in his dreams, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t get much shut eye.

Exhibit A was this morning. In a state of exhaustion, Peter webbed earplugs to his head and eventually found a few hours of peace.

Though his day is delayed more than usual, he finds himself easing into his normal routine: grab a coffee and fuel up, snag some fresh flowers, take the subway like a normal civilian to and from the cemetery. Forget swinging. Peter almost feels that it’s sacreligious to swing to the burial site, to bring the suit into May’s place of rest when it was the reason she was there in the first place. It feels wrong. Incredibly disrespectful. The first time he did it, he barely made it through the gates before panicking and nearly puking with guilt.

Sometimes he’ll take a longer route and subway surf on a couple different trains just to be around people, to sit next to someone and have the slightest warmth emulated from something that’s not his own body, to feel the closest he can to normal, to immerse himself in everyday life as he’s been robbed of. Couples huddle closely together and whisper in hushed tones. Friends chatter amongst themselves about anything and nothing, plans of the evening to the semantics of aerodynamics. People who travel alone and listen to music or read a book. Sometimes he’ll read off the page or try to listen to the song to expand his music taste. He’s got a playlist called ‘Lurking’.

But today that decision deems to bite him in the ass.

Because you’re here.

On the fucking 4-train.

Peter doesn’t see you at first, stepping onto the car numbly and gripping the pole closest to the doors with his eyes trained on the ground. He’s thinking about too much. May. Scorpion. You. The arms dealers in Lincoln Square. Rumors of a Russian in a rhinoceros suit. You. That fucking ache in his back. Then–

You.

Specifically, your laughter.

Peter stills, eyes widening as his head snaps up. There’s an immediate crick in his neck from the sheer whiplash but the pain slides to the back of his mind, thoughts solely fixated on you, you, you, who stands on the other side of the car with a friend, and his breath hitches. You’re adorned in your signature Yankees cap, navy and faded from the hundreds of times you used to wear it in high school, more beautiful than a phone screen could ever show. Grown yet still the same. Hair different but smile all the brighter. Older even though you still wear the cheap ring he made for you in welding class sophomore year, hand holding a brown paper bag with a not-so-subtle drink concealed inside.

After you take a sip and grimace animatedly, you pass it to your friend who follows suit. Peter suppresses an involuntary grin. He can tell it’s beer by the way you reacted. You’ve always hated it. Apparently, you still do.

“Stop making that face,” your friend snorts, unfazed by the taste, “unless you wanna spend fifty bucks to get wasted on two drinks.”

You grimace again, but take the bag from her and take another sip, this time longer. Once you swallow thickly and get it down, you exhale shakily. “I’ll get used to it one day, trust.”

“Just not today?”

“God, fuck no.”

Peter chuckles louder than he should, then masks it immediately by clearing his throat and looking away before you can look over. Shit, he should stop. He’s eavesdropping, invading a private moment between you and your friend, being a creep by using his senses to listen to you. But… he hasn’t heard your voice in-person in years. Your laugh. Your everything. All of it’s been over the phone, clinging onto whatever Ned’s posting whether it’s photos, videos, anything. If he thought that was bad enough, hearing it in the flesh is worse.

It’s so much fucking worse.

His heart aches with something he can’t quite name. Perhaps it’s a mix between everything he’s been holding in for these past four years, because it was much easier living vicariously through you on a screen so that he’s forced to stay away, to keep letting you live your life without the burden of him in it.

But now that you’re here – you’re right here – all of that crumbles with the sheer force of nostalgia. The pull of the tide that is you.

“Besides,” you continue to your friend, and Peter tunes in guiltily, “I’ll just get hammered at Stan’s when we win. Again.”

His mouth twitches as he recounts the time you managed to get him and Ned into that bar after one game junior year, hustling drinks by making Peter play cards against too-cocky men who didn’t think a shy, purse-lipped kid could beat them. Spoiler: he could due to his enhanced senses. He normally didn’t. But you asked nicely. So there wasn’t much defending he could do there.

Your friend rolls her eyes and snatches the drink from you, splashing a bit on her Mets shirt. “No shit. You’re playing us,” she deadpans before taking a sip.

Triumphant and forgetting the ill taste of the ale, you smile and hum to her teasingly and the sight of it does something weird to Peter’s chest. “That’s why I love the Subway Series, man. Smells like a sweep to me.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re from Jersey. You shut up.”

“Just because you grew up here and managed to go to a million games doesn’t diminish my loyalty.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no bite behind it, only a wide smile and pure love for the rage-baiting game. In the midst of your friend saying something else, Peter finds himself tuning her out and solely focusing on you, with the way your black chipped nails grip the can, how you adjust the cap on your head and he catches a sliver of the scar on your temple that you got all those years ago, how it reminds him of reality and that you’re not his, and he’s not yours.

And it hurts. It stings so fucking bad because here you are: slightly tipsy and on your way towards the Bronx like you and him have done together a million times before. The 4 train was practically your stomping grounds, flushed together in a busy cart with you in your Yankees gear and him in his Mets, brushing fingers as you held onto the same pole. He used to have to remind himself to manually breathe at the innocent contact, while you’d be trash talking his team with that same lopsided smile and teasing glare. Then you’d grab him when your stop came and he’d guide the two of you out through the crowd. Well, that was before you were bold. First it was his shoulder, then his bicep, and slowly – but surely – you started grabbing his hand instead. Once you went there, you never stopped. Nor did he tell you to.

Now what Peter would give to have you slip your hand into his one more time.

He watches on longingly, that involuntary smile slowly dropping from his face as his reality sets in. You only exist to him from afar.

A fleeting thought flickers in his mind to go up to you, maybe to trip and bump into you or move around the car just to stand a bit closer. People move around their subway carts sometimes, it’s not unheard of. Would you even notice if he weaved through the crowd to get to you? What would he even say? Nice shirt? He’s not even a fan. Seats are full and it’s getting busier with more Yankees fans the closer it gets to the stadium, and he knows if he doesn’t act now then he’ll lose his chance.

But faster than light, the stop arrives and you’re gripping your friend’s shoulder on instinct, and with a kettlebell setting in his chest, Peter watches you slip into the same routine that you and him used to share. Your friend pushes to the door with you hot on her tail, and once the car stops and the doors open, people are flooding off and onto the platform.

Peter watches you shamelessly through the moving heads and chatter and takes it all in before he loses it again.

But something strange happens. And maybe it’s from pure instinct or survival skills to know when someone is staring, but you look up and find his eyes from across the train. It only lasts a second, perhaps less than, but for the first time in four years, your gaze burns into his.

It nearly knocks the wind out of him, gripping the pole so tight it might indent. When you offer a polite smile, something you offer strangers but still want to extend kindness, his breath hitches nonetheless.

Then you’re gone. You disappear into the crowd on the platform as you all hustle towards the exit, and before Peter can comprehend that his body needs to move and that his mind is screaming Follow her! Go! the subway doors are already shutting, and he’s getting further and further away from the person he’s been searching for in his dreams. All he can think is how long it really has been, how better you seem without him in your life, and how beautiful you looked.

─────── ─────── ───────

The second time is more intentional.

Peter’s ashamed to admit he started following you since that day on the subway.

Not in a crazy, stalkerish, perved kind of way! Not at all, but almost as a way to bring him some comfort for his own sake. He finds out that your coffee order is different, with less sweeteners and sugar and now simply milk and the coffee. He notices you flex your dominant hand a lot without realizing, probably still sore from when you broke it junior year attempting to skateboard, and he wonders if you’ve been using your prescribed palm to sooth the pinched nerves. He sees that you still have the LEGO Yoda keychain he got you as a gag gift one year after you watched Empire Strikes Back with him for the first time and was utterly appalled at how ugly Yoda was. Peter fondly remembers how he couldn’t stop laughing at your expression, and you couldn’t stop grimacing at how ‘busted’ he was.

He learns your routine. He discovers your studio apartment (What? He followed you home one night just to make sure you live in a nice area. That’s all.) and that you have a roommate, your best friend from college. He sees you have a cat that likes to sit in the window facing the sun. He knows where you work and how long you’re typically there for in a day, what you manage to cook for yourself for dinner and where you typically order to-go from, who you tend to hang out with in your spare time that doesn’t include MJ and Ned. You love to walk through Central Park, he’s learned, as it’s somewhat near your apartment. Often you walk with your headphones in on a power stride, other times you slow to admire the scenery, and occasionally you’ll lay on the grass and journal or read.

The note he wrote for you burns in his pocket, branding his skin with the words marked in ink on the pages. Peter’s hand lingers on it every time he gets close enough to approach you, but the message seems to get lost in translation because his mind blanks. What could he even say? Do? Would he present as the Peter you know or the Peter he is now? Would you even like the Peter he is now? He sure as hell doesn’t.

Today, he follows you into the Museum of Natural History. After coughing up the thirty bucks for a ticket, he pretends to be walking around aimlessly with his headphones in and a map in hand. But there’s no music playing. And he’s not really looking at the artifacts. He’s peering at you.

You enter the building on the phone with a friend, telling them you’re going to walk around for a bit before they get there. Peter takes it as his chance to study how you’ll move around the museum by yourself. Will you wait idly for your friend? Go to the gift shop? Brush up on some knowledge? Yet once you hang up the call, you start beeling through the rooms. Blindly, he follows.

And all you do is linger in the bug exhibit.

Peter stands a few paces behind, always cautious enough to never get too close, but never too far so he loses sight. Whenever you turn in his direction, he busies himself with whatever display is closest to him, pretending to read the excerpts as he feels the breeze of you walking by him. It takes everything in him not to visually react at the scent of your perfume wafting. You don’t notice him, thank god, and are either pretending not to or simply aren’t aware of your surroundings, specifically the guy that’s been hovering for the past twenty minutes.

(If he ever gets back in your life again, he’ll have to lecture you on stranger danger.)

After watching you stand in front of the arachnid exhibit for ten minutes, Peter swallows thickly and approaches quietly, heart pounding through his ribcage as he settles beside you from a safe distance, though it’s the closest he’s been to you in a long time, and perhaps will ever get. He doesn’t care about the arachnid facts plastered on the wall, nor the different spiders laid out in their dead manner so people can ogle and cringe at them up close without really encountering them. Instead, his eyes are on you as you also disregard the words on the wall, but rather staring intently at each species on display.

If you notice him, you don’t acknowledge him, instead frowning at the sight in front of you with a slight tilt of your head and furrow of your brows. Peter’s half inclined to ask if you’re alright, but the words die in his throat and dissippate when you take a long, deep sigh.

Then, to his surprise, you hum. “It sucks that they display them in such a bright room.”

Peter blinks stupidly. Are you… talking to him?

After a moment of silence, you glance at him through your peripheral shyly, clearing your throat as you purse your lips. Once you set your gaze back forward, Peter short circuits.

Shit, Peter thinks. Say something!

“Really?” he responds quickly. God, anything but that. “Is that… bad?”

Is he kidding? The first time you’re speaking to him in four years and that’s all he’s got?

But you don’t cower away. Instead, you take a small breath of relief, somewhat pleased that you weren’t talking to yourself, but an embarrassed chuckle escapes your lips as you shake your head, mainly at yourself.

“Sorry,” you apologize immediately with a soft smile, and Peter immediately bites his tongue to refrain from telling you to never say sorry for being knowledgeable, a nervous habit you seemingly haven’t broken. “Uh, spiders like dark spaces. They’re hardwired to stay hidden and be far away from people on instinct.”

Oh, he thinks. That sounds familiar.

“Oh.” He mirrors his thoughts as he searches for the right word. “That’s cool.”

You hum distantly, still looking at the display.

“It’s lonely,” you counter gently.

The dejected tone of your voice makes him frown, swallowing thickly as he turns to look at you. His throat gets tight, heart aching at the undertones of your simple observation. If only you knew how true that was, how it actually also applies to human-arachnid hybrids as well, and how desperately he’s trying to reverse that proven fact. Can you sense how much he’s aching? How much he yearns for you? Is he that transparent? And even if he isn’t, why would you say that fact to him? Something that’s so synonymous with the elements of his life?

Before he can open his mouth to respond, you shrug your shoulders.

“Also fucking sucks that the curators put them under a bright beam.” The despondency in your tone seems to be gone, replaced with something more nonchalant as you turn your head to meet his gaze. “Kinda defeats their purpose, hm?”

All he can do is blink stupidly and nod.

You stare at him for a moment, taking in his somewhat bewildered expression and pink tinted cheeks with your own curious inquiry. At this moment, he realizes he probably looks a mess: curls unruly and untamed with – no doubt – cuts littered in his hairline and a light bruise blossoming on his jaw, eyebags likely more prominent than ever. He’s favoring his left leg, can you tell? And he can’t really move his shoulder a certain way right now or else that ache in his blade will flare up again. God, he didn’t think to clean up a bit before blindly following you?

Despite it, you don’t avert your gaze.

Brown eyes stare back into yours, and there’s a flicker of confusion in your stare as you furrow your brow, just barely. Perhaps you recognize him from that one fleeting moment on the subway, or maybe you’ve been paying attention to your surroundings and are spooked from the creep who has been following you around nonstop. But you don’t step away or seem totally rejected by his presence, and instead linger in it, like something’s pulling you into staying in his orbit for a little while longer. Peter prays that there’s some sort of recognition there, anything, something.

What seems like a second stretches to eons, and his heart leaps when you open your mouth to say something inquisitive.

But a phone ringing pulls you both from the moment.

Peter takes a beat before realizing it’s his phone.

“Oh!” He pats his jean pockets clumsily and yanks out the alarm that alerts him of nearby crime. “Oh my god.” He fumbles to silence it, and grimances once he does. “Sorry. That was– Sorry.”

Although you smile gently and exhale a laugh through your nose, bowing your head in a respective departure gesture, and his heart sinks as he realizes you’re about to walk away.

“All good.”

Peter’s heart tugs uncomfortably, torn at the seams of carrying on with his day or spending what little time he has for his personal life with you.

“Were you saying something?” he asks quietly, almost meekly.

You open your mouth again, an “O” in slight surprise as your brows raise, as if the notion of your question is detrimentally important to him. How could he have even noticed? To him: how could he have not noticed?

Yet the phone buzzes incessantly in his hand and he genuinely wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Instead of indulging his question, you merely bite your lip to suppress a polite smile, and at the end of the day he remembers that he’s simply a stranger to you.

“Nothing important.” He frowns. Immediately. Anything you say is important to him. “You should probably get that, no?” you say.

His mouth opens to immediately retort then shuts it. It probably is important, if he’s being honest. But nothing could be more significant than being here, within arms reach of you, remembering the cadence of which you speak and dissecting all the things you’ve kept the same about your appearance and what seems to be the same. He notices more earrings and rings than before, outside of what he’s gotten you, but wonders where you acquired the rest, when you got them, and all he wants to do is ask you.

But his legs are moving before he can process it, taking a step away from you as he holds the phone up meekly and offers you a weak smile. Duty calls, he thinks bitterly. Even his body is attuned to it.

You smile warmly back at him, a stark comparison from his apologetic expression, sorry for all the things he wishes he could say. But instead he’s beelining for the exit, missing the way your eyes follow him until he’s out of sight.

─────── ─────── ───────

The third time is as Spider-Man.

The good news is that you’re not in immediate danger. Not physically, anyway. There’s no Scorpion attack or armed robbery in progress or anything synonymous to that. No cars getting hazardously tossed into buildings or no suspicious gases leaking into our atmosphere. No threat to the civilian population of New York City and no buildings crumbling, at least for the time being. But this is objectively worse, at least in his book.

Because it’s the middle of the night and you’re crying on a bench.

Peter doesn’t see you at first. He doesn’t see anyone at first. Granted, it’s nearly four in the morning and his eyes are tired behind the mask, glassy with exhaustion and sluggish with straining. His migraines have gotten somewhat better ever since he’s become more attuned with his newfound abilities, but they still drive him insane frequently.

With a throbbing temple and an ache that won’t settle, he swings to find a quiet space outside Central Park simply to take a few minutes, regulate his breathing, rub the pulse out until it simmers and then get back to it. He’s done it at least once a night. No harm, no foul. After nearly killing a cop through his arachnid-induced fit of rage, Peter’s a little more cautious as to how he lets a migraine pan out.

He lands on the outer wall, stumbling a bit as he clumsily drops to his knees and hissing from the harsh contact with the brick. Palms immediately press to each side of his head, the heel of them pressing into his temples as he’s done a million times before while he breathes in and out, in and out, feeling the aching pulse slowly dim once he catches his breath. More often than not, his mind flickers to you, and it’s almost pathetic that the instant thought of you eases his anxiety quicker than any other remedy.

Once it simmers and his ears aren’t ringing anymore, that’s when Peter hears sniffling.

Blinking rapidly, his eyes clear and he regains a bit of semblance as the migraine suppresses (for now), peering down towards the sound. And his heart just fucking breaks all over again.

You’re slumped on a cold metal bench, clearly coming back from a night out as you’re adorned in a short, pretty dress and heels that have seen better days. Glitter spans out from your eyelids and black mascara smudges a tad underneath your waterline, and you’re not sobbing, per say, and you’re not even really crying, but quietly suffering whatever battle you’re enduring inside that pretty head of yours.

His headache’s forgotten. He’s moving to you before he can register the consequences.

“Hey,” Peter murmurs gently, much softer than Spider-Man normally speaks to people. “Hey. What happened? What‘re you doing out so late?”

His hand hovers cautiously over your shoulder as he sits beside you, terrified of overstepping but not sure how to comfort you at a safe distance. God, the sight of you like this contorts his heart into a shape he never wants to discover, especially because he needs to play his cards right. All he wants to do is pull you close, push your hair away from your face, take your hands in his while you tell him what’s wrong like you’ve both done for the other a million times over. It’s muscle memory, practically intuitive, and it takes every bone in his body not to lean into it.

All that comes into fruition when you peer over at him, blinking through wet lashes as your lips part in confusion as your brows furrow in disbelief. For a moment, Peter doesn’t really understand why you’re so out of it, but then remembers he’s not Peter right now.

“Hi?” you whisper shakily, albeit a bit befuddled.

Peter (Spider-Man?) blinks stupidly, though you can’t tell. “Hi,” he says even softer. “You okay?”

He grimaces under the mask. Of course you’re not fucking okay. You’re crying and tispy on a bench in the middle of the night by yourself. People who are okay typically aren’t in this situation to begin with.

Yet you disregard the semantics, still stunned as you draw out, “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t really know.”

“That’s alright.” Beat. Then, “Talk to me.”

You blink a few times, fluttering your lashes as if to alternatively pinch yourself. Once you realize that, no, you’re not dreaming, your brows pinch once more like you’re snapping out of a daze, pulling away from whatever sob story moment you were going through and recognizing your situation at hand. Spider-Man is sitting right next to you, leaning a bit close, and sounding so awfully concerned that it seems like it might kill him if you’re not okay.

“I– I was just– I’m not even–” You stumble over your words, trying to cohesively piece together the string of nonsense that occupied your brain just moments before. “Sorry. I’m fine, really.”

“You call crying on a bench at four in the morning fine?” he quips without hesitating.

You manage to exhale sharply, lips twitching. “Objectively speaking, no. Not at all. But you… Don’t you have more important things to do?”

His answer is immediate. “No.”

That stuns you. “Oh.” You blink. “Okay.” Then, “Really?”

Peter breaks a quick smile at your curiosity. “Really. Now, what’s goin’ on?”

God, does he reek of desperation? It feels like he does. All he wants is to know everything, to know the intricacies of your life and the hardships you endure, all for selfish reasons because all he does is fucking miss you. Even when you’re right in front of him.

And with some miraculous divine intervention, you indulge his request. “I don’t even know. My friends and I were at a club on Grove Street, and I’m having a blast for one moment and then the next I just… I don’t know. I got an awful sense of dread, like, existential dread hitting me right in the middle of the dancefloor,” you ramble quietly.

Peter nods in somewhat understanding. “Great timing, hm?”

You shudder then shrug. “I know, right? It was weird. Mind you, I was in a huge crowd so that didn’t help, but I realized the only way out of this, literally and figuratively, was through. So I just left. Landed here. I don’t know.” Picking incessantly at your nails, you sigh through your nose, still struggling to put words together on the exact feeling.

All he wants to do is cover your hand with his to get you to stop irritating your nail beds, and physically has to interlink his fingers to refrain from reaching out.

Peter clears his throat. “Did… Did something happen to warrant this?”

“Like, no.”

“Like, no?” he parrots inquisitively.

You shrug. “Broke up with my boyfriend last week.”

Oof. Alright. Okay. He can deal with that. He can–

“But I don’t even think that was my issue,” you continue aimlessly, missing the way he stiffens, “I think it was more that I didn’t care anymore. We’re better as friends, honestly, so I’m not really sure why that would cause an adjacent panic attack in the middle of the club.”

He swallows thickly. “Maybe it wasn’t that?” Please don’t be that. Please. Please. Please. Pl–

You shake your head, and you either ignore the way his shoulders release tension or don’t notice. “I don’t think it was. I’ve been in a fucking fog. Regardless of my relationship. It just feels like everything is still moving around me but I’m standing still. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” he says, perhaps a bit too quick. “It does.”

“I get these migraines,” you add irritably. “But not normal ones, more like… my brain is trying to scream at me, but it’s in a language I don’t understand.” You meet his eye (lens?) for a beat, searching for any indication to stop spilling your entire life story, but he makes no move to cut you off, and that’s when you shake your head again, more at yourself, scoffing under your breath in disbelief. “Sorry. Wow. Oh my god. Saying it out loud makes me realize it’s really not that deep.”

Instantly, Peter shakes his head in tune with you for the opposite reason.

“No!” Then reels when you tilt your head at him in confusion, fixing his demeanor quickly. “I mean, you don’t need to apologize. Just because it’s not visible doesn’t mean it’s not there, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you parrot him quietly, almost skeptical of yourself. “Well, you probably deal with more shit in one hour than I will in a lifetime. This is actually so dramatic. I’m fine. Was just having a moment.” You brush it off, waving him off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you begin to stand up.

Nearly yelling again in panic, Peter mirrors your actions, rising to his feet as he stands closer to you than he has in years, swallowing a lump in his throat as he gathers the courage to pose his question, and with every single bone in his body he prays that your answer is exactly what he’s hoping it’ll be.

“It’s late,” he broaches gently. “Can I swing you home?”

Yet, you react on the contrary, eyes widening as you shake your head vigorously. “Nope.”

Peter reels. “No?” God, that came out way more pathetic than intended.

“Sorry.” You reel instantly, huffing out a sheepish laugh as you smooth down your dress. “It’s not that. I’m grateful for the offer, really. But, uh, you definitely don’t remember this but you actually saved me a few years back. A few times, actually.”

His chest constricts. Of course he remembers. How could he forget? One of the last times he held you was swinging you away from danger, one of the last times he touched you was helping you down from his arms so you could plant your feet on the ground without stumbling, one of the last times he saw you – really saw you – was kissing you goodbye, even though you’d shift into a daze just moments after, lips tingling from a kiss you’d never remember.

“But the whole being airborne thing,” you continue with a shudder, “is not for me. Scares the shit out of me. I live close, I was just gonna walk.”

“Let me walk you then,” he offers instantly, reeking of desperation. “Please. It’s late,” he reiterates with a soft tone.

You stare at him for a moment, lips twitching. “Didn’t know Spidey did door to door ground service.”

“It’s a special offer. Every fiftieth New Yorker I encounter.”

That’s when you fully laugh, appeased with his humor. “You’re probably booked and busy then.” You start walking in the direction of your apartment (he fully knows where he’s going without your guidance), and he falls into step alongside you as if it's the most natural habit. “Yeah?”

Peter scratches the back of his neck, not that he could really itch anyway through the suit but more as a nervous tick. “Well, it’s actually something I started doing tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Trial and error experimenting with civilians is one of my favorite pasttimes.”

You peer over at him for a moment, and then hum unconvincingly. He meets your eye through his lens, gaze shamelessly dropping to your mouth where you suppress a grin at the back and forth banter. The moonlight illuminates through the leaves of the trees to etch a kaleidoscope on your features, brightening your eyes and the glitter around it. You shimmer, practically. And even though your eyes are still a little glassy and makeup a bit messy, you’re more beautiful to him than ever.

It’s almost as if you can see him through the lens, seeing Peter Parker. The idea of it makes him shudder because he put that theory to bed ages ago, defiant on the fact that things will never return to the way they were. He's come to peace with it. There’s an ache in his chest at the notion of re-introducing you into his life, and it comes with serving you on a silver platter to all the hardships that come with being associated with Spider-Man. Selfishly, he wants you in his life again. No, he needs you in his life again. But some things are simply bigger than his own desires.

Peter forces himself to look away.

Yet you don’t cower.

Instead, you inquire.

“So,” you draw out slowly, heels echoing on the concrete with your slow pace that he’s matching, “we know why I was out so late. But what about you?”

His pace falters. “What about me?”

“Does Spider-Man sleep?”

“Nope.”

Humming quietly, you nearly nudge him and his mind goes dizzy at the warmth emulating from the almost-contact. “Well, real spiders sleep. They may not be able to close their eyes, but studies show they can enter a R.E.M.-like state.”

Peter preens, and you’re sure you can see him grinning through the mask.

“Are you calling me a fake spider?” he accuses playfully, tone light and airy. For a moment, a weight lifts off his chest.

“You said it, not me.”

He finds himself chuckling, and you practically beam at the accomplishment of making the Spider-Man laugh. If only you knew how you used to make him laugh with the twitch of your fingers, effortless and naturally. Like it was your day job.

“But hey,” you interject with a pointed finger. “Stop deflecting. Why are you helping random loners get home in the middle of the night instead of sleeping or going home?”

You’re not random, he almost says, but bites his tongue.

“Grind never stops,” he settles on.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly kickstarts a migraine. “Oh, please. You’re one of those?”

He scoffs. “One of those? Those what?”

“Those abhorrent gym bro micro-influencers who step their body into an early grave by overworking themselves with the pathetic excuse of the grind never stops?”

“Wow.” Peter whistles low at that. “You didn’t even take a breath. Are you that passionate about the habits of others?”

You groan low and this time, you do nudge him playfully, completely missing the way his body stiffens as if he’s been electrocuted.

“Absolutely not. You’re playing D1 right now in Avoidance. Are you gonna answer me or not, Spidey?” you jest quietly, voice hoarse from the night behind you yet lively enough to keep the conversation going.

Taking a beat, the conversation eases in a brief silence as he calculates his thoughts. Sure, the question isn’t complicated nor does it warrant a pause, but Peter stumbles around in his brain trying to figure something honest out. Because you were honest with him, and you don’t even know him, so why should he brush aside a genuine question solely because it came from you? Anyone else and he would’ve had a quip locked and loaded.

But this is you.

So he runs through the reasons in his mind. Sleep seems like a chore these days, especially when these ongoing migraines are the only thing he can think about when he shuts his eyes. His apartment is due for a cleaning, clobbered with new tech equipment he acquired on his last dumpster dive and cobwebs from his… latest mutation. Plus there’s the fact that his fridge is empty. The encompassing theme is that his apartment simply isn’t a home, and sometimes all he wants to do is be in one.

But what he actually ends up saying is worse.

“I didn’t really wanna be alone.”

“What?” you blurt immediately, all playful undertones gone. “You don’t have anyone?”

The disbelief in your voice makes his chest do something weird. Peter shrugs and it hurts all over again, and there’s something so raw in the wordless confirmation. It’s as if the gears are turning in your head and you’re realizing in real-time that Spider-Man is simply a guy. A real person who craves real connection. And loves. And hurts. And who sometimes really needs a hug. Because the confession that slipped out exposes the reality of his life, a notion that often gets overlooked in the grand scheme of things, since people know Spider-Man. Not Peter Parker. And for a while it was fine. Manageable (barely). For the greater good. But each day he wakes up with no one there for him, something in him breaks a bit more.

You stop in your tracks. Peter doesn’t realize until he’s a few steps ahead of you that you halted.

“No one?” you echo incredulously.

Peter’s breath hitches. Maybe you notice, maybe you don’t. Yet you’re staring at him with an incredible amount of hurt for him. Concern for him. Sympathy for him. Brows curled upward and a slight frown etching your pretty lips. All he needs for you to do is to keep walking, to sweep his pain from out under the rug and put it on the back burner. Please. Please ignore it. Ignore me. Don’t let me get in your life again.

Swallowing thickly, he tries his best to sound nonchalant as he confirms, “No one.”

That seems to break your heart. “For how long?”

Too long, he almost pleads. It’s been too long without you. Without anyone. Ned. May. MJ. Happy, even. Too long without anyone knowing who he is, his quirks and habits and interests. Too long of yearning for human connection from afar. Too long of embracing the dark corner of a room, huddled in himself and convincing himself that this is what he deserves.

You said it yourself, right? Spiders close themselves off to people, hide in their dark spaces and remain hidden to stay alive. He’s a part of that, yeah? Why should he break habits, break nature, and steer off course? Why shouldn’t he embrace what he really is?

It seems like torture to force himself to shake his head, to pretend it’s fine because he can’t ask you to stop asking questions. But he wants you to start moving. He needs you to start walking. Because he’s this close to pouring his heart out for the simplicity of being seen, even for a fleeting moment, and that’s not fair to you.

“Guys like me can’t have nice things for too long,” he says unevenly, trying to jest but it really just sounds like a cry for help. “Part of the job description.”

You take a beat. Then, softer than he’s ever heard you, you murmur, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It's not. Tears are brimming in his eyes. “Can we please just keep walking?”

You open your mouth to retort something else, perhaps something that would make those tears fall. Because you’ve always been too caring. Too sweet. Too patient with him and his self deprecating ways. He can’t count how many times you’ve talked him off a ledge, or held him at night when he’d wordlessly climb through your window after a hard patrol, or washed his face and cleaned up his cuts without him asking. That’s just who you are. Who you’ll always be. Magic spell affecting your memory or not.

It’s clear you want to say more, but ultimately know it isn’t your place. So you indulge and start back up at a slow pace alongside him. Peter’s grateful that you didn’t comment on the waver of his voice or how quick he dismissed you, really, but something twists in his heart at the thought of you caring.

He steals a shameless glance at you and you’re pursing your lips, brows furrowed and staring distantly ahead, and he can easily make out that you’re deep in thought, calculating your next response carefully in order to tread lightly with the information you’ve just received. Peter knows you too well. He knows you wanna ask. You’re dying to ask. All you wanna do is understand and help. Sometimes to your own detriment. But there’s a small piece of him that wouldn’t be angry if you kept asking. He misses your voice, truthfully. And he hates seeing you despondent.

So after a few minutes of silence, Peter bites.

He musters his best attitude as he muses, “Hey, it’s not so bad. I could work in corporate.”

Your lips twitch. You try to ignore it. “Stop trying to make me laugh. This is serious,” you nearly scold.

“Of course. So serious.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not even doing anything!”

“You are totally dealing with this in an unhealthy way.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter clarifies immediately. “Alarmingly unhealthy. But I can’t afford a therapist, much less rent.”

You pause for a moment. “Friendship is free.”

He really resists the urge to slip his hand into yours. “Subjective.”

“Well,” you start cautiously, and the wind knocks from his lungs at your next words, “you have me.” Beat. Then, “Objective.”

Peter’s head whips towards you. You sheepishly meet his lens’ gaze and offer him the warmest smile he’s been on the receiving end of in a really long time. His mouth opens in panic to push you away, to keep you safe from him, to let you live out your life without him ruining it.

But you beat him to it.

“I know you don’t know me.” Your voice is quiet yet firm. “And I don’t know you. But everyone should have at least one friend.”

Peter’s heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his fucking chest. His breath is shaky. “Okay.”

“Even Spider-Man.”

He blinks stupidly, and for a second a flicker of bile rises in his throat. God, he needs you. But are his own self interests more deserving than your freedom? You have a whole life outside of him. Is it worth introducing you back into his? He knows you better than he knows himself, even after all this time. Is that something you’d want in your life?

“Thank you,” he ends up saying quieter than intended.

When you reach your apartment steps a few minutes after, you linger in the doorway with a pondering presence like you want — no — need to say more. Peter waits politely at the bottom, watching you go and wishing you’d stay, as he feels the thrum of his thumping heartbeat up to his ears. Nothing is worse than seeing you leave, as you both have never really been good with goodbyes. The day he said goodbye to you forever haunts him at night.

But something strange happens.

You don’t bid farewell and disappear into your building. Nor do you ask him any more questions about the intricacies of his loneliness. You don’t even crack a joke or quip something smart just to try and make him laugh. You don’t say a word. All you do is look at him as if you’re boring through the lenses and peering straight into his soul, seeing beyond the mask and seeing him: a person. A man. Just a guy.

Wordlessly, your heels click as you come back down the stairs, stopping one short in front of him as you take a moment, teetering between backing out and just fucking going for it, until you lean forward, slowly wrap your arms around his shoulders, and hug him.

Peter stiffens. Immediately.

Yet you don’t back down.

Your fingers smooth against the fabric of his suit, palms splayed flat against his back as you feel the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart against your sternum. His hands lay idly at his sides, fingers flexing as he isn’t sure what to do. Indulge? Refrain? Die?

But, god, how wonderful it is to be held. Even if it’s for a moment.

Peter feels tears brim his waterline, cheeks flush with something he can’t really explain, though he supposes the longevity without human contact will do that to a person. Swallowing his internal battle and tossing his morality aside, he raises his arms cautiously around you.

It’s practically instinct for him. It’s been too long without you in his arms and you fit back together clearer than two puzzle pieces, slipping into a physical rhythm that the mind may not register, but the body remembers.

His eyes flutter shut, brows pinched as warmth spreads through his chest achingly quick. Instinctively, Peter brings you a tad closer, holding you firmer than before as he selfishly soaks in this moment. Your palm rubs soothingly up and down his spine, something you used to do to calm him down, and he melts into your touch as the memory of it nearly sends him through a state of distress.

God, he misses you. He needs you. He loves you.

You hold him there for a little while longer, only pulling back when he starts to first. Though you can’t see his face, your heart twists when you catch a glimpse of tear drops through the mask. Bracing your hands on his shoulders as a comfortable distance, his linger on your waist cautiously, almost airy, as if he's afraid to really hold you.

“I felt like I needed to do that,” you whisper. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Peter scoffs through tears. Sorry? How could you ever be sorry for that? He thinks you just changed his brain chemistry by hugging him, by hearing him, by seeing him beyond the mask. And you’re saying sorry?

“Are you kidding?” he says shakily. “I haven’t done that in years. I’ve really missed you.”

Your head tilts.

Peter reels, trying to backtrack. Quickly. “Uh. Well. Not you in particular. Just… people. In general. That was a general statement.”

His hands immediately leave your waist as he clears his throat. You take that as your cue to remove yours from his shoulders, offering him a kind smile instead of being weirded out by his outburst. Perhaps you understand, more than most, that everybody’s going through shit. Sometimes something as simple as a hug helps.

The corner of your mouth twitches.

“Okay. General statement it is,” you say skeptically, but evidently let it go to spare his dignity. “Do you think you’ll go home now?”

The question burns between you. He didn’t want to five minutes ago. But now that he remembers the shape of your body, the warmth of your heart, and the scent of your hair, Peter might actually have a scenario good enough to fall asleep to. A sense of hope, a feeling he hasn’t come across in a long time that he’s almost forgotten.

He finds himself nodding before he can register it. “I think so. That helped. So… thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” you muse, smiling sweetly.

Peter involuntarily mirrors your smile under the mask. He’s sure you can tell. “Right.”

You beam harder. He’s never seen a prettier sight.

With his heart skipping a beat, he decides he’s going to tell you at this moment. Sure, he doesn’t have the note he wrote all those years ago, but Peter can paraphrase. The feelings are all there, mumbled and jumbled and scrambled like eggs in his brain, but the poison that intoxicated his morality seems to have found a cure. Who knew it’d be in your arms? Your embrace? Because he isn’t really sure he can go back to nothing after this, a loose promise of being friends with a vigilante shouldn’t be something you need to stick to. But maybe, just maybe, Peter Parker can enter your world once again and keep his promise to May. It’s been too long in the shadows, too long of staying hurt, getting kicked and staying down emotionally.

Maybe it’s a sign from a higher being. Perhaps a sick and twisted coincidence. But the wind picks up slightly between the two of you, and your hair blows gently in the breeze. Peter catches a glimpse of the scar littered on your temple.

A scar that you got the last day he held you. A scar you got because of him.

The breath gets knocked from his lungs, and all the words he plans on saying fizzle out. Forget the note. Forget the grand gesture. Forget the small flicker of hope that blossomed in his chest at the idea of having you again. Who is he kidding? You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him. He’s gotten you hurt countless times, why add to it? For his own personal needs? Peter metaphorically folds the mental note in fours, storing it in the back of his brain to never be opened again. Solemnly swearing to himself, he vows to never broach it again.

You tilt your head at him, anticipating him saying something when he inhales slowly, but nothing ever comes on the exhale. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Just glad you’re home in one piece.”

Studying him for a minute, you furrow your brows momentarily. “Doubt anyone would snatch me when Spider-Man’s my personal escort,” you draw out slowly, eyeing him.

“Wouldn’t be smart.”

A beat. Then, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

God, no, he almost says. This feels like some sort of twisted dream that he got to hold you one more time but knows he can never do it again. Dangling the possibility of being in your life on a fish hook just out of reach.

Peter nods despite himself. “Yeah.” His voice wavers as he tries to sound upbeat. “Have a good night.”

The abrupt farewell makes you tilt your head even further, and he hates how he’s dismissing you like this. You’re just trying to help. God, you’re being so nice. Such a sweet girl. He’d always call you that because it’s simply what you are. Made of sugar. Sometimes sprinkles of spice. And here he is: shooing you away because he’s seconds from bursting into tears and it’s not something he wants you to see. But this is what he does, right? Pushes people away, recluses himself to a dark corner, and turns any possibility for happiness away at the door.

“Thanks,” you whisper, taking the hint. “You too.”

Once you do make it up the stairs, you stay up there this time, much to his dismay. But instead of instantly disappearing into the building and offering him a quiet goodnight, you spin around in the doorway and study him for one, two beats. Then—

You tell him your name.

“You should know since we’re friends now,” you argue gently, though he never rebutted. “Don’t worry, I’ll still call you Spidey. I don’t expect you to give up your secrets that easily.”

Shit, Peter thinks. You could ask at this given moment and he’d tell you everything.

Instead, he nods gratefully, repeating his name on your tongue as if it’s the first time he’s saying it, meanwhile he’s been aching for a reason to call you by your name for years.

Then you bid him goodbye and actually enter the building, shutting the door gently behind you and ascending up the stairs to your floor. Peter waits until you’re out of sight, and he waits until your bedroom light turns on to indicate your safety from the few flights of stairs, then he’s thwiping to the roof, catapulting into the night, and swinging home to finally find some shut eye. Even though his heart emulates a kettlebell settling in his chest, and even though he cries the entire journey home, the weight on his shoulders slightly lifts.

Peter got to hold you one last time. That’s good enough for him.

Sleep comes — for once — with flickers of you on his mind. How your body felt against his. How your laugh slowly unraveled something broken in his chest. And how pretty you looked in the moonlight.

─────── ─────── ───────

You’ve been peering through a fogged window for what feels like ages.

Well, you’re here. You’re present. Yet there’s a glass that shields you from seeing what’s truly there, and no matter how hard or how long you attempt to scrub the grime away, it simply stays. Stubborn fucking thing. The infuriating part is that you know something’s behind it, and you’ll catch glimpses of it only in dreams for nanoseconds, never enough to paint an image or see any familiarity. Sparks of deja vu explode in confetti yet they burn out too fast to study it, appreciate it, learn it. Headaches stem from thinking too long, pondering too hard, overexerting thought and patience in trying to unscheathe the grime.

It’s not that you’re seeing things. No. There’s a phantom ache settling in your chest about a concept you can’t grasp, a microscopic speck that flutters between your eyes in that sweet blind spot, a pull towards random objects and phrases that come from nowhere you can conjecture. Prescribed migraine medication worked to make the pain go away, but the flickers are still there. NyQuill only made you wake up feeling hungover twice over. Weed is good every now and then to numb the strangeness of it all, only to end up wishing the effects would tell you something. You’re totally not seeing things. Not crazy at all.

Although you’re one hundred percent certain that the Punisher is standing at your door.

That you’re seeing.

The time’s just past one in the morning, your current show paused in the living room as your roommate’s passed out on the couch as you hold the door open, no doubt looking fucking stupid as you ogle at the infamous Punisher that patrols the streets of New York standing in your doorway. Well, patrols is too kind a word. Terrorizes seems more like it.

Frank Castle looks like he wants to be anywhere else right now, especially as he favors his right leg and appears to have been put through the wringer perhaps moments before coming here. But despite the apparent distaste for running a fool’s errand, he grips an old piece of paper in his fist, crumbling an already-folded note, weathered with years of age. The absurdity of it all makes you quirk a brow.

Your eyes shoot down to the note, then back up at him. Then, “Is that a hit?”

“The fuck?”

“Are you here to fuckin’ kill me?”

The eye roll from the man is immediate. “Jeeeesus Christ,” he mutters at the ceiling.

“If you are,” you continue, “can I at least fill my cat’s water? My roommate will forget and will probably be more hung up on the fact that I’m dead–”

“Will you shut the f–” Frank takes a long deep sigh and pinches his eyes shut.

He can’t cuss you out. The kid would kill him, point blank. He doesn’t even know that Frank’s here on the opposite part of town with Peter’s biggest kept secret balled in his fist. The kid moped around his apartment almost every night this week, refusing to explain why he was relishing in the Punisher’s company, of all fucking people, and Frank knew that if he’s the only person the kid’s got, then that’s a fucking problem. Once Peter fell asleep with the note clutched tightly in his hand, Frank took it, read it, tracked you down within minutes, and now he’s here: definitely overstepping, but sick of emotional constipation emulating from the arachnid.

So he takes an elongated breath, then juts his arm forward to hand you the note.

“Here,” he gruffs, choosing that saying less is more.

You eye the note for a beat, then swivel your head to make sure your roommate is still asleep. Catching a glimpse of her figure slumped on the couch, as well as your cat perched on the arm as she watches you intently, you step into the hallway to meet the Punisher halfway. You cautiously take it from him. Unraveling the weathered sheet, your fingers skim over the scrappy handwriting, and another burst of confetti sparks in the back of your mind, something familiar about the calligraphy and strokes of ink.

Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me.

Brows furrowing, you peer up at Frank, probably looking so fucking stupid.

He juts his chin out to gesture to you to keep reading.

You do. And the words make your breath stop, simple yet raw with a truth that’s hard to swallow. This… Peter is someone that was once in your life eons ago, and apparently he was your person. You were together. You knew him, and he knew you. Not to mention the fact that he’s Spider-Man: the masked vigilante that was so adamant on getting you home safe and hugging you as if he knew the cadence of your movements before you even did, and you realize that that moment probably meant more to him than you’ll ever comprehend. No wonder he left in a hurry, overwhelmed with emotion that he couldn’t put into words, and your chest constricts with the thought that he’s been battling this alone, breaking his own heart to put everyone’s safety before his own happiness. To think that bearing this weight on his shoulders is his responsibility makes you sick, for him to believe that him being alone is the right choice nearly makes your knees buckle.

But the truth is I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

Your breath hitches when you finish, peering up at the Punisher.

Frank notices the concern flicker across your features and huffs impatiently, “Christ, it’s not me, kid. I’m doin’ a solid. He’s gonna thank me one day for it.”

“I–I know it’s not you.” Your lip wobbles. “But what is–? How do I even–?”

Stumbling over your words, your thoughts jumble into a million different sectors, trying to distinguish which point you actually want to get across, but nothing works, and instead you stand there with your mouth gaping like a fish, blinking fervorously as you clutch the note between your fingers.

You relay the recent interaction over and over. How close Spider-Man (Peter?) sat next to you on the bench, how his hand hovered over your shoulder but never closing the distance, the tone dripping in more concern than he should have for a normal civilian. Oh god, and you told him about your ex-boyfriend, mulling over your insignificant problems thinking it’s the end of the world, meanwhile he was sitting there, taking it, forced to interact with you as a stranger. A funny feeling rises to your throat thinking about him, Peter Parker, having to endure that moment, the boy behind the curtain. The tears he shed through the mask after the hug make more sense.

What breaks your heart the most is that you can’t even picture his face.

That flicker of recognition does nothing to aid as you search your memory, search for any anecdote that can tell you something, anything. You don’t know him. You can’t. But something aches in your chest at the mere thought of him all alone, a stranger, because it would’ve meant the end of the world if he didn’t let you go. That selflessness, the character that it takes to be Spider-Man, it makes sense why you were with him in the first place. The girl you used to be, the girl he once knew, she must’ve been smart.

Deciding to take pity on you, Frank takes another long breath to regulate his patience.

“Look,” he starts slowly, waiting for you to blink up at him before continuing with a gentleness that seems completely uncharacteristic, “he’s a good kid, but he’s killin’ himself here. Thinks he’s doing a greater service to everyone else by keepin’ it to himself. Drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts. And if he crashes on my couch one more night, I’m gonna have to start charging him rent.”

You clutch imaginary pearls, processing those words.

Frank’s words cut jagged into your heart, low and honest. “He was never gonna tell you.”

“Why?” You find yourself pleading before you realize you spoke. “Why would he do that to himself?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Okay,” you say on autopilot. Maybe that’s why you felt the need to hug Spider-Man that night, some sort of divine intervention in the back of your mind that told you it needed to happen. “Do you know where he is?”

Frank snorts, as if the question seems to irritate him more than he already is, but nods nonetheless.

So in a matter of minutes you find yourself in an outdated college sweatshirt and striped pajama pants getting escorted by the Punisher through town.

The drive is silent, roads unprecedently clear (cars skid out of the way when they saw the monstrosity of a truck Frank drives come cruising down the street). The note sits in your palm as heavy as a stone, branding the words marked in ink on your skin. The weight of the words on the page settle in your gut like a kettlebell, and you reread that same line over. And over. And over.

But the truth is I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

Do you? Will you? Once you see him, see his face, will it all make sense? Will the memories stolen from you reappear? Or will the confetti still fall around your face, framing your cheeks with ghosts of memories experienced by a girl you don’t know? What if he wants nothing to do with you? And what if you’re not able to be the person he knows, the person he needs, the person he loves? Would he even like the person you are? God, how long has it been since he’s seen you, really seen you, really known you? How long has he been going through this by himself?

Your legs work on autopilot once Frank shoves the gear in park, clambering down the massive vehicle and really trying to ignore that you’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by old warehouses and abandoned factories. Though the rust and ominous energy doesn’t faze the Punisher as he moves around the place like muscle memory, and you’re quick to follow before you can get lost. There isn’t much time to process exactly where you are right now or even what time it is.

Climbing metal stairs and then descending into what appears to be a bunker, your heart skips a beat at what lies within, or specifically who, especially when you emerge in a kitchen littered with miscellaneous papers, a gun on the stove, a Spider-Man mask thrown over one of the chairs. Christ, you have no idea what you’re walking into, no clue who you’re about to meet, and no rhyme or reason as to how this is about to go. What if he’s angry? What if this is severely overstepping and makes this even worse for him? Does he even know that you’re here? Will he even–?

“Frank?” A voice calls out from another room and your breath hitches.

Casually, Frank tosses his keys on the counter. “In here.”

Something clutters in the other room. A quiet Ow! echoes. “Did something happen? Did the arms dealers break bad early–?”

Then from the next room, Peter Parker emerges. He’s just about finished with zipping his suit up, clearly getting ready to swing back out into the night at the possibility of crime occurring, brown unruly curls scattered across his forehead and a bruise blossoming on his jaw. He doesn’t see you at first, still focused on getting his suit fully on — the suit, the one you smoothed your palms over just days ago – and talking a mile a minute.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I didn’t hear my alerts go off–” Peter lifts his head, immediately freezing at the sight in front of him.

You balance your weight between your feet, suddenly shy under his gaze in your pajamas. Panic surges through you for a moment, because should you have dressed up? Looked a bit nicer? This is a pivotal moment for him and you’re in your fucking pajamas. Though it doesn’t seem like he’s intently focused on that as much as you are, because you think he’s still trying to process that you’re here.

Brown eyes bore into yours, and with a sliver of familiarity, you recognize him from the museum. Such a brief encounter with a stranger, but was that him trying to build up the courage to tell you? Was Spider-Man the reason he abruptly left without rhyme or reason? God, fuck, and you said all that shit about spiders at the exhibit. As if he doesn’t know that already. As if he cared about any of that.

For a moment, Peter doesn’t speak. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing, like the wind just got knocked out of him and isn’t returning. He blinks at you, processing this in real time, and you really can’t tell what emotion he’s trying to emulate. Indifference? Fear? Panic? But when he gives you a onceover, his eyes immediately widen when he sees the familiar note clutched in your hand.

“Frank,” he grits eventually, voice wavering as his eyes don’t leave you. “What did you do.”

You frown.

All the Punisher does is sigh, long and heavy, before snagging his jacket. “You’re welcome, kid.” Then, he’s gone, shutting the bunker door behind him as his footsteps gradually disappear.

The silence is palpable.

Besides the distant thrum of a far off generator, the white noise acts as a buffer as you simply stare at each other. His expression shifts by the second, anger with Frank, then panic at the void of silence, then worry as his mouth gapes open as he tries to find something to say, anything to say, and you can tell by his breathlessness that he has no clue where to start, no idea how to broach this, because here you are, and here he is: suit on and mask off. There’s no hiding now. And you see him recognize that in real time.

You break the quiet with a whisper. “Hi.”

Peter’s eyes immediately soften as he takes you in. “Hi,” he murmurs fondly.

“I recognize you,” you say without thinking, then you add quickly, “from the museum. We talked.”

He nods instantly. “Yeah. We did.”

Mirroring his nod, you swallow thickly. Are you supposed to just… get into it? Does he even want to see you right now? A million questions surf through your mind, and you need to weed out the what’s your favorite color or did we have a favorite movie or what side of the bed do you prefer and save those for later, because now’s not the time to ask filler questions. Those are things you used to know, a girl who seems distant to you knew everything about him, and you want to be the person to rediscover all the anecdotes.

What you end up saying is worse.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Peter’s eyes shoot down to the note. The damage is done, and by the looks of his unwavering stance you can tell he isn’t ready to have this conversation. Was he ever going to be ready, though?

He calculates his thoughts for a moment. The silence only augments your heartbeat.

“I was,” Peter says eventually. “But I realized it would be best if I didn’t.”

“For who?”

A beat. “For everyone.”

Something twists in your chest. You weren’t the only one he had to let go.

“It’s just that you go through the motions and write the letter, but never send it.” Said-letter makes your hand tingle as you hold it between your fingers. The weight lies in the words on the page. “What happened? What changed?”

His eyes shift between yours, glassy and red rimmed and utterly exhausted. “Are you sure you wanna know?”

You pause. Do you?

This is… big. Catastrophic. The containments of that letter uprooted his entire life, Peter Parker’s entire life, and has the chance to completely change yours but only if you let it. He’s giving you the choice whether to live in ignorant bliss or to uncover the cold, hard truth, one that he’s had to sit with for god knows how long. It’s horrifically daunting, the possibility of knowing.

But if you were once his, he was once yours. Even if you can’t remember it, you were with him for a reason. If past-you trusted him, present-you can too. You can handle the responsibility of bearing this weight, but you can also help lessen it from his shoulders. Sort of similar to helping Atlas hold up the sky, to share the burden, even just for a little while.

Before you register it, you’re nodding, firm and solidified in your choice.

“Yeah.” You take a long breath. “I do.”

Peter stares at you for a moment, letting you bask in the silence of your choice and giving you the opportunity to take it back, and you’re grateful that he presents the option. It’s a background layer of his morality, a snippet of a clue towards figuring out the guy who sacrificed love for everything. Despite probably wanting, no, needing to open up and rekindle his relationships, it shows a lot about his character that he’s letting you choose. He’s allowing you to rescind the offer.

But you don’t. You stand your ground, mustering your bravest face as you give him the smallest of nods — a reassuring one — to give him the confirmation that you’re sure. You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.

Although you’re not ready for how he opens the conversation.

“You were everything to me.”

Oh.

Your breath hitches at his teary expression, how his voice wavers at your green light to open this can of worms. But there’s no turning back now, you suppose. Not when his glassy brown eyes are simply pleading to be heard.

So you remain silent. You listen. Because he needs it. And if he can put everyone else above himself, you can push down the ache in your heart and pray he doesn’t see how much it hurts.

For now, he doesn’t. “I swore to myself that I would protect you no matter what. We both knew the risks of being associated with Spider-Man. Everyone I was close to knew that, you especially.” His eyes meet yours for a moment, as if to show gratitude. “You understood the danger and stayed anyway. That’s why I loved you, and it’s why I still love you. Because you’re standing here right now, even after everything.”

Your eyes soften at the anecdote. For a moment, you picture a younger version of yourself in love. Doe eyed and bright smiles. Confetti with flashes of Coney Island and a rooftop a little ways away from here. You imagine a younger version of you and him braving these hardships head on. It doesn’t sound like an easy feat, towing a fraying line and hoping it doesn’t snap at any given moment. But you figure that Peter Parker is someone who’s worth the risk, especially when he’s the one courageous enough to get out of bed everyday and put on the mask.

“But I lost someone.” Peter’s bottom lip wobbles. “Someone really important to me. It's my fault that she’s gone. I carry that with me everyday. Even that scar on your forehead makes me nauseous every time I see it, knowing it’s there because of me.”

Whether he notices your frown, he doesn’t comment on it. Part of you almost reaches forward to grab his hand, to pull him from the harsh memory of whoever he lost and back into the moment, but you refrain. Let him come to you, let him finish.

He continues gravelly, “The spell was the only way to save you and everyone on the planet. If everyone forgot who I was, then no one else would get hurt. Things would return to the way they were supposed to be.” Peter smiles sadly. “And it did. It worked.”

You watch as he drops his gaze momentarily, kneeling his fingers together as the weight of the confession sits heavy in the air between you, thick and unforgiving. He takes a beat to gather his thoughts.

“I really did want to tell you. And Ned. And MJ. I got close once.” Peter swallows thickly, blinking tears away. “Then I saw how happy you all were, how excited you were for college, for Boston, and I realized that you didn’t need me, nor did you need Spider-Man. After losing my Aunt May, I couldn’t survive losing you, too, and I didn’t want to take anything else away from you guys. I couldn’t,” he says firmly, as if to solidify the decision into law, as if he’s convincing himself it was the right thing to do, the noble act to choose. “But that was a long time ago. I made peace with it.”

…Huh?

Your blood turns ice. “What?”

“What?”

“How long is a long time?”

Peter’s eyes cast downward.

After a moment of reluctant silence, you frown further. “Hey. Please answer me.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” Your heart races at the anticipation of his answer being worse than you can imagine.

That’s when he pauses, inhaling as if to speak but ultimately he decides against it. Gears turn in his mind, teetering between whether he should reveal the hard truth or keep bearing it on his shoulders, and you hate that he hesitates, meaning the answer cannot be any good. If it wasn’t bad, he would’ve said it by now. Right?

Because it does matter. You know the world of Spider-Man and the Avengers and the Punisher and all beings synonymous to that encounter evil and magic on the daily, and despite the absurdity of it all, the note and everything surrounding it is plausible. Spider-Man’s been present throughout your high school life, which you always thought was strange or some sort of divine intervention, only to solidify that it’s been him all along. Protecting you. MJ. Ned. Even Flash, for fuck’s sake. In Washington. In Prague. London. In your abode of New York.

So yes. You do believe him, you believe his letter, and you wish you could recount memories through his brain just to get a glimpse at what life was like before. Even though you’re seeing through a different lens, through that grime and fog that never seeps, you believe him. You do.

Maybe a part of you recognizes him, that’s why your heart hurts so fucking bad right now. Maybe your body phantom aches in the places that used to know him, bones and muscle memory acting on pure instinct, relying on past love, and overcompensating for what the mind can’t provide. Because there’s a physical pull towards him, mind and body pushing and pulling like the tide and teetering between how to really feel.

When he remains silent, you plead, “Peter.”

The sound of his name on your tongue makes him physically shudder, and the mere thought of you begging makes him feel sick.

“Four years,” he barely whispers. “Give or take.”

(Yeah, such a hypothetical. Totally. As if he doesn’t know the date down to the exact minute.)

But you reel nonetheless, an expression emulating that of when he told you that everyone was going to forget who he was. Pinched brows, glassy eyes, lip wobbling with trembling hands. Yet you’re a bit older now and you’ve grown into your features, but your eyes reflect the same concern as they did all those years ago.

And you’re just so sweet. So fucking sweet. Always thinking of others, putting yourself in his shoes and imagining a life completely isolated for four years, and the mere idea of it makes you sick. Knowing he sacrificed everything he knew for the greater good forms a knot in your stomach, queasy from the sadness of it. He lost everyone: his aunt, his love, his best friends, and he’s still here. You need to roll a metaphorical window down at your nausea.

Everything you want to say gets caught in your throat, and the only thing you can muster is a hum.

“Oh.”

Peter frowns in concern at you, eyeing the way your hands shake. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. Too quickly.

It takes no idiot to be able to tell that you’re not. He can sense that from a mile away. You seriously look like you’re going to puke.

Peter says your name cautiously.

And the flood gates open.

“You just— That’s a— You— Okay.” Collect your thoughts, god. Coherence is good. Especially now. He deserves that much. But why are your hands shaking? Why do you feel so fucking sick? Why are you so haunted by lost memories? “Okay. Alright.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

You shake your head. “No. No, that’s not— I’m fine. I just— Okay.”

Peter just blinks at you, unsure whether to outstretch a hand to steady your wavering stance or let you process this in real time. Ultimately, he decides on the latter as you clutch imaginary pearls.

“I–I mean I got to live a whole life in that time. I went to college.” Your voice wavers. “I left.”

Peter immediately shakes his head. “Don’t. None of this is your fault. Please don’t say that.”

Your lip wobbles involuntarily. “How can I not? This spell– You’ve been alone all this time and I– I’m really trying to remember you. Honest. I am. But I– I can’t–”

“Hey,” he reassures gently, taking a cautious step forward to comfort you from a safe distance. “Breathe. Please. It’s okay.”

Covering your face with your hands, you take a deep breath. Okay, certainly not how you expected your night to go: crying in front of Spider-Man who also happens to be your long lost lover that you have no recollection of. Not to mention you’re in your pajamas. And the fact that he seems to be okay with living in complete solitude and saving a world where he literally does not exist to anyone that matters to him. Yet you’re the one who’s more upset.

Fuck’s sake. Peter Parker’s the one who should be crying. Not you.

“Sorry,” you splutter immediately, embarrassed at your lack of composure. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m just really trying to wrap my head around this.”

“It’s definitely not a bedtime story.” Then, “Maybe to Frank, it is.”

You snort without meaning to, trying to suppress a pained laugh. “Stop. This is serious.”

“Of course. So serious.”

Flickers of your interaction with Spider-Man sprinkle like confetti around your temples. You smile without meaning to.

Then he just fucking tears your heart in two in the same breath. “Please don’t cry, though. I promise it’s okay.”

You swallow thickly, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment as you try and recollect your thoughts.

“Can you—?” Another deep breath. “Can you explain it to me? How it happened? I want to understand.” Then, smaller, “Please.”

His eyes soften as he takes another step closer, arm outstretched as if he’s going to touch you, but settles on hovering his palm dangerously close to your bicep to refrain from overstepping.

“Yes,” he murmurs so gently it could cut glass. “Do you wanna sit down?”

Nodding wordlessly, you let him steer you in the direction of the living room. Well, it could be classified as a living room. There’s just one three-cushioned couch and a tv that has a couple of minute cracks in the top right corner. Peter has to discard the makeshift blanket and pillow he was using twenty minutes ago, sheepishly clearing his throat once everything is green lit to sit. He leaves the room momentarily to put on regular clothes, and your heart skips a beat when he comes back in wearing pajama pants and a Delmar’s t-shirt.

Taking a seat on one end of the couch, Peter takes the opposite end, polite enough to leave you enough space as you tuck your legs up, hugging your knees as you face him head on. At first, he’s a bit stiff. Rightfully so. And he fusses with his hair out of nervous habit so the already-unruly curls coil even more. The hushed light cascades over his features, and for a moment you appreciate the slope of his nose to the curve of his jaw, blotched with a bruise yet pretty nonetheless.

And he gets right into it.

Peter starts with your school trip to Europe, filling in gaps of Spider-Man venturing across the Atlantic (which was always something you could never fucking figure out). But, of course, it wasn’t a normal trip, which ultimately led to him getting recruited by that pirate Avenger with the eyepatch to fight those weird element creatures that wrecked multiple historic places. How he got into that predicament is beyond you.

Mysterio gets introduced and you ultimately decide you have the guy. Sure, you vaguely remember him, but he uprooted Peter’s entire life by essentially screwing him over, lying to him, and stealing high tech glasses that had way too much power in the first place. Not to mention revealing his identity to the world without any sort of rhyme or reason whatsoever. Something you apparently helped Peter get through when times were darkest.

Then the first botched spell comes into play. To be quite honest, these ramifications of the story fly over your head. All you can comprehend is that a wizard cast a powerful spell which ended up bringing in multiple Spider-Men and their respective enemies, and that Peter tried to help every single one of them before resorting to violence. Yet, that was betrayed by one bad guy going AWOL, leading to his aunt May dying in his arms. The only way to safely return everyone home and not tear the fabric of the universe was to cast a new spell: make everyone forget about Peter Parker.

When he finishes, you exhale long and slow.

“I’m really sorry about your aunt.”

The mere mention of her makes him nod too quickly. “Me too.”

Then, after sitting on that for a beat:

“So Mysterio fucking sucks, then?”

The words make Peter nearly choke.

“Yeah.” He gets out eventually. “Yeah he fuckin’ sucks.”

You sit back against the cushion, relaying the story over and over in your head. “I can’t believe one guy started all of this.”

“Yup.”

“To a teenager, mind you.”

Peter’s lips twitch. “Average day of being 17, no?”

God, the thought of it makes your stomach churn. To think Peter’s been dealing with this since he was fourteen, saving people and putting himself in harm’s way as a child himself. Then having the fate of the planet (universe?) on his shoulders as a teenager, making an ultimate sacrifice that robbed him of a life, of his life. On top of all of that, on top of all the bullshit Spider-Man had to deal with before the Blip, he still found the strength to keep putting on the mask. And you think it’s the most courageous thing you’ve ever heard.

Especially when he was so young. A teenager with a whole life with his friends and family ahead of him. An opportunity for college, for love, for growth. It leaves you wondering about Peter Parker, as he just told you everything that happened in Spider-Man’s world. But what about the kid under the mask who has to live with the fresh bruises and aching bones?

Your voice is smaller than intended. "What about us?”

Peter stills, eyes widening for a fraction, as if this wasn’t the territory he is expecting to tread on.

“What about it?”

“Can you…” you trail off, feeling a bit silly for having to ask in the first place. “Can you tell me about us?”

He opens his mouth to answer but you beat him to it.

“I know she’s…” You search for the right word. “…different. Or the same. I don’t know. But if that’s something you can or want to do, I’d like that.”

Peter stares at you for a moment and you can’t tell what emotion he’s expressing. Disbelief? Fondness? Indifference? It’s almost as if he didn’t think you’d ever ask, that the girl he once knew is buried deep in the depths of his mind and made to be at peace. Dormant. Definitely not supposed to be resurfaced by you, of all people.

Squirming under his gaze, you wring your fingers together as he makes up his mind.

Then he settles on, “We met freshman year of high school.” Peter meets your eye for a fraction of a moment almost sheepishly, but you’re listening and hanging onto every word, brows pinching at how long ago that was. “You had just transferred and Mr. Townes paired us together in bio. Couldn’t even look at you for the first month.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” he says as if it’s law. “And I was fourteen with no game whatsoever.”

You suppress a smile. “Does anyone at fourteen?”

“God, no.” Peter chuckles lightly, and for a second you admire his smile lines. He must’ve done it all the time. “But you were sweet about it and talked for both of us. Once I figured out how to formulate a sentence, we became friends. You integrated really well with Ned and MJ, too. The four of us hung out almost every chance we could, and even when I became Spider-Man a couple months later, you guys stayed close. But yeah. You and I were friends.”

You think fondly of Ned and MJ, and of how the three of you get together at least twice a month for dinner and games and catch up. Sometimes within your trio, confetti flutters with flashes of a forth, ears ringing with an unfamiliar laugh meshing with your own. Now it comes into fruition, and your imagination sorts him in the group perfectly like a missing puzzle piece. It makes sense, now that you really think about it, how abruptly you became friends with Ned and MJ that you could never wrap your head around, but it was Peter who really was the catalyst of the group after all.

Sitting on the anecdote, you nod, almost to yourself.

Then, you inquire, “Just friends?”

The softness of your voice seems to cut glass at the rawness of the question, and Peter stares at you for a moment as his smile fades into something fonder. He looks younger like this, features shadowed by the dim light and peering at you more delicately than anyone has ever looked at you before. It's almost as if he’s still in awe that you’re here, and you catch him not-so-subtly pinching himself every now and then to make sure he isn’t dreaming. The gesture makes the moment feel so human.

“For a while, yeah,” is what he settles on. “I, uh, I knew I liked you the day I met you. But I valued your friendship more than anything, so I kept it to myself.”

“What changed?”

“The Blip.” He wipes his palms on the thighs of his pajama pants, averting his gaze. “When everyone came back and saw how much time passed, I realized how fragile life really was, how little time we actually have with each other in the grand scheme of things, especially being associated with Spider-Man. And I just, um, panicked.”

You tilt your head, wordlessly encouraging him to go on.

“Mr. Stark dying kinda screwed me up,” he admits softly. Then once he registers your confusion, he corrects himself. “Uhm. Tony. Tony Stark. He was my mentor for years, and losing him made me realize that life really is too short to let things remain unsaid.” Peter takes a pause at his own words, then chuckles in a self deprecating manner. “Which is ironic.”

“Maybe,” you amuse the jest gently. “But different scenarios, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s grateful for your understanding. “There was one night I couldn’t sleep. Like, at all. Tossed and turned until the sun came up. All I could think about was losing you the same way I lost him.” The confession makes your breath hitch, yet he continues despite it. “Before I even knew it, I was swinging to your window, and I guess I was so freaked out that I didn’t even put my suit and mask on.” Peter smiles for a moment, gazing at you gently. “You were so tired, you didn’t even question how I got to your window and instead asked me if I was there for the Chem notes.”

Scoffing, you squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m not–”

“–not a morning person,” Peter finishes affectionately. “I know. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Something pangs in your heart. Have you spent the night together before?

Those thoughts simmer when he recommences, “When you actually woke up a couple minutes later and put the pieces together, you said–”

“Did you actually just come through the window or am I making shit up?”

You blink blearily, coated with sleep and suddenly super aware of your Hello Kitty pajama shorts and off-the-shoulder shirt as Peter stands in front of you, chest heaving as he stares, waiting for you to finally come to your senses. And you do. Because how the fuck did he get to your window? Why is he wearing gadgets on his wrists? Why is he so out of breath and shaking like a leaf?

He swallows thickly. “I need to tell you something, okay? It’s not– It’s gonna sound crazy and you’re probably gonna tell me I’ve been eating too many GMOs, but I need you to listen to me. Please.”

The concern in his voice makes you wake up immediately. The back of your hand meets his forehead to rule out a fever that’s making him hysterical. “Peter–”

Peter takes your outstretched hand in his, replacing it with his own in a bold fashion that seems so uncharacteristic for him it makes you freeze. You hugged him on New Year’s and his face was red for forty five minutes. You shared an air-mattress once at MJ’s and he nearly fell off since he gave you too much space. But now he’s deliberately making this contact, choosing it, owning it. This is different. This is serious. And he’s looking at you with those brown doe eyes that stop your heart every time you stare at him, really stare, and you conjecture that he’s going to tell you something in this moment that will change the trajectory of your life as you know it.

He says your name so gently you almost miss it. “I’ve had a really weird week. I keep writing the date wrong on my assignments and I keep trying to call someone who isn’t here anymore, who didn’t Blip but brought back everyone who did.”

“Wh–”

His hand gripping yours tighter makes you shut up. You do.

“There are so many things that I want to say to him but can’t. He’s not here anymore. But you… you are. And I can’t let myself sleep or exist until I tell you,” he says with a cadence you aren’t familiar with.

“Tell me what?”

“Well–” Peter blinks, reverting back to his normal, quirky self for a moment. “Two things, actually.”

“Okay.” Then, “You’re not, like, leaving or anything, right?”

His brows furrow. “Wh–? No.”

“Or going blond?”

“That’s not– Okay. Okay. Just out with it. I’m gonna say it. Just gonna tell you. Right now. Gonna–”

You place your unoccupied hand on his chest, the vibrating thrum of his heartbeat stinging against your palm as he noticibly falters, breath hitching at the contact. His eyes shoot down to it, then peer back up at you, and there’s a shimmer in his pretty brown does that emulates a wordless thank you in calming him down.

“It’s just me,” you whisper reassuringly.

Peter nods far too quickly. He knows that. That’s why the words stay lodged in his throat. But he lets himself have a moment, nonetheless, gathering his thoughts and swallowing his pride.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, his wrist slowly raises towards the window, and before you can voice your confusion or before he can chicken out, Peter lets a web fly.

And your eyes widen like saucers, tennis-match toggling between the web cascading over the glass, down to his wrist, up to his face, and back to the window like clockwork. He’d almost laugh at your expression, still riddled with sleep deprivation as you blink in flutters, probably trying to process whether you’re actually awake or not. But you adjust to the wordless confession in real time, inhaling sharply at the harsh reality of it, and suddenly everything is falling into place. You’re smart. He can see the gears turning in your brain.

His voice fails him, as he’s shown you something he wasn’t really sure he could formulate into a coherent sentence. The web speaks for itself. Then the missed decathlons make sense. Hang outs that he abruptly had to skip. Homework assignments that were never completed. Mysterious bruises and winces from acts as simple as stretching. But his character never changed, he always stayed Peter Parker, and that’s what’s throwing you off the most.

The superhero that everyone looks up to is your best friend: the guy who cried during Sing, who handmade your favorite ring in his shop class, who threw up from laughing so hard at Ned tripping in a grocery store last month. …Your best friend who can apparently stop a five-ton car from crashing into a bus. Or hold a split ferry together with webs. Or put his life on the line every single day to save a city flooded with people he doesn’t even know. Holy shit, didn’t Spider-Man go to fucking space?

After what feels like eons of silence, Peter breaches the quiet. “That’s one of the things.”

“And the other?” Your mouth gapes open like a fish.

When Peter doesn’t answer immediately, you tear your gaze from the webs on the window back to him, already to discover him staring at you. It takes one, two beats to process what he’s wordlessly saying with his eyes, how they soften into an expression you haven’t seen before. Unbeknownst to you, it’s a look he wears every time he sneaks a peek at you. Now that you’re seeing it, understanding that you’re on the receiving end of it, you place the emotion behind it. And once you do, your heart stills.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Yeah.” His fingers twitch against yours still holding your hand. “Oh.”

Swallowing thickly, you blink at him, probably looking fucking stupid.

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I– I mean, out of everyone? Ever?”

“Positive.”

Then, meekly, “Me?”

And then, fondly, “You.

With a newfound confidence that surprises you both, Peter raises your hand just inches away from his face. He takes a beat, searching your eyes for any indication you don’t want this, giving you the opportunity to shove him into next Tuesday at the bold act, hesitating in order to offer you an out, but he gets nothing of the sort. Instead, you continue to peer at him so intently that it feels like you’re gazing into his soul. So he closes the distance, pressing his lips gently to the smooth back of your hand without once breaking eye contact.

The declaration itself makes your heart stampede against your ribcage. Can’t he hear it? Feel it, even? With how loud and how fierce it’s bumping at the simple act of adoration? You’ve never been treated like this before, so deliberately delicate and appreciated without needing to say much to back it up. This is Peter Parker: the guy who practically carried you the twenty minute walk to the ER after you broke your hand and stayed with you the entire time you were admitted. The guy who stayed up all night to help you prepare for a calculus exam – a class that he wasn’t even in. The guy who swipes wildflowers to arrange them into a centerpiece for his aunt. The guy who loves so intentionally and loud, even though he doesn’t use his words to express it.

Then, with a voice so affectionate, Peter confesses, “Always been you. I think I love you.”

Tears brim your waterline.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” he assures selflessly, so brutally honest that it makes your brows pinch.

“Peter–”

“Really. It is. But I had to tell you. After everything that’s happened, I needed you to know.” He gulps at the mere thought of losing you, “If something ever happened to you, and I never got to– If you didn’t–”

Your palm presses over his heartbeat. “Peter.”

He doesn’t relent. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to bother you with this. But I couldn’t– I can’t lose you, too. I needed you to know–”

As a last ditch effort, your hand once encasing his heart moves to cover his mouth entirely, shutting him up immediately.

“Okay. I know. But I need you to kiss me now, okay?”

So he does.

“That’s a really sweet memory.”

Peter peers over at you, cheek smushed against the cushion as you peer at him with a soft smile on your face. God, he must’ve been talking for ages, having gotten lost in the story that helps him sleep at night, but you give no indication of boredom or indifference, instead focused and holding onto each and every word as if it’ll lose meaning entirely if you don’t pay attention. You absentmindedly twirl around the ring on your finger, the one he made you, the one you always fidget with, and it takes everything in him to keep his hands to himself. Deciding against that, he nods once.

“Yeah. It is.” He swallows sandpaper. “We stayed together after that. No one was surprised, like, at all. May baked a cake and nearly set the apartment on fire.”

You chuckle at the thought. Peter swears he’s never heard a prettier sound.

“You...” He searches for the right words. “You were my first everything. First kiss, first girlfriend, first.. uh…” The heat rises in his cheeks as he clears his throat. God, why does he feel like a fucking teenager again? “You know.”

There it is: the sprinkles of confetti of an intimacy your body remembers. The movements are there, muscle memory of entangling under cool striped sheets warmed by the blood of your bodies, the fanning of hushed breaths, experiencing a world of firsts with a face you couldn’t pinpoint for the longest time. But there were flickers of a mop of brown hair, a boyish laugh you etched in your heart, a sensation of overwhelming emotions, especially of love, flourishing when embraced. The heart remembers. It aches for what it used to feel without trying. Now it’s crying, begging, pleading for you to put the pieces together that your mind struggles to comprehend.

Aiding his embarrassment, you hum quietly, “It sounded really special.”

He thanks you with his eyes. “It was.”

Peter offers you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, pained with bearing the weight of these precious memories alone before looking down to his lap. A teeny, tiny, minute part of him hoped the anecdotes would jog your memory, kickstart anything that could relate your life back to his, but despite your sweet understanding and patience for indulging his elongated tangent, you don’t verbally rejoice at regaining an ounce of memories. Instead, you still sit in the fog, which cleared up a little bit, but still feels fuzzy around the edges.

You notice. Immediately. And your heart breaks for the millionth time tonight for not being able to provide him with the reaction he was hoping for.

Before you can stop yourself and convince yourself it’s a horrible idea, you reach forward to grab the back of his hand with what you hope is a reassuring gesture. His skin is hot, seering in comparison to your ice touch, and the contact nearly makes him jump as his head whips up to meet your eye. For a moment, everything you want to say gets lodged in the back of your throat simply at the rawness of it all, not being able to pinpoint exactly the words that could ease his racing heart, his watery gaze, his depleting hope.

The only silver lining is that he needs this. He’s spent four years going throught the motions completely alone, wallowing from the corner while everyone dances in the center of the room, abandoning Peter Parker entirely and embracing Spider-Man, fully encompassing himself in the alias and losing himself in the process. It’s not fair. Really. It’s not fair that you can’t give him what he deserves, and it’s not fair that he can’t fix the past.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you give a gentle squeeze.

“I know I can’t remember things as they were,” you start slowly, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears, “and I’m sorry I can’t love you the way you want me to.”

A singular tear brushes down his cheek, and with your other hand you reach forward to cradle his jaw, swiping the tear away soothingly with the pad of your thumb. Peter subconsciously leans into the touch despite the bruise on his cheek, and because of the mere rawness of the act, you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since he’s been held like this.

“But that’s right now,” you reassure with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed. “Who knows what things could be like a couple months from now. What I said to Spider-Man that night still applies, Peter. I want to be your friend. I want to be in your life. I want to try and give back pieces of your life that were stolen from you.”

The pad of your thumb brushes across his cheekbone, smoothing down the skin and callouses caused by hurt. The curve of your palm molds into the slope of his jaw like a jigsaw puzzle that’s been weathered with years and cobwebs, but the hold still stays, and it feels right as law. Peter just seems to be relieved that you’re still here, facing the repercussions of the spell head on and understanding that, in the grand scheme of things, love doesn’t die. Not really, anyway. Because with the way you’re seeing him, hearing him, understanding him, maybe there is a teeny, tiny, minute part of you that remembers the shape and topography of his body.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask.

Peter nods against your palm immediately. God, it’s been far too long without this.

Pausing for a moment, you peer beyond him to see etches of sunlight poking through the smallest window to ever be put in a bunker. The functionality of it surpasses your mind, and you don’t dwell on the integrity of the architectural structure as an idea pops into your mind.

“We can work towards what once was,“ you murmur. “But, for today, what about breakfast?”

Frowning, Peter follows your gaze to the window, to the sun, to the start of a brand new day, and immediately understands that you’re clearing the slate for him. His heart skips at the thoughtfulness of it all, how you’re braving the morning on a night without sleep – something he knows is very precious to you – and opening a door for him to finally follow May’s advice, to finally allow himself to move through this instead of letting it happen to him.

“Breakfast sounds great,” he says honestly.

When you rise with a smile, Peter follows blindly, and he’s appreciative of the reaffirming squeeze you give his hand before dropping it. Taking that as a cue to move, he clears his throat, legs working on autopilot as he manuevers through the living room (if he can even call it that?) and stepping up into the kitchen area. It’s the same as it was left, the chair out of place from where he ate dinner and the utensils laying in the sink, the half drank glass of water he couldn’t stomach before he got some shut-eye.

But then your steps falter behind him, and Peter whips his head around in fear that you’ve changed your mind.

“Um.” You blink stupidly. “I don’t have my wallet.”

Peter’s mouth falls into an ‘O’, mirroring your pause for a moment. Then, he snaps out of it, beelining towards a specific cabinet next to the table and yanking it open, and your eyes widen at the rolls of cash stashed there, neatly organized and clearly untouched. Clearly, it’s not Peter’s, but he doesn’t seem to care as he snags a roll, an amount that’s way too much for a breakfast for two, and pockets it in his pajama pants without blinking twice.

Slamming the cabinet shut, he takes in your appalled expression and shrugs.

“What? He owes me.”

You eye the wad of cash protruding from his pocket and hum. “I suppose he does.”

The two of you leave just like that: suppressing grins from the absurdity of it all, eyes bleary from the lack of sleep, and a newfound appreciation for early mornings.

© salem-s do not copy or replicate work without permission

notes hai? missed yall so much! sorry for the near year-long hiatus i had genuinely no inspiration. but nothing like seeing peter parker depressed to cure the block, i guess. not sure if im entirely proud of this but i had to put pen to paper in some format. please please please ignore any grammatical errors mistakes misspells whatever anything synonymous to that. it’s 2am.

(and thank you for all the lovely messages while i wasn’t posting. it means everything!!!!!)

August 2026

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

by @smorgaswhored

⚕️At your back door yellin | +18 | 30k | When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?

⚕️CAUTION: Slippery When Wet! | What starts as an innocent chore ends with weaponized hoses, makeshift water bombs, and questionable clothing choices. Bucky swears you started it, but he’s glad you did.

⚕️it's been a long, long time by @buckytakethewheel | +18 | series | Sergeant Barnes writes a letter home and tells you all about it, which only results in your walls further breaking down.

⚕️Sympathy is a Knife by @tw1sters | +18 | 16k | Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

⚕️Barnes Knows Best by @stanmarvelous | series | One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.

⚕️GODS, GORE & GROPING by @winteryn | +18 | your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows.

by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

⚕️One More Thing | +18 | series | your boss is a hard man to please.

⚕️wallpaper by @cosmicbucky | bucky finds out how to change the wallpaper on your phone, and takes every opportunity he can to do so. until one day he doesn't have the heart to

⚕️Wedded Bliss by @gutsby | +18 | series | The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

by @godmadeaterribleerror

⚕️good 4 u | +18 | you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve

⚕️Blue Moon | series | In the early 1930s, your path crosses with a young, bright eyed boy who doesn't seem to know the pain of the world. You ask him to wait. He does with a smile. Through time and war, you love him with the burn of all your heart. Across oceans and between worlds, he loves you so much he swears he could never forget.

⚕️what if he's mine | +18 | you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.

by @bucksangel

⚕️spicy | +18

⚕️how he spoils you | +18 | the many different ways soft!dom!bucky spoils you.

by @slutdier

⚕️don't get caught | +18 | he’s js so into sneaking around with u in the tower

⚕️love at first bite | +18 | 28k | James “Bucky” Barnes has haunted the world for seven hundred years, cold, heartless and buried since the plague stole his last love. Until you, all warm sunlight and trouble, slammed into his night and woke the monster. Now he’s obsessed. Starving for your scent, your sleep, your soul.

⚕️you wanted me like this | +18

⚕️Wildest Dreams by @brunchable | +18 | series | You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easy— he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You don’t belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it can’t last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, you’ll both realize the same thing too late—enemies were never supposed to feel like this.

⚕️met you at the right time by @street-smarts00 | A mix up at your favorite coffee shop introduces you to a kind stranger that you can’t help but fall for.

by @fckmebarnes

⚕️bathed in moonlight | +18

⚕️open wide | +18

⚕️fight by @nicks-fowler | You think you could take Bucky ?

⚕️salt and pepper by @herejustforbuckybarnes | +18 | Dean Barnes had gone into hiding mode weeks after magical weeks together. Curiosity and resentment led you to confront him — nonetheless, you weren't expecting that he was hiding his salt-and-pepper hair. Time to show him you love him no matter what.

by @buckysdecaflove

⚕️Not so sudden. | +18 | You learn you're pregnant after having something not that casual with your professor, and he then shows you how ready he is to take care of you and your baby.

⚕️69 | +18 | Bucky was a gonner the first time he ever got to touch you. He was not even sure how he had survived without you all this time.

by @w1nter-fairy

⚕️Academic Probation | +18 | James Buchanan Barnes has spent his entire career believing discipline solves everything. Then a brilliant, chronically late graduate student walks into his office, challenges every opinion he has and somehow turns his carefully ordered life upside down.

⚕️Bookmarked | +18 | Bucky always knows what you're reading. Mysteries, fantasy, historical fiction. He listens to every ramble, remembers every plot and never questions the ever-growing collection of sticky notes peking out of your books. Until one novel introduces a new color: Red. Unfortunately (or fortunately) curiosity gets the best of him.

⚕️Sink Your Teeth In Me by @elixirfromthestars | +18 | You and Bucky are supposed to attend Sam's party on Halloween. However, when you show up to his place looking like temptation itself—he gets other ideas on how to spend the night with you.

⚕️Brotherly Protection Details and the Boyfriends who Avoid Them by @buckybarnesfic | Bucky goes to visit his sister but something seems... different.

⚕️A Heart in Hiding by @vunblr | +18 | Caught between the shadows of his past and an unexpected connection, Bucky wrestles with his demons and his growing feelings for a new Avenger.

⚕️No escape from feelings by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two | +18 | 14k | new to the team and is all bubbly/happy, is mostly in a good mood, smiles, is kind and calm just shy, well a sunshine, a goddie on two feet. She meets Bucky and the res t of the new Avengers.

Benjamin "Dex" "Bullseye" Poindexter

by @aquaticmercy

⚕️Just a Girl! | You tell Dex he needs to earn the right to kiss you. His efforts are… interesting.

⚕️Putting Dex on a Leash | +18

⚕️Calming Dex Down

⚕️Dex Learns Your Tricks | +18

⚕️his cheek scar by @daystarpoet

⚕️dabih by @mcrdvcks | series | Dex finds himself watching you more than Matt as he tries to learn all about you.

⚕️In His Bed by @navybrat817 | +18 | Dex loves coming home and seeing you in his bed.

⚕️his gentle touch by @lonelypony-m | you're sick and Dex's taking care of you

⚕️The mystery next door by @callsign-tangerine | When you move in next door, you become a mystery for Dex to solve.

⚕️Firsts by @machiavelliam | +18 | Make out session

⚕️Virgin by @poindexs | +18

⚕️Touch Me by @yoursinfulurges | +18 | Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more, and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.

⚕️THE NIGHT WITCH by @poiindexters | trauma nurse by day, healer by night. you run a word of mouth clinic in the rougher burrows of nyc where anyone can seek out your services. and you somehow end up with a stray.

by @daxisyzz

⚕️third excuse this week | Dex finds an excuse to walk past your desk almost every single day, and he is spectacularly bad at pretending it's a coincidence.

⚕️ Take My Picture | someone who takes pictures of vigilantes (kinda like a paparrazi) and one night you were scouting around and bullseye notices you and after that meeting he can´t seem to forget you

⚕️Nosy Neighbour by @devisedplan | dex quickly learns that he has a rather snoopy next-door neighbour and uses that to his advantage amusement

⚕️needy by @leonsthiccbooty | poor dex crashes out thinking you've left him

⚕️ WORLD IN MY EYES by @deusexgirlfriend | series | YOU are an anonymous resistance hacker. DEX is a client. it should only be simple information drops from you to him, but the thing about vigilantes? none of them are simple.

⚕️relationship by @cedarandcosmos | On a visit to your local supermarket with your boyfriend Dex you noticed a young cashier looking at you and smirking flirtatiously your way. You usually were a more reserved but also polite person so you smiled back due pure kindness towards another human being. What you didn’t notice was how your boyfriend was stiffening up beside you as he saw how that cashier was eyeing you. Pure jealousy flowing through Dex made him definitely more protective who lurks at his star from that situation onwards.

⚕️Behind the Mask. by @dazened | You’re the only person on a corrupt task force who knows the "Daredevil" they’re hunting is actually your co-worker, Special Agent Poindexter. But between the embedded corruption and the way Dex looks at you, you're starting to realize you'd rather be on the wrong side of the law with him.

⚕️Dressing Room by @amberlynnmurdock | Dex takes guarding your dressing room at Lululemon a little too seriously.

⚕️cat-like shadow by @htchnr | a short drabble on Dex's intense and desperate need for closeness.

⚕️Special Delivery by @yearningforsolitude | You are his new neighbor

Other

by darkficsyouneveraskedfor

⚕️The Man in his Castle | +18 | Charles Blackwood x reader | A co-ed discovers that money is still king.

⚕️Little Miss Sunshine | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | a bored man needs a new light in his life.

⚕️A Place in the Sun | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | Trouble in the big city follows you back to your sleepy village home.

⚕️bunny by @targaryenstar | shane maguire x reader | shane has been a man who works best alone, until you. the woman he just can't shake.

⚕️puppy love by buckytakethewheel | +18 | 18k | Leo Reilly x reader | The first time you and Leo met was as seven year olds on a playground. His first words to you? “You’re gonna be my wife”. Almost two decades later, you’ve heard that phrase leave his mouth more times than you can count. But is there a chance it will ever mean something real?

⚕️splitting me in half again by @usermaisy | +18 | shane maguire x reader

⚕️discoverers by @kissmepostsstuff | +18 | shane maguire x reader | Shane discoverers you don't know how to kiss properly, so he decides he's gonna be the one that teaches you.

⚕️headcanons by @snwfairy | +18 | shane maguire x reader

⚕️long night in by @reveriecodydex | +18 | shane maguire x reader | Shane comes over for dinner. And something a little more...

⚕️rabbit teeth by @killshotx | +18 | series | shane maguire x reader | Shane Maguire is used to getting the women he wants.

<part19 | library | part21>

Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning. 

He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave. 

Not really. 

Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive. 

Or willing to, for that matter. 

So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline. 

Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep. 

Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked. 

And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.

It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob. 

Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward. 

Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make. 

He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between. 

Because what did he really have to fight for anymore? 

Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from. 

Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him. 

So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him. 

Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is. 

And Peter Parker doesn’t give up. 

But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell. 

He’d gotten particularly good at that. 

Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?

No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds, 

“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy. 

With Paul. 

“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”

Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”

Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him. 

“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”

Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”

The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”

“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.” 

His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.

“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.” 

Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”

“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”

Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right. 

He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.

Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore. 

He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.

But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet. 

And the echo of a DNR order looming over it. 

It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance. 

He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that. 

And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really? 

The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it. 

Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him. 

Another loss he couldn’t stop.

“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”

Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.

“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.” 

He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper. 

Maybe then he could find himself again. 

“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”

Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”

“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.” 

“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”

“Is that really a bad thing?”

“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.

Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”

“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.

“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”

Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”

“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”

“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”

“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.” 

“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”

Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.” 

Jeez. He was right about that one, too. 

Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell. 

Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.

“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?” 

Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.

What the hell did he just get himself into?

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining. 

Not at all. 

It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further. 

Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind. 

How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.

Knowing the option existed only made it worse. 

His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again. 

Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul. 

And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.

Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.

It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should. 

He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?

And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope? 

He didn’t particularly want that answered right now. 

The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one. 

Things were rough, to say the least. 

All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.

His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.

He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.

It was the same doomed cycle.

His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot. 

“Parker? Did you finish it?”

He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.

Talking to him. 

Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.

His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.

Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.

Fuck, Peter, pay attention.

He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”

He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?

The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in. 

He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.

The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored. 

You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be. 

He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world. 

He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—

Wait… How the hell did you know his name? 

“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.

Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.

Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.

The same went for you and him.

When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.

And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.” 

It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet. 

You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue. 

“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”

You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently. 

“Fine. First thing.”

He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him. 

“O-of course. Promise.”

Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb. 

Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always. 

And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.

By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.

He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.

Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room. 

He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.

The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.

Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.

Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is. 

“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.

There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions. 

He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work. 

By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.

His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that. 

It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that. 

One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work. 

You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to. 

Not yet. 

He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.

He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.  

He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.

And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it. 

Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have. 

This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned. 

Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two. 

Someone he wanted to know more.

He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.

Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.

No one else.

But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.

He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.

He fails miserably. 

You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.

He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?

That maybe he was worth another chance again?

Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again. 

He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever. 

The willingness to begin again. 

And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.

Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.

And you made him believe it might be possible again.

The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building. 

He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention. 

Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor. 

Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd. 

“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”

Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”

Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”

He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back. 

With someone who wasn’t MJ. 

Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.

You. 

You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged. 

His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement. 

Wait, why was he regretting this again?

“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”

He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”

“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.” 

Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles, 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.” 

He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission. 

To say what, exactly? That was still unclear. 

He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take. 

You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there. 

And it’s for him. 

The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you. 

As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying. 

There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it. 

You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes. 

“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight. 

Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.

“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”

Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”

“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”

Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?” 

He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”

You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat. 

You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”

His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.

“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”

“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.” 

His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”

He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.

“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”

You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.

You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now. 

“Whatever you wanna make me.”

Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”

The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.

“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”

He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”

“A secret. Just try it.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.

You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”

“Because I was bored. Your turn.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink. 

“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.” 

The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?” 

You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.

“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”

He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”

You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.

It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?

You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”

Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”

His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours. 

Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—

Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.

“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.

Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.

“You guys know each other?”

“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.

“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”

You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”

“Same,” Ned affirms. 

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”

He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across. 

Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.

Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back. 

“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”

It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”

Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”

Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.

And he notices.

Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.

“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”

A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction. 

The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.

“Do I have a reason to?”

You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest. 

“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level. 

In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention. 

You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear. 

“I like you loose, Parker.” 

Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer. 

And this time, they don’t leave.

“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs. 

It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins. 

All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.

But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again. 

And, God, it felt good. 

So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts. 

And he was damn well tired of being one. 

His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.

He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.

Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.

By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights. 

Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences. 

Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.

But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb. 

“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.

He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”

You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”

His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up. 

“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”

You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”

“Whiskey.”

You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”

“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”

It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.

You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.

Even if just for a second, it’s there. 

And it counts. 

You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.   

The answer on his end was abundantly clear.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too. 

But he tries, anyway.

His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”

“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”

His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you. 

So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.

Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”

The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.

Your hand, still held in his.

Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.

The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.

So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.

You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.

He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.

So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.

“I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.

“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”

Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it. 

His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him. 

He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.

“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”

“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”

He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.

He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind. 

You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight. 

He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this. 

But, fuck— He doesn’t care. 

He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much. 

And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.

He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.

His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.

Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”

He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”

You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.” 

He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,

“I want you.”

You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more. 

His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first. 

His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection. 

Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need. 

He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.

Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.

Just you and him. 

When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.

His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants. 

Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.

You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again. 

Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”

He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder. 

Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex. 

Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase. 

“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”

He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.

He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.

“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”

Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.

His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.

Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.

Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.

His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing. 

And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you. 

It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.

Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart. 

His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching. 

Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.

Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened? 

His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.

And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,

Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore. 

By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream. 

The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.

It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand. 

Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?

He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light. 

Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.

There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt. 

None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.

Not forgotten.

But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.

Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up. 

He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.

…So then why did last night feel so good?

Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head. 

Then did a lot more than just talk.

But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.

Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore. 

He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.

Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.  

Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?

Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—

MJ moved on. 

If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would. 

He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.

It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.

You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.

He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.

So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.

Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh. 

Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.

That was all he needed to try. 

The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.  

His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea. 

You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.

Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.

Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday. 

He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile. 

“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”

He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t. 

“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”

He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.

“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”

He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.

“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”

If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.

It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner. 

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”

You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile. 

“It’s, like, twelve hours late. You’re good, Parker.”

“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.

“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”

“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”

He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”

Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

You look pretty despite it.

He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.

“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”

His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.

Always holding something that makes him want more. 

You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”

“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”

He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours. 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”

You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.” 

“…Maybe.”

“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”

You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”

His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.

You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.

“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”

“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around. 

Things were clearly different, one way or another. 

You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”

“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”

He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”

His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.

“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”

“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”

His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.

“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face. 

“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.

Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?” 

“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”

Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”

He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.

“Really? People still read that thing?”

“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”

He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.

And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough. 

“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”

He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project. 

But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.

He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.

“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”

His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again. 

“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”

“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”

His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”

He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually. 

“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”

Anything but that. 

He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.

“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”

“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”

“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”

“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”

Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.

“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”

Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”

You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.

“Do you know what a ghost is?”

He blinks, lost. “What?”

“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”

His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.

“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”

Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.

And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one. 

He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.

“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”

“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”

He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down. 

“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”

Something tells him you’re right, regardless. 

By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.

He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts. 

No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.

None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice. 

…And now your investigation as well. 

Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction. 

Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain. 

Or wanted to, for that matter. 

Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that. 

Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.

Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.

At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable. 

That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—

MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies. 

“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”

He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.

“H-huh?”

“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”

“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.

It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.

He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.

She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.

His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?

The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force. 

MJ might be different, but now he was, too. 

He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at. 

“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”

He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.

“I had class.”

“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”

His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”

“To go see—”

“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”

Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.

“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.

Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”

“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”

The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in. 

“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”

Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“Peter—”

“I’m serious, Ned.”

“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”

Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”

Especially after what he learned this morning. 

“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”

“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”

Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”

Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes. 

“Did you have a good time last night?”

He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”

“And you’re into her, right?”

His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that. 

Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.

You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.

So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.

“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.” 

His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.

Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world. 

He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”

“That changes everything, Peter.”

He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”

He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.

“I think I like her…”

“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”

“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”

It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to. 

You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.

Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.

Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.

And that scared him.

Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses. 

You’d only end up hurt. 

Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.” 

He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.

Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head. 

Something true, more so than he’d like it to be. 

“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again? 

And if he was, who was willing to take it?

It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.

Maybe he did deserve to be happy.

Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.

You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind. 

There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.

In your class. In your life. In your mind. 

It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.

That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought. 

Until about a week later.

Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes. 

And that’s when you heard it.

His name. 

Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat. 

He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.

He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was. 

You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep. 

It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted. 

And it did.  

He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him. 

Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression. 

He slid into your mind with ease after that. 

Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist. 

He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.

It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing. 

You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early. 

It wasn’t. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before. 

Then the whole day went by. 

The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one. 

You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything. 

Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.

He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying. 

That was new.

You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter. 

And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all. 

Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.  

Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.

One night.

Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.

Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that? 

It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.

The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.

You needed real journalism. Now, or never. 

Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.

Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.

Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.

And that’s when you found it. A sticky note. 

It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away. 

I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.

A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between. 

Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.

Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you. 

A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real. 

Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.

Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait. 

The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East. 

You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.

That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it. 

It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.

Nothing was ever there. 

You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city. 

But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man. 

You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once. 

You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note. 

You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other. 

You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.

The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you. 

You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.

Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—

So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place. 

A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too. 

Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger. 

You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.

Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.

You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.

One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.

Then he gets closer.

Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—

A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.

And suddenly you’re falling.

The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.

Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement. 

Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage. 

You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.

Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.

Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.

He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.

It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke. 

“You alright, Miss?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.

“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word. 

You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful. 

Except, maybe in a way, you did. 

Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person. 

You had to tell Peter. 

He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.  

He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello. 

“Oh, so you do know the girl.”

He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”

“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”

His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”

“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.” 

His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen. 

You

i got a tip. can u come by my place?

His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck. 

“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”

“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”

Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach. 

Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says, 

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait, we need to—”

“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.

The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.

Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.

He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.

Or why he felt so strongly about it. 

It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint. 

The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share. 

Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled. 

You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again. 

He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet. 

Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place. 

“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”

He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.” 

If only you knew the half of his experience with that. 

You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free. 

Undeniably you. 

His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation. 

The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin. 

Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you. 

He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.

“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”

He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”

“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.” 

The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul. 

“Check it out, Parker.”

He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.

“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”

He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright. 

You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”

He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”

Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process. 

“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”

Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this. 

Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again? 

But the biggest question was how do they know you.

There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?  

Someone he cares about more than he should. 

He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in. 

“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”

“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”

You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”

He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”

“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”

“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?” 

In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go. 

He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”

Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”

“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.” 

You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”

“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”

“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”

Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”

Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.” 

“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze. 

“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.

“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”

He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it. 

Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does. 

The blooming edge of a reddened bruise. 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”

You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”

Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.

It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.

His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.

He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before. 

And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time. 

His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.

A different darkness than the night before. 

His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.

Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it. 

Not with you. 

He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.

“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”

Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.” 

It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face. 

An edge that softens without knowing why. 

Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”

He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods. 

When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.

Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.     

He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared. 

Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was. 

He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight. 

When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.

Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.

Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt. 

So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.

His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”

You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean. 

He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey. 

The way you made it worse.

But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it. 

He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows. 

Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair. 

Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved. 

Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you. 

“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.” 

His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in. 

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands. 

The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.

“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”

Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.

It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.

To allow. 

You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath. 

After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.

“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.” 

You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night. 

“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.” 

You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.” 

The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you. 

Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between. 

He’d drop anything to catch you. Always. 

And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.

He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath. 

“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”

Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.  

“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.” 

It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.

The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long. 

The way you see him without seeing him at all. 

It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes. 

His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.

“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”

continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx

edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

The first two are self-explanatory, but the third is a wild card you never expected. He came home with it at the start of the summer and never looked back, carefully tending to it night and day with an intense devotion that had you feeling more than a little jealous. Hours went into polishing the chrome details and treating the leather seats. He drove it as if he was transporting the Ark of the Covenant. Sometimes you’d even catch him in the garage, just admiring it in quiet awe before bed.

You didn’t even know Bucky was into vintage cars, having just suffered through his year-long crazed motorcycle phase, but there’s no disputing it now. He acts like the cherry-red convertible is his first born child.

So it’s no surprise to you when Bucky announces he’s going to give the car a wash on a particularly steamy July day. You’re fanning yourself with a magazine while sitting next to the open window, hoping for an improbable breeze to cool your flushed skin. Bucky, with his super serum regulatory system, looks frustratingly comfortable for the number on the thermometer, although he’s swapped his usual dark t-shirt and jeans for a white tank top and loose-fitting shorts. It’d make you stop and stare if you weren’t on the brink of a heat-induced psychosis.

“Most people stay out of the sun when it’s this hot,” you grumble, watching as he dons a pair of shades.

“I’m not most people,” he replies with a toothy grin.

“Don’t I know it,” you sigh, pressing a glass of ice water to your neck.

“Wanna help?”

You wave your hand at him. “No thanks. I prefer not to have heat stroke today. I’ll just be in here, enjoying the show.”

His smile grows smug. “Tips are always appreciated.”

“Better make it worth my while, then.”

He chuckles before stepping out into the burning heat of the summer afternoon. You watch from the window as he backs the convertible down the driveway until it’s directly in your line of sight. From the glance he throws your way, you know it was intentional. You’re not complaining.

Bucky gathers his supplies carefully, methodically laying them out in front of the car: bucket, rags, soap and sponges. The hose is last, and like the tease he is, he takes his sweet time uncoiling it much like a cowboy does with his lasso. The muscles in his shoulders ripple with every motion, his vibranium arm glinting in the sun, until the hose is laid out exactly how he wants it and he’s ready to begin. When he disappears around the corner to turn on the water, you realize your nose is almost pressed up against the glass. And is that drool you feel on your chin?

The worst part is that he isn’t even trying. And he’s only just started.

You wave the magazine faster.

When he returns, Bucky carefully soaks the trunk of the car with a gentle stream of water. Then he pours the soap into the bucket, bending over to mix until it’s overflowing with suds. It’s crazy that you can see every muscle in his back flex through his tank top, but again, you’re not complaining.

Bucky swipes the sponge over the wet car and begins cleaning it to perfection. He starts with the bumper, dark shades slipping down his nose, and works his way up until he’s leaning over the trunk. Once he’s satisfied that he got every inch, he pulls back, blessing you with the sight of a very wet and see-through shirt. The magazine slips from your grasp as you gaze upon his carved chest and sharp abdominals, the dark nipples poking through the fabric.

You’re out of your chair and opening the door before you realize that you’ve left the safety of the shaded living room.

Bucky looks up as soon as he hears your footsteps on the driveway, bubbles dripping down his hand. “Am I about to be tipped?”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try. I guess I’m…here to help.”

“Something change your mind?” he asks with a smirk, and you swear he flexes his abs.

“Oh, please. I only came out because I know the hose water’s cold and that’s better than melting inside.”

He gestures to it. “It’s all yours.”

You shoot him a look before picking up the hose and moving to the front of the car. The water trickles out onto the hood, and you eagerly stick your hand under it. The temperature is crisp against your skin; you swipe across the back of your neck, then your collarbone. The trails of water leave goosebumps in their wake as they drip past your neckline, but it’s the best you’ve felt since you woke up this morning to the sticky heat of another concerningly hot day. You add a handful to your face for good measure, then — blinking through the drips — your eyes find Bucky.

As predicted, he’s watching closely, with that familiar hungry undertone to his stare. With or without intention — you’re not sure yet — this has become a standoff, a game of who can wind up the other more.

Once upon a time you’d say it’d be crazy to be turned on from something as normal as washing a car, but with Bucky, you’ve learned that nothing’s off the table.

Sucking his teeth, your boyfriend turns back to his sponge, reverently cleaning the brake lights with unwavering focus. You fight down a smile and grab the other sponge.

The two of you quietly wash the car, the relentless sun baking your exposed skin. You’re regretting not putting on sunscreen, but settle for splashing your arms and legs every so often with the hose to help with the burn. From the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky turning away pointedly each time, shoulders tense, and it gives you an irrational sense of pride. Looks like you’re the one putting on the show now.

The more you buff the car, the more you begin to appreciate its cherry-red body, the luminescent sparkles hidden in its depths, the reflection of the metallic accents. It truly is a beautiful convertible, and you can’t help but feel oddly powerful every time you sit in the passenger seat when Bucky takes you for joy rides around town. There’s a possessive feeling in your chest as you make it shine, like for the first time you feel able to claim it as much as yours as it is Bucky’s by giving it the million-dollar treatment. You’re starting to understand his obsession.

Once the front is cleaned, you start down the side, carefully washing the fenders until they gleam. You must have gotten lost in the motions of it because you nearly jump from your crouched position when a shadow falls over you.

Bucky’s made his way up the same side until he’s met you in the middle. His sponge knocks into yours, spraying soap and bubbles over your arm and on your shirt. You grunt.

“You did that on purpose,” you mutter with a sideways look.

“No I didn’t, you’re in my way,” he mutters back, rubbing vigorously at an invisible spot. More suds fly off the sponge, coating your shorts this time.

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“You’re getting me wet!”

He grins, not taking his eyes off the place his sponge cleans. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

You grit your teeth, even though you can taste the truth of his words on your tongue, can feel the truth of his words beyond the soap and water. But you’re not losing this war.

Without thinking, you grab the hose off the ground next to you, flick the nozzle to ‘spray’ with your thumb, and point it at your boyfriend. And then you pull the trigger.

A jet of water hits him directly in the side, catching him by surprise and sending him straight onto his ass. You make sure to aim for his shorts, quickly drenching them until they stick to him like a second skin, and the wake of it soaks his shirt as an unplanned — yet happy — consequence. Bucky puts his metal hand up to stave off the water getting into his face.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

You let go of the trigger, your smile smug, and stand over him. There’s no denying that he looks positively humbled, the image of a drowned kitten with his big blue eyes blinking up at you in disbelief. You drop the hose and cross your arms in triumph.

“Now who’s wet?” you ask sweetly.

Bucky wipes off the excess water from his eyes. They flash at you in warning. “Oh, it’ll be you, doll.”

He springs up with super human speed, and you have only half a second to jump out of his grasp and scamper around to the other side of the car. “Bucky,” you warn, using the convertible as a barrier. “Don’t you dare.”

He stalks around the hood, forcing you to retreat to the trunk, a wickedness in his tight smirk. “You started it, baby, don’t back down now.”

You gulp, knowing you can’t run circles around this car forever; Bucky’s jumped greater lengths than the Mustang, after all. You take another step but almost trip on a rag left on the ground. Instinct takes over and you grab it blindly — it’s soaked and heavy in your hand before you launch it at him. It’s safe to say the both of you are wildly surprised when it hits its mark, landing directly in the middle of Bucky’s already wet chest with a loud smack.

His eyes burn into yours when it drops to the ground. “Now you’re really getting it.”

You shriek when he takes off, coming around the side of the car and scooping up the hose as he goes. The ice cold water hits your back and nearly knocks the breath out of you, but you keep running until you’ve swapped places around the car. The assault stops just in time to prevent any water from getting inside, and you take the opportunity to crouch out of sight against the front bumper, chest heaving.

“This isn’t a fair fight and you know it!” you call out. Bucky laughs in response.

“Fair? You’ve gotten most of the hits, sweetheart.”

“Put the hose down, Bucky — for the sake of the car.”

A pause as Bucky considers. “Nuh-uh. You just want me to put it down so you can have it.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. So much for that ploy.

Your ears strain for the sounds of Bucky moving, but all you can hear is the buzzing of summer bugs and that indescribable high-pitched whine that comes with intense heat. Despite the game, your heart thuds against your chest. You love Bucky more than anything, but you’d be the biggest idiot to ever forget that he was once the scariest ghost story told in the darkest corners of the world. His past is made up of secrecy, silence and impossible kill shots. You couldn’t think of a worse opponent to go up against.

Just then, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you look over in time to see the nozzle of the hose stick out around the corner. You dive, the spray hitting your bare feet as you take cover on the other side of the car.

You hear Bucky laugh again. “Natasha would be impressed if she could see you right now.”

A breathless smile snakes across your face as you crawl towards the back of the convertible. “Maybe you’ve finally met your match, Barnes.”

He groans. “Don’t say that, it only makes me want you more.”

“If you drill me with that hose, that’ll be the only thing you’re drilling tonight.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

You dare to peek over the top of the car. Bucky seems to have taken inspiration from your stealth moves and is using the car as shelter. You glance under it to find his feet somewhere on the side, near the hood. Your eyes land on his forgotten sponge, sitting just within reach next to his half-filled bucket of soapy water. As quietly as you can, you grab the sponge and toss it over your head. You hear it hit the ground on the other side of the car from him, and what follows is the scrape of gravel as he slides over to investigate the sound. Your window of opportunity opens.

Moving on silent feet, you pick up the bucket, trying desperately not to let the water splash, and follow behind Bucky. You see him poke his head around the front of the car, and then you pounce.

The bucket is turned upside down over his head, drenching him from head to toe. He gasps and sputters, whipping around to see you dancing out of reach so not even the hose can get to you.

“I win!” you declare.

“Says who?!” he demands, standing up. The water runs off him in rivulets, a sudsy wet spot growing rapidly where he just sat.

“Says me — you’re completely soaked and I’m still dry,” you answer with a smile, hand on your hip.

He narrows his eyes at you before peeling his wet shirt off his body, letting it hit the ground without fanfare; he pushes his slick hair out of his eyes, and your mouth goes suddenly, yet predictably, dry. Bucky notices the way you’ve gone still and a slow smile works its way across his face.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

“No,” you say immediately.

“Come here, I wanna congratulate you on your win.”

“Bucky—“

“Baby, just one hug, that’s all I want.”

And then he’s taking off after you across the driveway, through the front yard and around the large oak tree. You squeal every time he comes close enough to swipe at your shirt. You know he could easily catch up to you, but Bucky’s always liked the chase.

“No, please—“ you beg, legs burning as you make a break for the front door.

But that’s when you feel two arms, one warm and one cold, snake around your waist. You’re lifted off the ground and spun around, tucked against a hard, wet chest that soaks through your tank top. Bucky buries his drenched face into your neck, pressing hot kisses there as his hold on you tightens. Your shrieks quickly melt into giggles as his large body folds over yours, his lips continuing to attack every inch of you that they can reach while your clothes begin to dampen against his skin.

“Gotcha,” he says in your ear. You smile, fighting weakly against him.

“Buckyyyy…”

“Now what did you say earlier? Something about drilling you?”

Your laughter carries across the yard. The sun beats down on the half-washed car. Bucky’s prized possession is momentarily forgotten as he carries you into the house, more than ready to remind you what his real prized possession is.

sammy speaks: hi! this was short and sweet and probably trash but I wanted to make sure I got it out there before July ended :) I have missed you all sm!!!! I’m so sorry that I haven’t gotten to the latest comments, reblogs and asks about at your back door, but I will get to them soon, I promise. and I have soooooo many fics by other incredible authors to catch up on too ugh!!!!!! summer is always so crazy for me and I may have underestimated how much free time I actually have to write, but I’m hoping to get something else out next week, so stay tuned!