You turn your stool to see him. Beside your barstool, standing tall and dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and dark jeans. “Frank?” Your dad’s best friend at the same bar at the same time? What were the odds?

“Does the old man know you’re out here so late?” Frank starts to lean comfortably against the bar's counter, tilting his head in inquiry. He runs a hand behind his ‘high and tight,’ grown out with just a hint of white.

You hide your lower lip by tucking it into your mouth and shake your head, smiling shyly, “doesn’t even know I’m in the town yet.”

He whistles lowly, shaking in mock disapproval. "What brought you back?”

“On break,” you continued shyly, “college. Finals are over.”

He lifts his eyebrows and frowns his lips as he nods slowly. The forehead and smile lines that were once faint in your childhood seem to have grown deeper through time.

You remembered him as “Uncle Frank.” Who would come by every Fourth of July, New Year's, Thanksgiving, and all the other holidays that called for good food and even better company. Now, all you can see is a man pushing 50s that's aging like fine wine rather than milk. How unfair.

Before you could let out a word, Frank speaks up, "Smart girl. College. That's big. "

You smile at his praise. "It's nothing really, Frank. Not all of us can be in the marines like you, old man."

He chuckles, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink. "I'm not that old."

You squint your eyes at his remark. You knew Frank was old. Old enough to be your dad old. So why does he look so much hotter than the guys your age here? "You're old, Frank." You run a hand through your own hair, implying his grey hairs make it plausible.

Frank takes another sip, pursing his lips. This time, it seemed the Jack Daniel's he kept drinking coated his throat for him to let out the perfect, "You'll find out how that's a good thing, sweetheart."

———————

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been one hundred and forty-six years since you had seen your brothers. Actually, it had been one hundred and forty-six years since they had seen you. You kept tabs on them over the years, always so close but not close enough for them to find you. As far as your brothers were concerned, you were dead and technically you were.

In truth, you didn’t want to see them but you had to. You had to for him.

So here you were, driving past the Mystic Falls welcome sign. Your jaw clenches at the sight of it, you hadn’t been here since 1864. Every fiber of your being was screaming at you to turn around, that you didn’t want to be back here, that it was going to hurt you. You shoved the feeling away and continued driving until you reached your destination.

The old Salvatore Boarding House, your old home.

You take a deep breath before walking up to the door. It’s wide open and you can hear Stefan and Damon arguing inside. Your best guess is Stefan tried to walk away from Damon by slamming the door on him and all it did was make Damon angrier and he flung it open.

You followed the yelling to the living room, they were so caught up in their argument that they hadn’t noticed you leaning on the door frame.

“I see you two still fight like cats and dogs… I’m sure this is about some silly girl,” you finally speak up, announcing your presence.

They both immediately stop and look at you.

“Who the hell are you?” Damon asks instantaneously and you couldn’t blame him, the last time he saw you, you were just a kid.

You pout, placing a hand over your heart, “that hurts Damon.”

Letting out a dramatic sigh you place your hands on your hips, “I guess that’s fair though… I mean, it has been a really long time, one hundred and forty-six years in fact and I was just a little kid then.”

“I was about this tall…” you gesture with your hand then gasp, bringing your hand to your mouth, “And the last time we spoke was in this house, in this room!”

Stefan’s eyes widened a bit, his face becoming one of shock and realization, “Y/N?” he whispers.

You smirk and Damon scoffs, “That's not possible, our sister is dead.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that, though, I believe the proper term is undead—“

You’re cut off by Damon rushing at you, slamming you into the wall, and holding you up by your throat.

“Damon.” Stefan warns.

“This isn’t Y/N, Stefan! It can’t be! This is some sick imposter! I don’t know how they found out… but Y/N… she’s been dead for over a hundred years!”

You knee him in the stomach, causing him to double over and drop you, “Undead.”

Damon grunts, stumbling back but he quickly recovers, “Okay, let’s say you are our sister… Why now, huh?! Why find us now, after a hundred some years?!” he shouts.

You scoff, standing up straight, “Because I saw you both die! I saw father shoot you both dead! You remember that night right? The night you both tried to save Katherine? The night you were turned?”

You paused for a moment, directing your next words to Damon, “The night you told me I wasn’t your sister anymore.”

You knew being back here would be hard, you knew it would hurt. What you didn’t expect was for Damon to seemingly forget everything that happened in 1864. He looked away from you causing you to scoff.

“That woman ruined our family the moment she stepped foot in Mystic Falls.”

1864

Mystic Falls

You stood next to Stefan, rocking back and forth on your heels as you watched the carriage approach.

Your father had told you that a woman was coming to stay with you all, a woman named Katherine Pierce. You were excited for her arrival, you loved Stefan, Damon, and occasionally your father but you were ecstatic to have another girl around.

The carriage opened and two women got out, you followed Stefan down the stairs, standing right next to him.

“You must be Miss Pierce,” your brother says with his hands still behind his back.

Miss Pierce smirks, “Please,” she reaches her hand out for him to take, which he does, “Call me Katherine.”

They stare at each other for a moment, seemingly having a silent conversation before you interrupt, “Hello!”

Katherine seems taken aback by the sudden voice but puts on a smile, “And who might you be?”

“Y/N!”

Stefan chuckles and places his hand onto your shoulder, “This is my little sister, father jokes that she’s my shadow,” your brother teases, “She’d be following Damon around as well but he’s off at war.”

You frown at the mention of your other brother, not noticing the way Katherine’s gaze hardens.

Katherine would grow close with Stefan over the next weeks and unfortunately for you, she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like you. You couldn’t figure out why but Stefan continually reassured you that Katherine had no problems with you so you tried to let it go.

Then after some time, Damon returned home and you were overjoyed. You had always been close with your brothers, they were practically your only friends. You had been lonely since Katherine had arrived due to Stefan’s infatuation, you hoped now that Damon was back you wouldn’t be so lonely.

“Damon!” you cheered upon seeing him, “Day! You’re back!”

He chuckles, “That I am!”

You rush to hug him which he quickly reciprocates, patting your head. But his gaze focused elsewhere.

“Who is she?” he points.

You turn to see who he’s looking at and sigh, “That is Miss Katherine Pierce, she’s been staying with us for some time now.”

You beckon Damon to lean down so you could whisper in his ear, “I think Stefan may be in love with her.”

Your eldest brother raises a brow and stands up straight, “Hm? Well… I suppose I should introduce myself to our guest…”

Just like that, Damon was infatuated as well. It was as if Katherine was a siren and both your brothers had been tricked by her song.

You watched Katherine as she led on both your brothers, knowing that at least one of them would be getting a broken heart. Though, you had a feeling they’d both end up heartbroken.

The one event that really broke you was when both your brothers were nowhere to be seen on your birthday, and when you did find them it was like they had no idea what the day was.

You hated Katherine, but you weren’t scared of her. Until you saw her true face.

You knew what she was, a vampire. Your father had told you stories about vampires, they’re evil monsters. He told you if you ever even heard whispers of a vampire that you had to tell him and he’d take care of it.

So you told him and he came up with a plan that you would enact within the week.

“What is that delicious smell?” Damon asks as he walks into the kitchen.

You let out a little laugh, “I baked cookies! Would you like one?”

“I’d love one,” Damon takes one of the cookies from the tray, patting your head as he did.

The first step of the plan was complete, now all you had to do was sit back and wait.

It wouldn’t take long for Katherine to come back to the boarding house with Stefan, he goes and sits on the couch while Katherine begins to go upstairs. She turns to give Damon a look and he immediately rushes to follow her up the stairs.

Moments later there’s a scream, followed by shouting from your father, Damon, and some men you don’t know. Stefan is off the couch quickly and at the steps immediately.

Multiple men are dragging Katherine down the stairs while Damon yells at your father. Stefan stands in shock as you reach his side. Katherine is taken out of the house by the men and put into a guarded carriage. Your father holds Damon to the wall as the carriage leaves your home, finally, his eyes land on you and he lets go of Damon, rushing to you, he places a kiss on your head.

“You were right, my dear. You did good.”

With that, he rushes out the door to the carriage, leaving you alone with your brothers.

Stefan’s voice is quiet, “You know what she is…”

“And you told father!” Damon shouts.

“She’s a monster Damon!” you yell.

He scoffs, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re ten! A child!”

Your frown, “My birthday was a month ago Damon… I’m eleven… or have you forgotten?”

“It doesn’t matter! How you could be so cruel… I don't understand… I don’t recognize you… you’re no sister of mine. Not anymore.”

“Damon!” Stefan yells.

Damon shakes his head, shoving past you to the door, “Let’s go Stefan! If we’re quick we can save her!”

And just like that, they rush out of the house without sparring you a second glance. They didn’t know it at the time, but moments later you would run out of the house after them.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

“I never went back home… it wouldn’t be home if you were both dead... So I ran and ran and didn’t look back… I travelled all over… never staying in one place for too long.”

Stefan steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug and you allow him too. It had been a century since you had hugged anyone, you almost forgot how to. He pulls away to get a better look at your face, how you’ve grown since he last saw you.

“How old are you? Physically?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, Stef…” you giggle before giving an actual answer, “Nineteen, I was turned in 1872… which I guess makes me your big sister.”

He chuckles, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Damon crosses his arms, “How’d you turn?”

“Willingly, if that’s what you’re asking… my boyfriend at the time turned me, we wanted to spend forever together.”

“Ironic, sounds a lot like my story with Katherine.”

You furrow your brows, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying, you’re a hypocrite.”

You scoff and Damon takes that as his signal to continue, “Where is this boyfriend of yours now?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.” you lie.

“I’m sorry Y/N,” Stefan smiles softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Suddenly, the floorboards creak causing all of you to look at the sound. There she stood, Elena Gilbert.

“Oh… I’m sorry I didn’t realize you had company…” She clears her throat, “Uh… Stefan, you called me?”

Thinking quickly, you speed away from Stefan and slam the girl into the wall. You weren’t dumb, you knew who she was and you knew she wasn’t Katherine but your brothers didn’t know that you knew. Everything would be fine as long as you didn’t kill her, he wouldn’t mind if she was roughed up a bit.

“You keep the bitch around?! After everything?!”

Stefan and Damon sped to your side, Damon ripping you away from her.

You scoff, “You still protect her!”

“This isn’t Katherine,” Stefan says before pulling Elena to him, the girl holding her throat.

“Looks exactly like her!”

Damon rolls his eyes, pulling you farther away, “We know. We have eyes. It’s weird, some weird, freaky nature thing but she’s not Katherine. Smell her, she’s human.”

You turn your attention to Stefan and Elena who are both looking at you, waiting for your next move. Stefan is ready to jump in front of Elena to save her, you almost roll your eyes but resist, this would be like 1864 all over again.

You walk over to them, slowly, tilting your head at Elena.

“I’m Elena…Elena Gilbert.”

You give her a half smile, “Y/N. Sorry.”

You hold out your hand for her to take, which she does after looking at Stefan to make sure you were safe.

“This happens a lot, you’d be surprised…”

“No, I wouldn’t be. Katherine’s a bitch. A lot of people want her dead,” you pause, “Consider getting a tattoo on your forehead,” you brush your pointer finger and thumb across your forehead, “‘Not Katherine’.”

Elena giggles, “In size forty font.”

You crack a smile, she seemed sweet, you almost felt bad about what was going to happen, almost.

“You’re a friend of Stefan and Damon’s?”

“I’m their sister,” you smirk, chuckling at the shocked expression on her face.

“Our sister who we thought was dead up until about five minutes ago,” Damon adds, still suspicious of you.

“I didn’t know you were alive either until I heard rumors from some vampires that fled from here…” another lie.

Stefan and Damon share a look and you look between them, “What?” You ask.

“The tomb vampires.”

Stefan pats your back, “C’mon, we got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Well, this is lovely but are we going to discuss what we’re here for?” A new voice cuts in, she looks familiar but you can’t quite place her.

Elena on the other hand looks terrified, “You…”

“Like he said, a lot of catching up to do,” the woman smiles.

You all sat down in the living room while the woman who you learned to be Rose began to pace back and forth while speaking, “Okay, you have to understand, I only know what I’ve picked up over the years- and I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. That’s the problem with all this vampire crap but Klaus I know is real.”

You keep your expression neutral, you had been told the story of Katerina Petrova, Katherine Pierce as you knew her and how she escaped her death by Klaus and Elijah both. That’s why this woman was familiar, she had played a role in the escape.

“Who is he?” Elena asks.

Damon speaks up, “He’s one of the originals. He’s a legend,” he widens his eyes for dramatic flair.

”From the first generation of vampires,” Stefan gestures with his glass.

“Like Elijah?”

Rose sighs, dropping her shoulders, “No, Elijah is the Easter Bunny compared to Klaus. He’s a foot soldier, Klaus is the real deal.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face, Elijah? The Easter Bunny? Now that was a funny joke.

“Klaus is known to be the oldest…” Stefan adds and that almost makes you giggle.

“So…” Elena begins, “You're saying the oldest vampire in the history of time is coming after me?”

Well, not the oldest.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Damon sighs, standing up, “No, what they’re saying is, I mean, if what she’s saying is true—“

“Which it is,” Rose cuts in.

“—And you’re not just saying this so we don’t kill you…”

“Which I’m not.”

Damon sighs, “Then… we’re looking at a solid maybe?”

“Look,” Stefan says, going to sit next to Elena, “Elijah’s dead so no one else even knows you exist.”

This makes you look up, unless these idiots found a white oak stake, Elijah was not dead, he was simply resting and he’d be pissed when he got back. You only hoped that he’d stay clear of you, you still held a soft spot for the man and you didn’t want to rat him out, but you would if you had to.

“Not that you know of,” Rose adds.

“That’s not helping…” Damon mutters.

“I’ve never even met anyone who has laid eyes on him, we’re talking centuries of truth mixed with fiction!” Stefan argues, “For all we know he could just be some sort of stupid bedtime story…” he looks at Elena, trying to reassure her that she’s safe.

Rose scoffs, “He’s real and he doesn’t give up. If he wants something, he gets it.” Well ain’t that the truth.

“If you’re not afraid of Klaus then you’re an idiot.” Rose adds. Also true.

“Well, what about you little sister?” Damon asks, gesturing to you, “You ever heard of Klaus?”

“No.” Yes. “I doubt he’s even real.” He’s very real.

“You mentioned you traveled a lot,” Stefan looks at you, “You’ve never heard of the original vampires?”

“Never.”

1870

New Orleans

You had showered off all of the blood, trying to rid yourself of the horrible memory. Why was it that vampires seemed to be everywhere you went? And now you were staying in a house with not one, but four vampires.

Sighing, you get out of the shower and change into the outfit Elijah had provided for you, it was a simple night gown, reaching past your knees. You find your way to the guest room that Elijah had shown you and curl into the bed, unable to sleep. You stay in that position all night, not getting even a wink of rest.

When morning comes, you make your way downstairs to the living room, “Elijah?” you call out softly, knowing that he’d be able to hear even the faintest of whispers.

There’s a whoosh behind you causing you to spin around on your heel, expecting to see Elijah but you don’t. A man stands by the couch, smirking.

”I see my brother has taken to copying me. Bringing home his very own charity case,” the man announces as he drops down on the couch to sit, urging you to sit down as well, you do in fear of upsetting him.

You fidget with your hands out of nervousness and he cracks a smile.

“No need to be scared, love. I’m Klaus…” he holds a hand out for you to take and you do, rather reluctantly.

When you don’t say anything, he continues, “Did my brother say something about me?”

You shake your head, “No, not you.”

“Oh? Not me? Did he say anything about my other siblings, do tell me. I’m just dying to know.”

You look around the room before turning back to him, “He said I should be careful around Kol…”

“Ah, my little brother, yes, he can be quite reckless… and rather… insatiable…”

“Are you talking badly about me to our new guest?” a voice that you assume belongs to Kol fills the room.

Klaus clicks his tongue, holding back a laugh, “No, no, little brother. Simply warning the girl of your tendencies…”

Kol scoffs, before leaning over the back of the couch, his chin practically touching your shoulder as he whispers to you, “Don’t listen to him, darling… or Elijah for that matter.”

You jump a bit and tilt your head away from him, inadvertently giving the vampire easy access to your neck. He chuckles and surprisingly, leans away.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Kol! Elijah already said you’re to leave her alone!” a blonde girl comes bouncing into the room, pulling Kol further away from you.

In a flash she’s in front of you, holding her hand out for you to take, “I’m Rebekah! It’ll be nice to have another girl around!”

She then looks you up and down, taking in your current outfit, “Now this just won’t do, come now,” she reaches her other hand out for you and when you take it she pulls you off of the couch.

She quickly begins to pull you towards the stairs just as Elijah comes back into the room, he sighs upon seeing you and his sister.

“Do not overwhelm the poor girl, Rebekah.”

“Relax Elijah, I’m only going to get her a change of clothes… and we must do something with this hair!” she twirls a piece of your hair.

And with that, Rebekah practically drags you up to her room.

“Sit.” she guides you to a vanity chair, “You’ve got gorgeous features but this hair… this dress… they are not doing you any favors…”

Your face flushes, “Oh, I haven’t had much money for clothing let alone food… It's been hard to find work and I never really learned how to do my own hair… my brother used to do it for me and he’d allow me to braid his… I just can’t seem to do so when it’s my own head.”

Rebekah smiles softly, “You needn’t worry, I have plenty of options for you!” she rushes to her closet, opening it to reveal a plethora of different dresses.

She holds up a gown with a bit of lace detailing that goes up to the neck, “This will do nicely. Much better than this night gown…” she says as she brushes the sleeve of the dress you currently wore.

She hands you the gown, “Go now,” she points to the bathrooom, “get dressed and I’ll do your hair!”

You do as she says and come back, having her help you tie the back.

“Now, let’s fix this hair.” she pushes you back down into the chair, “Would you like a braid?”

You nod, “That would be lovely…”

Rebekah hums, “You said your brother used to do your hair… Where is he now?”

Your eyes widen a bit before you look down, “Oh, uhm, he’s dead… That’s why I ran from home…”

“You’re a runaway?”

You crack a smile, trying to be as confident as possible, “Was my ratty appearance and lack of cash not enough to give that away?”

Rebekah chuckles, “I suppose… were you always poor?” she asks, nonchalantly.

“Oh Heavens no. My family was very wealthy… the wealthiest family in our town. My father was a landowner.”

“You didn’t think to take any money before running?” She raises a brow.

“I was only eleven at the time and had just witnessed… something awful…” you take a deep breath, you hadn’t ever spoken about this out loud, “I needed to get away.”

Rebekah frowns, dropping your hair, “Elijah said you’re seventeen, you’ve been on your own for six years?”

You nod and Rebekah’s frown deepens, “That’s a long time to be alone… that must have been awful.”

“I’ve managed,” you shrug, “I went back once, a week after I had left when I got second thoughts… I found out that my father had also passed. I came across a newspaper, they believed that someone had killed my father and taken me…”

“He was killed?”

You hum, and Rebekah picks up your hair again.

“Did they ever catch his killer?”

“No… but I have a suspicion it was a vampire.”

“Why would you think that?” she asks as she finishes your braid.

“His head was nearly ripped off.”

A few days later, Klaus found you. Elijah was dealing with other matters so he wasn’t there to monitor his brother's behavior.

You were alone when he found you, in the kitchen. Baking was something that you enjoyed doing at your old home and after running away you hadn’t been able to. Elijah welcomed you to use the kitchen and bake whatever you’d like, saying he wanted to make sure you felt comfortable during your stay.

“Not too broken up about your father being murdered?”

The sudden voice causes you to jump, spilling the cup of sugar you were holding.

“You startled me,” you sigh, beginning to clean up the sugar.

“You’re easy to frighten,” in a second, Klaus is directly next to you, making you yelp, he smirks, “Now answer the question.”

“What?”

“Your father…” he practically circles you, “You think a vampire killed him? You didn’t seem too sad about it.”

“I… it was six years ago… wait, you were listening when I was talking to Rebekah?”

Klaus hums, “Six years is not that long,” he ignores your question, besides, you already knew the answer. “Well, to a vampire at least. I suppose I could buy that if your heart wasn’t racing.”

You let out a breath, “Klaus—“

“Yes yes, I know Elijah has told you to stay clear of me even if you deny it…”

“That’s not—“

“You didn’t like your father!” he exclaims, making your eyes widen, “I’ve figured it out, huh? What was so awful about the man? Do tell.”

You scowl, you knew you shouldn’t mouth off to the vampires but Klaus was testing your patience, “Not that it’s any of your business but, he… he killed my brothers.”

“Brothers? Plural? Interesting, you only mentioned one to Rebekah. You’re lying to us now?”

“I- No! I only mentioned the one that did my hair! I didn’t lie!”

“Withholding the truth then,” he smirks.

You sigh, “Elijah knows everything already, I’ve told him everything. I haven’t lied, both my brothers fell for a vampire- my father got involved…” tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes, “…he ended up killing them both… I assume the vampire- that she got away, that she killed my father… that’s why I’ve been alone.” tears begin to stain your cheeks.

You sniffle, rubbing at your eyes when the door opens. Klaus has a sheepish expression when Elijah enters the room.

“Niklaus,” he practically hisses, “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I simply asked the girl a few questions!”

Elijah narrows his eyes, “I’m sure.”

You went upstairs and stayed there for the rest of the day, trying to avoid everyone. You were deep in thought when Kol’s voice startled you.

“My brother made you cry? He does tend to have that effect on women.”

Kol chuckles, and you turn to see him leaning against the doorframe of the room Elijah has you staying in. Your eyes widen and you turn your back to him, probably not your best move considering he’s a vampire but Elijah had told you to stay away. It was bad enough that you had spoken to him earlier but at least then his siblings were around, now you truly were alone.

“Like I said darling, you needn't be scared.”

“Elijah told me not to speak with you, he wouldn’t have told me that for no reason.”

Kol scoffs, “He’s always so dramatic.”

You don’t respond and Kol sighs, “I’ll go if you want, I simply wanted to make sure Nik didn’t upset you too badly… you’re too pretty to be upset over him.”

You blush, he sounds genuine but you couldn’t trust it. You also didn’t want to upset Elijah, he was the one who was giving you a home after all. He could easily kick you out and back onto the street to fend for yourself.

“I’d just like to be left alone… please.”

You hummed mindlessly in the kitchen, swaying while you baked. It had been three months since the Mikaelsons had allowed you into their home, Elijah promised he would find you your own home soon enough but he had been so busy with other duties.

You didn’t mind, you had grown used to living in their home. Ironically, living in the house of deadly original vampires had been the safest you had ever felt. The Mikaelsons had completely changed your opinion of vampires in just a few, short months. Rebekah had become a close friend of yours, Klaus had stopped his frequent questioning and began to see you as a friend (he never apologized but you knew he felt bad when he gifted you a necklace), and Kol… well… Kol was complicated.

After he had checked on you that day, you became curious about him. Elijah’s warnings only did so much to curb your curiosity. At first you had listened, avoided Kol at all costs but there was just something about him that kept pulling you in.

You would often find your mind wandering back to him. His face, his hair, his eyes, his cheshire-like grin…

Kol was determined to get you to break your walls down, he would find you all the time, whether you were painting like Nik had taught you, braiding your hair like Rebekah, or even just laying in your bed. He would find you and you’d just chat.

You brought up Kol to Elijah once, you wanted to know what was so horrible about him because when he was with you, he was sweet. Elijah wouldn’t give you a clear answer, just reminded you that he was dangerous. You wouldn’t mention how much time you had begun to spend with Kol to Elijah, in fear of making him upset.

But he found out, just like you knew he would.

“Miss Y/N, may I speak with you?” Elijah asks as he enters the kitchen.

You turn to look at him, just having finished the dough for the cookies you were making, “Of course, Elijah.”

“I notice you have become quite close with Kol as of late.”

You gulp, looking down, feeling guilty, Elijah had asked one thing of you and you weren’t even able to do that.

“I’m sorry, I know I—“

Elijah holds up his hand to silence you, “Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and Elijah lowers his hand, “I’ve never seen my little brother care for someone like he cares for you… especially after such a short amount of time. You… you’re good for him. He’s changed… so no more of this sneaking around like children,” he waves his hand to gesture around.

Your face flushes, “Oh we’re not… we’re just… we’re not together…”

Elijah smirks, giving you a knowing look, “I never said anything about a relationship.”

1871

New Orleans

“What are you reading?” Kol asks as he drops onto the couch, sitting next to you.

“Frankenstein,” you hum, not bothering to look up from the book, turning a page.

Kol nods, “I’ve heard of that one…”

You two sit in silence for a moment before Kol sighs dramatically. You close your eyes, composing yourself when Kol sighs again. You mark your page and close the book, finally turning to look at him.

“What Kol?”

He shrugs, “I’m bored.”

“Bored?”

“Very.”

You sigh, “Can I at least finish my chapter before we go off to cause whatever chaos you have planned?”

Kol rolls his eyes, “Fine,” he draws out the word.

Just as you’re about to pick up the book again, Kol drops his head into your lap, laying across the couch.

You tense up immediately, “Kol. What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to finish your chapter, darling,” he mumbles, “Your thighs are very comfortable.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to relax, it wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his touch or him being this close, it was that it made you nervous. You were falling for Kol, you knew you were and every touch, no matter how small, made you nervous. Touching was common with Kol, you had a feeling it was how he showed affection.

It didn’t take long for you to finish your chapter, “Kol,” you say quietly but get no response.

Your brows furrow and you look closer at him in your lap, he was breathing evenly, his eyes closed. He was asleep. He looked peaceful, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he looked innocent and angelic.

You weighed your options, you could wake him up and put distance between the two of you… or you could let him sleep, curled in your lap, while you read another chapter.

You decided on the second option and it definitely had nothing to do with the fact you wanted to keep him so close.

It was calm, everything about the moment was so domestic. You wished you could stay here forever, reading a novel while an original vampire laid asleep on you as you brushed your fingers through his hair.

Unfortunately, no nice thing could last.

The door to the compound flung open, angry footsteps filling the silence.

“Niklaus, wait a moment. Let us think about this.”

“There is nothing to think about!”

Kol tenses in your lap at the loud voices, stirring in his sleep. He sits up, forcing the sleep from his eyes.

Klaus enters the living room, glaring daggers at you. You don’t seem to pick up on his angry gaze, “Did you get it?” you ask excitedly.

You had mentioned a few weeks ago that your mother had a cookbook that contained all of your family's recipes. After she died, the book remained in the study of the boarding house. You were sad, you wanted the book back because you couldn’t remember any of the recipes and Elijah had offered to go get it for you.

You told him not to be ridiculous and that he’d have to travel the whole way to Mystic Falls to get it, he seemed to tense a bit at the name but insisted nonetheless. So you told him about the boarding house and where he would find it, Klaus insisted on accompanying him.

“Yes.” Klaus answers coldly, dropping the book onto the coffee table.

You squeal and lean forward grabbing the book, “Thankyou!” you begin to flip through it, “You have no idea how much this means to me…” you look up, trailing off when you finally notice the look on Klaus’ face.

“We found something else too,” his tone is detached as he tosses a picture onto the coffee table.

You recognized the photo instantly, it had been taken shortly after Katherine arrived in Mystic Falls. It was of you, Stefan, and Katherine. The three of you had smiles on your faces, though, it was obvious Katherine’s was fake.

“Her,” he points to Katherine.

“What?”

“Don't play dumb with me,” Klaus practically growls, “This is the vampire you mentioned?”

You gulp, nodding, “I- yes, that’s Katherine…”

“Katherine?” Elijah muses, “Is that the name she’s using now?”

You didn’t miss the subtle way that Kol slid forward on the couch, or the way he placed his hand on your thigh, attempting to hide you behind his arm, to shield you from Klaus’ fury.

“Where is she?” Klaus keeps his gaze locked onto you.

“I don’t know… I haven’t seen her since I ran from home…”

Kol squeezes your thigh to try and calm you down, to reassure you that he wouldn’t let Klaus hurt you even if he tried. You were grateful for him and Elijah, Klaus was impulsive at times, especially if he thought he was being betrayed.

After a considerable amount of time, Klaus had calmed down. He and Elijah explained the story of Katerina to you, how she had escaped her death, and how Klaus wanted her to be scared before he killed her. How he wanted her to suffer.

Just like last time, Klaus didn’t apologize, the day after you found three books on your nightstand, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and Les Miserables.

A few weeks had passed since the Mikaelsons found out about your history with Katherine. And you all went on with life like nothing had happened, Klaus would occasionally ask about Katherine and you would always answer his questions. Katherine was why your brothers were dead. Katherine was the reason you hated vampires. And the Mikaelsons were the reason you didn’t anymore.

“My mother used to make these when I was little… this is actually her recipe- well, my great grandmother's recipe,” you tell Kol as he watches you close the pizzelle iron.

He hums, reaching for one that’s cooling, “In all my life, I’ve never had one of these…”

Your eyes light up, “Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you this! I know you eat my baked goods… but does human food actually taste good to you?”

Kol tilts his head, “I’ve told you numerous times, darling, you’re an excellent baker…”

“But that’s not what I asked, I wish to know if you enjoy them…”

“Your treats are delectable… as are you,” Kol flirts, leaning closer.

Your face heats up at his comment, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Kol Mikaelson.”

“No?” he raises a brow, his face just inches from yours.

“Well, maybe somewhere…” you whisper, your gaze flickers to his lips.

He smirks, “And where would that be?”

“You tell me…”

The tension between the two of you was thick, it had been for a few months now but nothing had come of it. The two of you danced around each other and your obvious feelings, Rebekah would tease you about it, often remarking on how you could do better than her brother.

Just as his lips were about to brush against yours he pulled back, “Darling…”

“Yes, Kol?”

“The iron.”

Your eyes widen and you quickly turn back to the pizzelle iron, standing up from your chair, opening it quickly, coughing a bit as the smoke hits you directly in the face. You use the tongs to toss the burnt cookies onto the cooling rack as Kol doubles over in laughter.

You glare at him, before letting out a small laugh, “You distracted me! This is your fault!”

He smirks, standing up to his full height, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close, “I’m a distraction?”

“Yes… you are.”

He presses a kiss to your temple and hums, “Too bad you’re stuck with me…”

You pull away a bit to look up at him, “You think?”

Kol stares at you, debating internally about what to say, “I think… no, I know,” he takes a deep breath, “…that I have completely fallen in love with you, Y/N Salvatore…”

A smile appears on your face, “Well I know that I am utterly in love with you as well, Kol Mikaelson…”

He smiles before capturing your lips in a soft but passionate kiss. The arm around your waist tightens, he pulls you impossibly close and you loop your arms around his neck.

A low whistle followed by clapping causes the two of you to break apart, Kol didn’t let you get too far though, still keeping his hand on your waist.

“Took you long enough,” Klaus smirks.

You cover your face with your face with your hands, completely embarrassed but Kol just seems annoyed by the interruption.

“Is there something you need Nik?” Kol asks, rolling his eyes.

“I was just wondering what that burning smell was, wouldn’t want our lovely home to burn down. But I see now our little baker was just… preoccupied…”

“Rebekah!” Klaus shouts, causing your eyes to widen.

“Nik no!” you retort, peaking through your fingers, but you knew it was too late.

“What the bloody hell do you want now?” Rebekah asks as she walks into the room.

Klaus smirks and then gestures towards you and Kol by tilting his head. Rebekah immediately notices the hand around your waist and gasps.

“Finally! I thought you two would be dancing around each other forever!” she squeals.

“What is all this shouting about?” Elijah asks, entering the room while adjusting his cufflinks.

Kol pinches the bridge of his nose before leaning over to whisper to you, fully aware his siblings could still hear him, “It’s like they all come out of the woodwork at the most inopportune times…”

Elijah spots the cooling racks of pizzelles and makes his way over, immediately picking up one of the burnt cookies. He holds it up and raises a brow at you, waiting for an answer.

Klaus begins to cackle, speeding over to Elijah to take the charred cookie from him, “Brother, Y/N got distracted…” he points at Kol, “the distraction.”

Elijah lets out a little chuckle, clearly amused, “Yes, well, try not to get distracted in the kitchen… we eat in here.”

1872

New Orleans

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Kol holds your face in his hands.

“More than anything… I want to be with you.”

Kol chuckles, “My darling, you’re already with me, you already have me.”

He takes your hands and places them over his heart, “This dead heart belongs to you.”

You giggle a bit at his words and he smiles before frowning, “I just… I don’t want you to think you have to do this for me…”

You smile softly, “I know, but this is what I want, I promise…”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve already had my witches make you a ring… a gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl, my gorgeous girl…”

You giggle again and pull him in for a kiss which he quickly reciprocates. After a moment he forces himself to pull away. He scoots til his back is against the headboard then pulls you so you’re sitting with your back against his chest.

Kol brings his wrist to his mouth, fangs protruding and bites into his own flesh before holding his wrist near your mouth for you to take. Both your hands grab onto him, pulling his wrist as close to your mouth as physically possible and begin to drink from him.

He groans at the sensation and brushes some of the hair from your face, “Atta girl… that’s it… just a little more… good…”

When Kol decides you’ve had enough he pulls away, chuckling at the way you try to follow his now healing wrist, “My, my, already so bloodthirsty…”

You look up at him and pout, some of his blood dripping from your lips. He could get used to sight of you and blood, his two favorite things, together. He gives you another kiss, tasting his own blood from your mouth.

Pulling back, he sighs, “This is the part I don’t like.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek, “You’re the only one I’d trust to do this… it’s okay, my love, it’s what I want.”

Reluctantly, Kol brings his hand up to your neck, “I love you, my darling.”

“I love you… now please, kill me.”

He winces at the sound of your neck breaking, squeezing his eyes shut. He lays in your bed, holding your body, brushing the hair from your face while softly humming until you wake up.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

You stare at your daylight ring, spinning it on your finger.

“Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” Damon snaps his fingers in front of your face to gain your attention.

You jump and look at him and then at Stefan, now noticing that Elena left.

“Are you alright?” Stefan asks, tilting his head.

“I’m fine… just… lost in thought.”

Damon’s gaze stays focused on your ring, “Is that your daylight ring?”

You hum, looking up at him and then at Stefan, before holding your hand up to show off the ring, “I know, it’s not nearly as gaudy as yours.”

Stefan chuckles but Damon narrows his eyes, “It’s not a wedding ring,” he notes.

“No…” you state but it sounds more like a question.

“So the guy can ask you to die and be forced to drink blood for the rest of eternity but he can’t get down on one knee and pop the question?”

“Damon…” Stefan sighs, they had just gotten you back and he was worried that all of Damon’s passive aggressive comments were going to drive you away again.

You scoff, “He didn’t ask me to do anything, it was my choice. I wanted this. We… we didn’t need to be married to be in love… it just wasn’t the right time for a wedding anyways…”

Stefan seems a little shocked, “You asked him to turn you?”

Before you can respond to Stefan, Damon interrupts, “This was your first boyfriend?”

“He was my first everything,” you state matter-of-factly.

Both Stefan and Damon groan in disgust at your words and the implication of them.

You roll your eyes, “Oh grow up.”

Stefan stands up, “And on that note, I’m going to school… make sure Elena’s okay…”

You fake pout, “You don’t wanna hang out with your sister after not seeing her for so long?”

“That’s not—“

You cut him off, “Relax Stef, I’m kidding. Go.”

He gives you a curt nod and heads out of the room, leaving you alone with Rose and Damon. You almost forgot Rose was here, she had been quiet ever since she had finished her speech about Klaus. Damon gives Rose a look and she nods, leaving the room.

“I thought you hated vampires,” Damon states, taking the spot on the couch where Stefan once was.

“I did… until I met him.” Them.

Damon stays quiet for a moment, his eyes soften a bit, “This guy must have been special.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He was… I really loved him, Damon. I really do still love him…”

Your brother sighs, scooching closer to you on the couch. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to him.

“I am happy to have you back, you know… it’s just… you’re not the same kid I left behind, you’ve grown so much, to me you’re still the little girl whose hair I used to braid…”

“It’s okay, Day… I get it… I do,” you smile, using the nickname you used to call him as a child.

He ruffles your hair, “Why don’t we go out, I’ll show you around town… it’s practically the same, just modern.”

“I… uhm…” you sigh, “I’m tired to be honest, I traveled a long way to get here… and I think all the ‘excitement’ just made me even more tired…”

He nods, “Alright, I’m assuming you want your same room, you remember where it is?”

You stand up from the couch, “How could I forget?”

You leave Damon on the couch, making your way to the stairs. You take note of Rose who was standing near the kitchen doorway, she had clearly been listening to your conversation. There was no such thing as privacy with vampires.

Your room was exactly as you had left it, you could tell that no one had even entered the room in years. If you had to guess, you’d say that the last ones to enter were Klaus and Elijah— they had also retrieved your favorite teddy bear on their mission to get the cook book. There was dust floating around and cobwebs everywhere. You let out a sigh just as Damon makes his way up the stairs to you, he must have remembered the state of your room.

“No one’s been in there since…”

“I know,” you cut him off.

“We didn’t want to disturb it…”

You sigh, “Can I just… have another room for now?”

He nods and leads you down the hall to one of the guest rooms that had been maintained over the years, “I can get you extra blankets? Extra pillows?”

You shake your head, walking further into the room and sit on the bed, “This is fine.”

”Alright, well, I’ll let you sleep,” as he’s about to leave, his hand goes to the light switch to turn it off.

In a second, you’re off of the bed. You grab his hand causing him to groan in pain, you were sure you broke fingers but you didn’t care. You couldn’t let him turn off the light.

“Ow!”

You let go after a second, “I… I’m sorry…” you mumble.

“Jesus! If you didn’t want it off you could have said that!” he waves his hand around, wincing as his fingers snap themselves back into place.

You just blink at him, and he sighs, “Just get some rest.”

He reaches for the door this time, you grab it as it’s about to close and he stops, “Yeah?”

“Don’t close the door.”

Damon raises a brow, “You want the light on and the door open?”

You nod, “Please…”

“You can sleep like that?”

“It’s the only way I can sleep.”

Damon goes to open his mouth, but quickly shuts it, deciding that for once in his life he should just be quiet. He nods and leaves it at that, you let out of a sigh when goes, dropping down onto the guest bed.

You want to close your eyes but you can’t. It’s too dark.

Stefan eventually returns and finds Damon sipping on bourbon as usual.

“Our sister is strange,” Damon announces the second Stefan steps foot in the door.

Stefan sighs, “Alright, I’ll bite. What happened?”

Damon sets down his glass, “She’s upstairs, sleeping.”

“Okay?”

“With the door open, the curtains open, and the light on.”

“Damon, just leave it alone.”

The older Salvatore scoffs, “Come on Stefan, that’s weird.”

Stefan shrugs, “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just said to leave it alone. We just got her back, literally today and if you keep pushing like you always do, you’re going to push her away. Again.”

“Don’t act like this is all on me. We both pushed her away… pushed her right into the arms of some scummy vampire and now she’s stuck like us. Well, at least it sounds like she actually got to make that choice.”

“I thought we were past that,” Stefan lets out a humourless chuckle.

“We’ll never be past that.”

“I was just joking before about you two constantly fighting…” you mumble as you walk down the stairs.

Damon smirks, “Stefan loves to bicker.”

You raise a brow, “So it’s only Stefan then?”

You swiftly make your way across the room to the bourbon and grab a glass, you turn to Damon, “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Humming, you pour yourself a glass, looking at Damon over the rim of the cup, “You and Rose woke me up earlier, safe to say I’m disgusted…” This was a lie, you never fell asleep in the first place.

Damon rolls his eyes, “Now who needs to grow up?”

Stefan sighs and takes that as his que to cut in, “You sleep well? Besides that…”

You take a sip of the alcohol before responding, “Like a baby.”

Another lie, you hadn’t slept ‘like a baby’ since 1914.

1914

New Orleans

“He’ll never let us leave, he’ll never let us be happy.” Kol holds you tightly in his arms, “This is the only way…” he pulls back to hold your face in his hands, “I’ll find the diamond, my witches will do what we need, and then we will leave this place, my love. I want to show you the world, just as you wish but we can’t do that with him looming over us.”

You swallow, “I am tired of watching him hurt you… all of you.”

“And I do not want him to ever hurt you.“

Klaus had been a friend to you over the years but the one thing you disagreed on was how he handled his siblings. It broke your heart to watch any of them be daggered and put away in those wretched boxes for however long he deemed necessary. It drove a rift in between the two of you and you knew Kol was right, with how tightly of a leash Klaus kept on Kol, it was only a matter of time before Klaus saw Kol as a threat and daggered him again.

Besides, it wouldn’t be killing Nik. It would just be giving him a taste of his own medicine for once.

“Okay…”

“Okay?”

You nod and Kol lets out a small chuckle, half smiling at you, he presses his lips to yours.

Pulling back, he looks you up and down, “All you have to do is look pretty, which is an easy task for you considering you always look gorgeous.”

He takes your hand and has you do a twirl, admiring the way your dress moves as you spin, “Absolutely stunning.”

You roll your eyes, giggling as he spins you right into his arms, “Always such a charmer.”

“Only for you…” he presses a kiss to your head, “You head down to the party I’ll be right there.”

You hum, connecting your lips one last time before heading downstairs, blending into the crowd around you. Soon after, Kol would make his way downstairs, he snuck up behind you, placing his hands on your hips and whispering into your ear.

“Rebekah knows but do not fret… she’s going to help us.”

Only she wouldn’t, Rebekah ran straight to Klaus and told him everything.

All of you were currently on the stairs, posed for a family photograph. Kol had his arm wrapped securely around your waist when Klaus raised his glass, taping the side of it with a knife to attract the attention of everyone in the room. He starts by thanking those invited for attending but then makes a special toast to Rebekah.

He looks at you and Kol while speaking, “It is especially gratifying in times when treachery runs deep to know you have someone you can trust…” he turns back to face Rebekah, smiling at her, “A toast, to you, my sister.”

Kol tenses, the two of you share a look and quickly begin to make your way up the stairs. You make it to the top of the stairs before Kol does and just as he’s about to join you, Elijah speeds in front of him. Elijah grabs Kol’s arms, successfully detaining him as Klaus slowly walks up the stairs. You’re frozen in place, unsure what to do and Kol looks at you. He knows this will be the last time he sees you for a very long time so he decides to commit your features to memory. He regrets not asking you for a dance earlier.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I do apologize for the disturbance! But, what’s a Mikaelson party without a little squabble…?” He reveals a silver dagger.

“Y/N run!” Kol shouts and you listen.

You rush away making Klaus sigh, looking at Rebekah over his shoulder, “Catch her,” he commands.

Kol looks at his sister, a pleading look in his eyes as he struggles in Elijah’s hold— watching her run after you, knowing that it would be near impossible for you to outrun her.

You hear Kol’s pained scream as Klaus shoves the dagger into his heart, trying to fight your tears as you run. You were outside when Rebekah caught you, slamming you into the wall.

“Bekah please…”

Her eyes scan your face, your fear, your grief, and she loosens her hold, “I have never had a true friend until you, Y/N… please… forgive me for what I am about to do.”

Rebekah takes your face in her hands, staring into your eyes and you begin to panic, knowing what is about to happen.

“You promised you’d never do that! All of you did! That you’d never take my choice away!” you fight against her.

“Look at me,” her voice becomes hypnotic and you find yourself unable to look away from her eyes, “You’re going to forget Kol, you’re going to forget that you were ever in love with him. You’ve never even heard his name. You are going to forget all about Elijah and… me. All you will know regarding the Mikaelson family is that you have to keep running from Klaus. You don’t stop, you don’t stay in one place for long, you keep running.”

Your eyes have completely glazed over, pupils dilated, “I keep running from Klaus…”

Rebekah pulls back from you, staring at you as your eyes go back to normal, “Y/N?”

“I… I’m sorry, do I know you? I… nevermind that I need to get going, I’m sorry again,” you say, walking past her before using your speed to get farther away.

Rebekah lets out a shaky breath, knowing that Klaus will not believe that you were able to outrun her. She brings her own hands to her neck and snaps it, falling to the ground.

Maybe he’d believe that.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

A few days had passed since your arrival in Mystic Falls, while everything had seemingly calmed down a bit, there was still the looming presence of Klaus.

You had been briefly involved with their plan of getting the moonstone from Katherine, you knew it wouldn’t do them any good and it was clear they were grasping at straws to try and save the doppelgängers life. After contacting him, he told you to just continue on as is so you wouldn’t raise suspicion. You had witnessed Elena’s attempt at a self-sacrifice play, which she failed at terribly due to your brother's intervention… and Elijah’s.

Damon was incredibly annoyed when he found out Elijah was still alive. And after a lot of back and forth and changing of plans, you managed to convince Damon to let you accompany him to the bar to confront Jules. You refused to be on babysitting duty with Jeremy.

You made it your mission to avoid Elijah, knowing that if you saw him you’d end up telling Klaus in fear of him interfering with their plan. You already knew that Elena and her group of friends would try to interfere but you could handle them - you had plans. Caroline was meant to be the vampire… but you had plenty of options for a vampire, maybe even your own brothers. Tyler Lockwood was a werewolf, but you needed a backup, which is the whole reason you went to the bar with Damon. You wanted to get an idea about Jules so that it would be easier to get her.

Jules was smart, she wouldn’t drink the wolfsbane and she instantly knew what you and Damon were. That wouldn’t matter, you knew when it came down to it - you’d be able to capture her with ease. You backed down from the argument, not wanting to fight in the middle of the bar but Damon didn’t. He kept pushing just like he always did.

That brought you to where you were now, back at the boarding house with Damon and Rose. The two were clearly having a moment so you decided to take a step back into the living room. Just as you do, a large wolf jumps through the window, slamming you into the ground. You hold its jaw, pushing its mouth away from you in fear of being bit.

“Damon!” you shriek, “A little help would be nice!”

Damon goes to the fireplace mantel, picking up a sword, taking a swing at the wolf. It lets out a pained sound and releases you- now going to attack Damon. Before it’s able to turn your brother into a chew toy, Rose jumps in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack. The werewolf sinks its teeth into her shoulder, infecting her with its deadly bite.

Your brother slashes the wolf once more and it takes off into the night, knowing it wouldn’t survive another hit from the blade. You let out a sigh of relief, turning to look at Damon and Rose.

“How bad is it?” Damon asks Rose, helping her off the ground to examine the bite.

“It hurts…” Rose whimpers.

You frown, already knowing what is going to happen, you knew of the false hope that she would get.

Damon’s eyes widen, “It’s healing!”

Rose tilts her head to look at her shoulder better, “Oh my God… I thought a werewolf bite was fatal!”

‘It is’ you want to say, to warn her of what is going to happen about how she’ll lose her mind. But you stay silent.

“I thought…” tears fill Rose’s eyes and Damon pulls her into his arms.

“You’re going to be okay…” he reassures her, giving you a look.

You press your lips together, nodding, leaving the room to give them their moment once more. Allowing them to live in a fantasy where Rose would be okay.

You made the decision to disappear for a few days, leaving your brothers and Elena to deal with Rose. Both of them left numerous messages on your phone.

“This is what? Call two hundred and twenty four? You’re really not going to answer them?” Klaus muses.

You sigh, shaking your head, “No. I’m not. They just want help with Rose… I don’t… I don’t want to see her like that, losing her mind… I’ve seen that happen too many times before.”

Klaus hums, “Let me guess, you’re going to ask for my blood to heal her?”

“No,” you shake your head, “She needs to die, she knows too much about you and your family, she’s a threat… besides she’s probably dead now.”

“Our family,” Klaus corrects.

You continue, ignoring him, “I just thought she’d die with a stake in her heart not from going insane.”

“Still sensitive.”

You choose to ignore his comment once again, playing the latest voicemail left by Stefan.

“Y/N, I don’t know where you are or why you left… I’m worried though… about you, about Elena… I miss you… can you please come home? Listen, Rose is dead and Damon is doing what he does best— deflecting. He’s got this new girl… Andie Star I think? I- I don’t know what happened that night, maybe you got bit too? I really hope not… Maybe you got scared… you ran… just please at least call me if you’re not going to come home… I need to know you’re okay. I love you.”

“I presume you’re going back now?”

You nod and Klaus smirks, “Excellent… I’ll be making my appearance soon.”

By time you arrived back in Mystic Falls, Elijah had been ‘dealt with’ as Damon put it. That made you anxious, you doubted they had found a white oak stake but the only alternative was a dagger, and that thought made your stomach churn.

Leaving had fractured the trust you built between your brothers, you knew it would but that was fine with you. The less you knew regarding Elijah, the better. You told them the truth, that you knew Rose was going to die - painfully and out of her mind. Damon was angry that you didn’t tell them and Stefan understood.

There was also the little fact that Katherine had been released of her compulsion. You had to admit, you were a tad anxious she’d find a way to Klaus and find out about your deal. If she ratted you out to Stefan and Damon, every part of your perfectly calculated plan would be ruined. Hopefully, Klaus would be enough to distract your brothers from you so they wouldn’t get too suspicious.

It was no secret that Niklaus Mikaelson liked making an entrance and being as you were currently not getting all the intel since they still didn’t trust you fully— Klaus decided to use one of his favorite tricks which you suggested. Body possession.

On the night of the school dance, Klaus possessed Alaric's body, revealing himself to Bonnie and Elena with dramatic flair and then he killed the Benett witch— at least that’s what you two thought.

The truth of Bonnie’s fate would be revealed on the night of the ritual when she showed up to kill Klaus with the help of Elijah.

Elijah had dug his hand into Klaus’ chest and you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t fight Elijah, that was one fight you’d certainly lose, not to mention Bonnie and all of the others being there, they’d stop you before you could lay a hand on him.

Klaus looked at you, silencing your fears with one glance before looking back to Elijah and confessing the truth, “I didn’t bury them at sea.”

His gaze flickered to you and Elijah looked to where his brother was, he hadn’t seen you in so long but still, he trusted you, so when you nod your head ever so slightly… he believes Klaus.

Two days had passed since the ritual and Klaus was now a hybrid. You had spent those two days following Elijah through the woods, cleaning up Klaus’ mess.

In fact, that’s where you currently are. It had been practically silent between the two of you, neither of you wanting to start the conversation, after all it had been nearly a hundred years. That was until you decided to open your mouth after arriving at another camp that had been ripped apart.

You move a body and scoff, “He’s not even draining them. He’s killing for sport.”

Elijah hums, “You sound shocked, you should know by now this behavior is expected of Niklaus.”

“He’s wasting perfectly good snacks,” you grumble as you throw the body to Elijah who catches it with ease.

“You’re thirsty?”

“No, Elijah, I’m annoyed,” you throw your hands up, walking closer to him, “It’s been two days since the full moon, why is he still a wolf?”

“I don’t have the answer to that.”

“Okay, well, what if he’s stuck as a wolf? Hm? Then what? We’re going to put him on a leash and have him lead us to the coffins?”

Elijah lets out a chuckle, “While that image is amusing, I’m sure he’ll be turning back soon.”

You sigh and go back to cleaning up the bodies in silence, when you’re done you both continue to follow the trail that Klaus was leaving behind, you had no doubt you’d soon run into more bodies.

“What have you been up to for the past century?” Elijah asks, walking so close that your arms brush against each other.

You come to a stop, and it takes Elijah a moment to stop and turn back, looking at you slightly confused.

“Are you serious? I was trapped, Elijah, and when I wasn’t trapped I was running from him,” you jab your finger into his chest, “from you.”

Elijah looks down at you, a frown on his face, “I haven’t been doing Niklaus’ bidding since he said he dropped all of them into the ocean… he implied that he had found you as well… that you were gone… I never did want to hurt you, Y/N.”

“Well it didn’t seem that way to me. I didn’t know that. I’ve spent the last century looking over my shoulder, not staying anywhere for more than a moment because I knew that no matter where I went, you, or him, or some minion of his would be waiting. And when I wasn’t running I was trapped… there… all alone…”

“Y/N—“

“I know what we did was unforgivable,” you say, taking a step away from him to continue following the trail and he follows, “but what he had planned for me was just cruel…”

“If it’s any consolation, none of us agreed with Niklaus’ ‘gift’.”

You let out a humorless laugh, “Is that what he called it?”

“Yes, it was intended to be given to you for your engagement… obviously you were shown sooner than intended… it was his disturbed way of welcoming you into the family officially.”

Your brows furrow, “What engagement?”

Elijah stops, seemingly realizing his mistake, “I apologize, I thought you knew… Kol…”

You stop and turn to him, “He was going to propose?” your voice breaks a bit as you will away your tears.

Elijah sighs, stopping to face you, “He had rings, new daylight rings… I do not know much of how he planned to propose, just that he planned to do it after the new year… You two had been together for so long I assume he thought it was time to ask…”

You blink a few times, before clearing your throat, “Let’s just find Klaus.”

He nods, continuing to follow the path, he can practically feel the emotions rolling off of you. Grief, sadness, anger, and even jealousy. Then there was the look on your face, the look of heartbreak. Even after all these years, he still hated to see you like this. He would always feel guilty, after all, he was the first one you met, the one who introduced you to everyone. He would forever feel at least somewhat responsible for your pain.

1869

New Orleans

It had been five years, nearly six since you ran from home, since your brothers were killed, and you were still having a hard time settling down. You found yourself in New Orleans, you loved everything about it, but there was one problem. It was hard to find work as a woman and even harder as a seventeen year old so you adapted to stealing.

You would wait by stands or alleyways and wait for the perfect target, you’d typically go for men who held their heads high as if they owned the world. Men who were so well dressed that you knew they had money to spare. Sometimes you’d even hang out near bars to find men stumbling around, too drunk to notice you taking their entire wallet.

It was late now, you were leaning against a wall when you saw him. A rather attractive man dressed in a fancy suit, you had no doubt that it had been tailor fitted to him. He begins to walk down the street, walking right past you, seemingly not noticing you. There weren’t as many people out now, normally you’d use the strangers during the day as cover but this man clearly had too much money for his good, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

As quietly as possible, you push yourself off the wall and follow behind him. You smirk when you see his wallet in his back pocket but just as your fingers graze what you assume is real leather, his hand snatches your wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You curse yourself for being so reckless. You swallow your pride and decide to try and flirt your way out. Men with the kind of money you knew he had, always enjoyed being flirted with, it boosts their already over-inflated egos.

You giggle while leaning a bit closer, “You’re even more handsome up close…”

He chuckles, “Is that so?”

“And this suit… it fits you so well…” you brush your hand along his chest.

“That’s very flattering…” he smiles, bringing his hand up to cup yours.

Hook. Line. Sinker. You had him.

“But I know what you’re doing.”

You did not have him.

Your smile fades away and you pull back from him. This had never happened before, most of the men were too dumb to figure it out (at least until they got home and found their wallets missing), it was just your luck that you’d try and rob the only smart guy around.

“How old are you?” He looks you up and down.

You gulp, “Seventeen, sir.”

He pulls his wallet from his pocket and holds it out to you, “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it, you want my wallet? Take it.”

With shaky hands, you reach for the wallet, it was embarrassing being caught like this but you needed the money.

“Thank you…” you trail off, realizing you hadn’t learned his name.

“Elijah Mikaelson.”

Your eyes widen at the name, you had heard of the Mikaelsons before. A rich, powerful family and there were whispers all around that they were the thing you hated most. Vampires.

He smirks at your reaction, “And you are?”

“Y/N.”

He nods and smiles but it quickly fades when he glances at his watch, “Well, Miss Y/N do try to stay safe… you never know who or what may be lurking in these streets, especially at this time of night.”

And just like that, he was gone. The next time you saw him was after the new year when he pulled a newly turned vampire off of you. You saw him a third time when this exact thing happened again, you didn’t know why but you it seemed you were practically vampire bait.

After these two incidents, Elijah decided it wasn't safe for you to be on the streets any longer and invited you to come stay with him for some time before he could find something more permanent. An idea you were not so eager about when he confirmed that he and his family were in fact, vampires. But you couldn’t pass up the offer when he was offering you an actual bed to sleep in and numerous necessities. Little did either of you know that the compound would become your permanent home.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

After your conversation you had fallen behind Elijah, walking slower to keep the distance. When he called out that he had found him, you hardly even picked up the pace.

“You’ve been busy…” Elijah remarks, leaning on a tree.

“That was… amazing.” You hear Klaus’ voice before you see him.

And when you do see him you groan, spinning around and closing your eyes, “You could have told me he was naked.”

“Did you think I was carrying around his clothes these past two days for fun?” Elijah raises a brow.

“It’s been two days?” Klaus asks, you can hear him shuffling around while getting dressed.

“Full moon came and went. You remained a wolf.” Elijah states but it’s more of a question.

“I can change at will then, that’s good to know.”

Klaus smiles and then chuckles, “I remember… every single kill.”

“Yes, we’ve been cleaning up your little mess along the way.” Elijah gestures between the two of you.

“Just like old times then.”

Elijah hums, and pushes off the tree, handing Klaus his boots, “Well, you’ve had your fun. I believe we have a bargain.”

“That’s right!” Klaus exclaims, leaning down to put on his boots, “Now what was it again? Oh yeah, wait, I remember, that’s it! You wish to be reunited with our family!”

“And you!” he shouts towards you, “You want your precious Kol back…”

You turn around, finally facing him, pleased to see that he has put his pants on. You want to say something but hold your tongue, there was a time where you weren’t afraid of him but now it felt that if you even stepped a toe out of line he’d hunt you down.

Elijah brushes off Klaus’ jacket, “You gave me your word, Niklaus.”

Klaus smiles, cheekily, “And what kind of brother would I be if I broke my bond… even if you did try and kill me.”

You sigh, and Elijah holds out Klaus’ jacket for him to put on, “I could have… but I didn’t.”

Klaus puts on his jacket and fixes the collar, “And now no one can,” he turns to face Elijah, “Relax, Elijah, all is forgiven.”

He smiles at you, “That applies to you as well, love. You have more than proved yourself loyal.”

“Where are they?” Elijah cuts in.

Klaus grins, patting his brother's arm, “You need to lighten up… I’ll bring you to them soon enough.”

He walks ahead of you and Elijah, the two of you sharing a look before you scoff and follow after the hybrid. He ends up taking you to Alaric's apartment, you feel a pit in your stomach knowing that Katherine is going to be there but you do your best to push it away.

“Look who decided to come for a visit.” Katherine gestures to Stefan as you, Klaus, and Elijah enter the apartment.

“I need your help.” Stefan states, his eyes flickering to you, wondering why the hell you’re with them, there was no way for you to know what had happened to Damon so that couldn’t be it.

Elijah shuts the door, and Stefan steps closer, “For my brother.” he then looks at you, “our brother.”

Klaus clicks his tongue, “Oh well, whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait a tick. You see, I have an obligation to my brother.” he points at Elijah. “And your sister…” he points at you.

“It requires my immediate attention.” Klaus brushes past Stefan.

You hug yourself, feeling anxious of the entire situation, it was bad enough that Katherine was here and now Stefan was too.

“You understand how important family is or you wouldn’t be here.” Elijah walks a bit closer to Stefan, “My brother gave me his word that he would reunite me with my family.”

“And so I shall.” Klaus speaks from behind Elijah, Elijah spins around to face his brother but it is too late, Klaus shoves a dagger through his heart.

You feel frozen when Elijah screams, tears begin to fill your eyes, you know what is about to come and there's no point in running because he’d just catch you. Rebekah wasn’t here this time to buy you time.

His body drops to the ground with a sickening thud, his skin completely grey and you knew you would not get the privilege of a quick death.

Klaus smiles at you and the tears begin to fall from your eyes.

“Please! I- I didn’t know about Elijah’s plan! I didn’t even know he was here! I only heard rumors! I swear! You said it yourself, Klaus- I’m loyal! I’ve proved it!”

Klaus shushes you and walks closer, your body doesn’t move, you’re rooted in your spot. He brings his hand up to hold your cheek and brushes a tear away, you shudder at the touch, letting out a sob.

“Loyal…?” Stefan questions, the floorboards creaking when he steps forward.

Klaus’ gaze immediately snaps to your brother, “Another step and I’ll rip her heart out.”

“She’s my sister-“

“All the more reason for you to stay put, Stefan.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before Stefan steps back. Klaus smirks, turning back to you. You tense up when he rests his hand on your neck, another sob wracks through your body.

“Don’t do this… I did what you asked! I found the doppelgänger! I found Elena! I called you as soon as I found her! Sure- Katherine found the werewolf but I made sure you had the backup one! And you needed the backup one! And- and using Alaric was my idea! I came up with that, it was perfect! You thought it was hilarious! I’ve helped you!”

Stefan’s brow furrows at your admission, his voice barely audible as he connects the dots, “You’re the reason he’s here… that’s… that’s why you came back to Mystic Falls to find us… not because you missed us, but because you’re helping him…” 

You don’t bother to look over to your brother, you felt bad for betraying his trust, for lying to him but he could never understand, you don’t say anything, it wouldn’t matter now.

You look up at Klaus with tears staining your cheeks, “I did everything right!” your voice falls to a whisper, “Don’t make me go back there, it’s dark, Nik, I hate the dark…”

“You know, I considered you family once, I treated you as such.”

“Please Nikkie… you gave me your word…I just want him back, you promised me!”

“Oh love…” Klaus brings his hand up to brush some of the hair from your face, “You have me confused with Elijah…”

In a split second his hand falls to your neck, the sound of it snapping fills the room and he drops your body on the ground, discarding you.

Klaus turns back to Stefan who looks devastated by the news, “Don’t look so glum Stefan, you wouldn’t be the first to be tricked by your sister. She’d do anything to survive, even if it meant betraying those closest to her,” he glances at Katherine, noting the similarities.

He shakes his head, looking back at Stefan, “But that’s a story for another day…”

Klaus speeds forward, slamming Stefan into the wall, “Now… what am I going to do with you?”

Present Day

Chicago

“My sister? She knew you? All of you?”

Klaus approaches the coffins, “If you can’t handle it, don’t ask.”

Stefan looks at all of the coffins but two of them catch his attention, they’re away from the rest, almost like they’ve been isolated. One of the coffins is made of some sort of metal and they both have engravings on them that compliment each other.

Klaus notices his gaze and smirks, “I see you’ve spotted the lovers.”

“the lovers?” Stefan raises a brow.

His smirk deepens, he steps away from Rebekah’s coffin and to the others, he opens one of them, revealing a boy in clothing from the the early 1900s.

Stefan looks over the boy, completely confused he turns to Klaus who grins.

“You wouldn’t recognize him… you never had the pleasure of meeting Kol…” he brushes his hand over the engraving on the other one, “You’d recognize whose in this one though…”

Klaus could see the gears turning in Stefan’s head, his eyes widening as he pieced the puzzle together.

“My sister?” his voice breaks a bit.

Klaus laughs, “You always were quick, Ripper.”

“This is what you meant by family? You got her a coffin and a dagger? That’s family to you?”

The hybrid clicks his tongue a few times, wagging his finger, “No Stefan, I got her a coffin… I never said anything about a dagger.”

Stefan’s heart sinks at the new information, it all hit him at once, why you hated the dark, why you had to have the door open, why couldn’t stand to be in silence.

You didn’t get a century long sleep like Klaus’ siblings would, you got to lay there and rot, slowly and painfully, all alone.

“I had a witch make it, it’s spelled… only I can open it.” Klaus boasts, clearly proud of his work.

“That’s cruel, even for you.”

“Maybe so, but I must punish those who betray me accordingly.”

Klaus takes a step closer to Stefan, “You met Rebekah and I in 1920… but we did not meet by chance. I sought you out, I was looking for your sister… The girl can really run when she wants to. I was hoping you’d be able to help me find her, but you were too busy draining civilians, Ripper.”

“I wouldn’t have been helpful either way. I thought she was dead.”

“I’m aware… I thought that she’d maybe be nearby, watching, that was something she often did— check up on you and Damon. Regardless, I found her on my own in 1924.”

1924

London

Today marks four years since Rebekah’s compulsion had worn off which meant one of two things, she was dead (unlikely) or she had been daggered (very likely).

It had been four years since you remembered Kol and ten years that you had been running. You were tired, tired of running, tired of having to look over your shoulder every five seconds, tired of not having your beloved around.

Klaus was hunting you and you had done a damn good job at keeping him off of your trail, always being careful when finding a snack and making sure you were never in one place for too long.

So you decided to do the opposite, you had been in London for two weeks now, ripping through crowds of people with no remorse. You wanted Klaus to find you, you wanted him to kill you.

You’re currently in a bar full of people, well, dead people. You slaughtered everyone and now had your teeth buried in some man’s neck.

“Perhaps you’re more like Stefan than I thought.” Klaus’ voice fills the bar.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself off of the now dead, drained man. You look at Klaus with blood coating your face and staining your dress.

After staring at each other for a moment, you stand to your full height, Klaus gives you a once over before raising a brow.

“You’ve gotten sloppy, left a trail of bodies a mile long leading me right to you.”

You simply stare at him and he smirks, “You wanted to be found.”

“I can’t do this anymore… not without him. I‘m tired, Nik. Please, just end it.”

Niklaus clicks his tongue, “End it?” He takes a step towards you.

“Kill me.”

Klaus laughs, “You think I want to kill you?”

Your brows furrow and you take a step back from the hybrid, Klaus snaps his fingers and two men enter the room carrying a coffin.

You take another step back, eyes widening and Klaus grins, “You can try to run but you won’t get far…”

“No… you… you can’t dagger me…”

“You’re right, daggers are such trivial things to make… you would know after all. But a lockbox that only I can open, now that’s much simpler.”

You decide to risk it, attempting to speed away but he catches you in a second, holding you up in the air by your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back with him soon enough… consider this me officially welcoming you into the family.”

Present Day

Chicago

“What was the point of letting her out just to lock her back up? To be cruel?”

Klaus shrugs, “I was bored and decided to make her a deal in 1984.”

“1984? You kept her in there for…”

“Sixty years, Stefan. She betrayed me and those were the consequences. When I woke her up we made an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?”

“She’d find me Katherine and bring her to me. She couldn’t ever find Katherine but she found me something even better…”

“Elena…”

“Yes, the doppelgänger.”

“So she knew the truth about your curse? That you’re a hybrid?”

“She was my family once, lived with us for nearly half a century. She knows a lot more than she led you all to believe. But don’t get any ideas, she’d never tell you anything that could hurt us… she wouldn’t risk Kol or Rebekah getting caught in the crossfire… or Elijah, though I suppose she’d be alright losing me considering she attempted to do so herself.”

“Moving on!” Klaus chirps, moving back to Rebekah, “It’s time for my little sister to wake up…”

“And I knew her?” Stefan asks, looking into the now open coffin, “I don’t recognize her.”

“Well don’t tell her that,” Klaus muses, “Rebekah’s temper is worse than mine.”

He pulls the dagger out, waiting for a moment before sighing, “Any Day now, Rebekah… she’s being dramatic.”

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been months since Klaus had locked you away. You were a bit surprised when he came to free you, your bones creaked, skin practically gray… still, you weren’t nearly as desiccated as the last time you had been in that coffin.

He fed you blood and brushed your hair for you as if you were a doll then provided you with a white colored dress that went to your knees, it reminded you of the one Elijah had given you when you first arrived in their home.

When Klaus revealed he was hosting a dinner with Elijah for Stefan and Damon you realized what he was doing. You were a bargaining chip.

You sat in the living room, humming to yourself, waiting for them to arrive. You still felt weak from not having blood for so long and the fact you were shaking was proof of that, the little blood that Klaus had provided was not enough.

Soon enough, your brothers arrived and were let inside by Elijah, “Niklaus, our guests have arrived…”

“Damon… Stefan…” Klaus greets, standing by the head of the dining room table, “Elijah tells me you seek an audience… very bold. Let’s discuss the terms of our agreement like civilized men, shall we?” he gestures to the large table that was set for five.

“It’s better to indulge him,” Elijah states, moving past your brothers.

“I didn’t come here to eat Klaus,” Stefan narrows his eyes, taking a step down the stairs, “I didn’t want to come here at all… but… I was told I had to, because you’d hear us out.”

Klaus hums, “Well we can sit and eat… or I can reach down your throats and pull out your insides…” he takes his seat at the head of the table, “choice is yours…”

Your brothers decide it would be best to sit and eat. Once the four brothers had sat down, Klaus sat forward in his chair, dramatically placing his hands in front of him, “I almost forgot! Sweetheart!” he calls out, “You can come out now!”

That was your que to enter, walking through the doorway and making a beeline for the table, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Elijah stands when he sees you, pulling out your chair for you and when you sit he pushes you in.

“Y/N…” Damon says quietly, it isn’t until then that you realize he hasn’t seen you since the night of the ritual.

“Damon…” you mumble in a voice so quiet that anyone without supernatural hearing wouldn’t be able to hear you.

“How are you—“ he begins but is quickly cut off by Stefan.

“She’s practically part of their freaky family, Damon, and Klaus won’t kill his family… he’ll just torture them endlessly.”

“That’s not very nice Stefan,” Klaus clicks his tongue.

You grab the glass of wine, downing it as quickly as possible. Hoping that it will not only curb your blood cravings but also make this dinner party a little more bearable. When you finish your glass, you reach for Elijah’s.

He raises a brow, shooting you an unimpressed look, “By all means, help yourself.”

You take a sip of the wine, ignoring Elijah, “Can we please get on with this dinner… I’m starved.”

“Well at least one of you is hungry… Stefan seems to have lost his appetite,” Klaus notes, nodding his head in Stefan’s direction.

Damon glances at his brother, gesturing with his fork, “Eat. I thought we agreed we’d leave the grumpy Stefan at home.”

Reluctantly, Stefan picks up his fork making Klaus smile, “That’s the spirit. Isn’t it nice? Five of us dining together? Such a treat. Is that what you had in mind when you pulled the dagger from my brother?”

Damon smiles sarcastically, “Well, I know how he felt about you, so I figured the more the merrier,” he winks playfully at Elijah.

“Well, Elijah and I have had our share of quarrels over the centuries… but we always make it through,” Klaus takes a bite of his steak.

“Kind of like you and Rebekah, right? Where is she, by the way? Last I checked, she was still daggered because you were afraid to face her,” Stefan quips, smirking over the rim of his bourbon glass.

Damon shoots a warning look at Stefan but you can’t be bothered by their conversation, you’re too focused on your bloody steak in front of you. Savoring the small amount of blood you’d get from its juices.

“If you’re referring to the fact Rebekah knows I killed our mother, I’ve already come clean to Elijah,” Klaus smiles at Elijah who has remained silent, resting his head on top of his fist.

“Hey Stef,” Damon cuts in, grabbing everyone’s attention, “remember when you killed dad? Might want to dial down on the judgement until dessert.”

You had been fighting the urge to lick the dish clean, hoping for just another drop of that delicious, bloody flavor. But Damon’s words distract you, making you look up from the plate.

“You killed dad?” you ask, looking directly at Stefan, he doesn’t verbally answer, only narrowing his eyes at you making you hum, “I always thought it was Katherine…” you fidget with your fork, pushing it across the plate. 

“You want another plate, love?” Klaus asks, his tone was sickeningly sweet, he snaps his fingers and a compelled blonde girl comes running to get your plate.

She leans over you, hair falling past her neck and you could feel the veins beneath your eyes begin to ripple. The girl's eyes widened, Klaus may have compelled her to do his bidding but he never compelled away her fear.

“Y/N,” Klaus says your name in a sing-songy tone, a warning.

Your lips part at the sound of her heart pumping, the smell of the blood in her veins, and your fangs begin to descend.

“Y/N. No,” Klaus tries again, setting his fork down.

But it was too late, you were out of your chair in a split second. You wrapped your hand around the girl’s neck, slamming her into the nearby wall hard enough to crack it, your other hand holding one of her wrists. You nearly moan at the taste of fresh blood, like an animal you can’t get enough.

Removing your hand from her neck, you flatten your palm and push the tip of her chin up until it’s out of your way— effectively breaking her neck. You continue to drink, not caring as the blood stains your mouth and neck, dripping to your dress.

Klaus sighs, “One nice dinner, that’s all I ask, is that too much to ask for?”

He rises from his chair and speeds to stand behind you, “That’s enough.”

You don’t listen and Klaus decides there is only one solution to the problem he caused, snapping your neck. Your head is practically on backwards and he allows your body to fall to the ground next to the blonde, dead girl.

Damon stands up, his chair screeching but Stefan grabs his arm, dragging him back down, and Klaus clears his throat, walking back to the table as if he hadn’t just broke your neck.

Elijah sighs, excusing himself from the table, he picks up your body with ease and brings you back to the table, setting you in your seat. He twists your head so your head is facing the proper way, hoping that it’ll allow you to heal and wake sooner. The dinner would proceed as normal, other than Damon looking at your body every few seconds, it was as if nothing had happened.

When you woke, you were alone at the table and you could hear voices coming from the living room.

“Elijah… why haven’t you left?” Klaus sounds confused.

You stand up, finding your bearings.

You can hear the smugness in Elijah’s tone when he speaks, “You’ve lectured Y/N on her manners all night… but where are yours, brother? We forgot dessert.”

You take slow steps towards the living room.

“What have you done?” Klaus’ voice is panicked, he sounds betrayed.

“What have you done?” Elijah retorts, “You see, I’ve learned not to trust your vulgar promises, Klaus. We’re doing this on my terms now.”

You’ve nearly made it to the living room door way when you stop in your tracks after hearing Klaus utter a single word.

“Kol…”

“Long time brother.”

His voice, Kol’s voice. Your Kol, he was here, he was awake.

You rush to the doorway, freezing when you finally see him. Kol, he looked the same as he did on that fateful night in 1914, still wearing the same outfit. He still looked as beautiful as you remembered him to be, tears began to prick the corner of your eyes but not tears of sadness or fear, they were tears of joy.

You could see Stefan still by the fireplace where he had been burned, you could see Damon standing off to the side of Elijah, but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care about your brothers in that moment. It was as if everything around you faded away and it was just you and Kol.

“Kol…” you whisper, softly.

His gaze snaps up to find you, his eyes softening when he sees you.

“Y/N…”

Without giving it a second thought, Kol takes one of the hands restraining Klaus and uses it to snap the hybrids neck. He speeds towards you, something Damon takes note of but when he moves to get to you, to try and protect you from what he thinks is a threat; Elijah places his hand onto Damon’s chest, stopping him from moving.

You slowly bring your hands up to hold his face and he covers your hands with his, ”You’re real…” you breath out, you still couldn’t believe he was in front of you after all this time.

He smiles, chuckling a bit, “I’m real… and I’m not leaving you ever again.”

You smile, causing more tears to flow and you throw yourself into his arms, nuzzling your face into his neck, squeezing your eyes shut and welcoming the darkness that came with it because for the first time, in a century, you weren’t alone in the dark. You were with Kol, your Kol.

His arms wrap tightly around your waist, inhaling your scent that he remembers so fondly, “I missed you, my darling.”

It must have been those words that finally helped Damon connect the dots, that this was the boy, the one that changed your opinion on vampires, the one who turned you into a vampire. This was the boy you lost a century ago, the boy you’d do anything and everything to get back. Including betraying your own family.

“You’re free to go. This is family business.”

Elijah’s words made Damon realize something, you weren’t his family anymore, you hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe you never officially got married because you ran out of time but you were no longer Y/N Salvatore, you were Y/N Mikaelson. He can pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being his family and it was long before the Mikaelsons, it was when he and Stefan chose Katherine Pierce over you. That fateful night where he told you that you weren’t his family anymore.

The truth hurts and the truth was that there was no fixing your relationship with either of your brothers. The next few months would make that abundantly clear. Like when you snapped Damon’s neck after he snapped Kol’s. Or when you stood by while Kol beat Damon with an aluminum bat. And of course you stood by Rebekah when she had compelled and trapped everyone in the school. You even helped Kol slaughter all of the newly turned vampires meant for Jeremy… and you let Kol torture Damon.

So maybe you really weren’t their family anymore, maybe that’s why they wouldn’t feel as guilty about what was going to happen when Jeremy would kill Kol.

At least you wouldn’t be alone when the darkness came, you would die in the arms of your love in the middle of the Gilbert family kitchen. It didn’t matter to you that his body was still crackingly, still burning, you‘d endure the feeling of your flesh melting to his if it meant you got to hold him one last time. There would be no coming back for either of you, you knew this and accepted it. You closed your eyes and faded away into the darkness, welcoming it.

You only hoped that when you’d wake on the other side, you’d still be in Kol’s arms.

The Darkness.

The End.

Fast forward to now, your junior year of college has come and you were currently still seeing your boyfriend. It had been over a year at this point but Beau didn’t seem to mind as long as he got to be with you. He would rather be with you in secret than not be in your life at all.

It wasn’t like you were a secret to everyone, after all, you had met each others parents/guardians (and extended family) and made it clear that you were serious about each other. Dean also knew because Beau couldn’t really keep anything from him even if he tried. The two men knew each other too well.

“Are we still on for girls night?” You had curiously asked Friday morning knowing that the three of you had always planned a night of movies, dinner, and drinks. Especially since Hannah only drank in privacy.

Hannah sighed, “I can’t tonight. I have practice for the showcase and then I have a tutoring session with Garrett.” She gave you an apologetic smile. “Rain check?”

You nodded, “sure. No problem.” You assured giving her a reassuring smile before moving your gaze to a guilty looking Allie. “Let me guess? You’ve got a date with Sean?”

Allie gave a soft smile, “I’m staying at his tonight.” She replied softly. “But I can cancel if you still wanted to have our girls night…”

You shook your head, “No, don’t cancel your plans for me.” You assured. “We have a girls night once a week. I’ll find something to do.”

Allie gave you a knowing look as a smirk grew on her face, “you’ll be here alone… so maybe you should find someone to do.” She suggested.

Hannah let out a little laugh but nodded her head anyways in agreement, “it’s been what? Freshman year since you’ve hooked up with someone?”

You didn’t say anything, but ‘If you two only knew’ was repeating in your head. It hadn’t been freshman year (obviously) but Beau just happened to wonder in your life not to long after your last hook-up. “I’m happy right now.” You admitted honestly to your girls. “I really don’t need to hook-up with anyone.”

Allie huffed, “everyone needs to have good sex once in a while.” She spoke confidently, “it’s only natural.”

“Aren’t you friends with one of Garrett’s groupies?” Hannah spoke up and you slightly nodded. “They’re all good looking so why not him?”

You cringed internally at the thought of screwing Beau’s best friend. You loved Dean but not in any type of romantic or sexual manner. He was someone you could trust and lean on for anything, and a part of you would forever thank Beau for introducing you to that part of Dean.

You shook your head at Hannah’s suggestion once you broke out of your thoughts, “Never going to happen.”

Allie’s face looked like she was lost in a thought for a moment before she looked from you to Hannah and back again, “who was that dude in your ethics class?” She asked trying to think.

“The one who hangs out with Garrett and the hockey team?” Hannah asked, slinging her back over her shoulder. “If you’re talking about him it’s probably—I think Garrett said his name is Beau.”

Allie turned back to you, “how about him?” She asked. “You two are insufferable.” You muttered before grabbing your bag and heading towards the door so you could get to class.

🫧

Half of your school day was over and you had yet to see your friends or Beau for most of the day. Which it was a given because you had a few different classes and everyone had their own lives outside of the friend group. You were currently grabbing lunch since you had a decent break between classes.

“Hey beautiful.” A soft voice whispered close to your ear before you noticed your boyfriend walk around the table and sit across from you.

A smile grew on your face causing you to bite your lip to keep it from stretching into a grin. “Hey,” you replied softly. “How’s your day been so far?” You asked knowing some of his schedule.

He shrugged acting nonchalant; “as boring as usual.” He muttered before mentioning something that had happened in conditioning earlier. “You wanna swing by the house before your girls night?”

You huffed a laugh, “about that… there’s no girls night anymore.” You replied. “Allie is staying with Sean and Hannah is tutoring Garrett.”

Beau’s eyebrows shot up, “they bailed?”

You shrugged, “we have them often so it’s not like it’s too important.” You assured while giving him a smile. “That also means that I have the dorm to myself…. So I was thinking that you could swing by for a bit? Hannah won’t be back until late and it gives us time to hang in my space.”

He smiled, “sounds like a plan, baby.” He agreed leaning back in his chair.

You hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “you don’t have to be in a rush either.”

That grabbed his full undivided attention (not like you didn’t have it anyway) as a look of shock seemed to cross his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t care to finally be semi-public?” A teasing tone could be heard in his voice making you roll your eyes.

“It’s long over due, isn’t it?” You asked softly.

Beau’s eyes softened as they looked over you, “what changed your mind?”

You shrugged and thought about it for a moment, “you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, and you know that I love you.” He assured softly but also watching you carefully.

“Maybe they’ll understand more than I think.” You mutter as you feel him grab your hand easily from across the table. “and it would be nice if they quit trying to suggest people for me to hook-up with.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “who are they suggesting?”

You pursed your lips, “well the last one they mentioned was you.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He teased causing a scoff and an eye roll to come from you.

“Yeah and the other one was Dean.” You huffed. “But I’m pretty sure she was hinting at me being with anyone in the hockey house.”

“Dean? Really?” He asked and you nodded thinking back to what Hannah had told you.

Before you could say anything a mop of blonde hair plopped himself down beside your boyfriend, “what about me?” He asked flashing his dimpled smile.

You shook your head not wanting to mention what Hannah had said, but apparently Beau didn’t mind. “Her roommate mentioned her hooking up with you.” Your boyfriend muttered.

Dean’s eyes glistened with a teasing in them, “As much as I would love too. I think bro-code out weighs that.” His reply earned a glare from Beau causing him to joking put his hands up in surrender. “Let me guess, Wellsy thinks your lonely?”

You sighed, “something like that.” You muttered; “my roommates think everyone needs good sex at least once a week.”

Dean nodded, “they aren’t wrong.” He agreed with Allie which wasn’t surprising to you.

You rolled your eyes before throwing a fry off your to-go basket at the blonde’s face. “I have plenty of that.” You assured not missing the smirk that grew on Beau’s face.

Dean snorted, “I don’t doubt it.” The teasing tone was still very prominent in his voice. “You got Beau Maxwell to be in a committed relationship…. You deserve a cookie.” He joked.

Beau rolled his eyes, “seriously dude?”

Dean sent the couple a smirk, “what? You know how many girls want to be in her place right now?” He then turned his attention solely on Beau, “you know how many men want to be in your place right now?” He added.

“I know I’m lucky she chose me.” Beau replied his eyes narrowed at his best friend.

“Damn straight.” Dean replied with a teasing smirk.

You let out a breath, “on that note… I’m leaving.” You muttered and stood up from your seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I love you.” Beau called softly after you.

Dean snorted, “you’re so pussy whipped.”

🫧🫧 You sat at the kitchen table three cases of markers laying on the table. Some would say coloring was for children, but it was a stress reliever for you when you wanted something that was simple. Snacks were also lying along the table as well as drinks and your own custom cocktail. Beau was to be over after football practice was concluded.

Allie🌺 Did you find someone? You: I’m not hooking up with anyone. I’m a relationship girlie now. You know that. Allie🌺 Hooking up might be the start of something more 🤷‍♀️

You sighed laying your phone down. You loved Allie and you knew your friends wanted you happy, but sometimes they need to leave things alone. It’s partly your fault as well, since they don’t know you and Beau are together.

A knock on the door tore you out of your thoughts. You laid your marker down and went to open the door to see Beau looking as attractive as ever. His hair was still wet from his shower in the locker room.

“Hey, baby.” Beau greeted once you opened the door. He walked forward and placed a kiss on your forehead before walking into your dorm.

You smiled softly at the man you were in love with, “hey.” You greeted back while shutting your dorm door.

Beau stopped when he noticed the coloring book, markers, snacks, and drinks laid out on the kitchen table. “Doing a coloring date, are we?” He asked teasingly.

You huffed a laugh, “No. I was just stressed about midterms and I wanted something to calm my nerves.” You explained before going over and starting to clean up the markers.

Beau was right behind you, stopping you from cleaning up the markers. Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair beside your pulled out one and picked a page from your pile. “If my girl’s stressed, then I’m here to help her forget about it.” He spoke softly taking the markers out of your hand.

You felt a blush creep up if the heat radiating from your face was any indication. “You don’t have to color.” You assured as your boyfriend took the lid off a green marker and started coloring a tree that was on his page. “Beau, really it’s fine. You always make everything better anyways…”

Beau huffed playfully moving his gaze to you, “shut up and sit down with me.” He demanded yet his tone was still as soft as it had been.

You smiled to yourself with your heart full of love before sitting down beside him. You were back in your original spot and coloring the page. You two sat quietly, with Beau stealing drinks of your cocktail you had made every once in awhile.

You loved Beau. You truly did because what type of man would willingly sit and color with you. Letting you know that he only cared about being in your presence. Your heart was so full just thinking of him and all the ways that he proved to you that he loved you. Ways that were silent and caring, and not loud or overly sexual.

These are the days that you would remember and reminisce on when you two were old and gray. You smiled thinking about that, even though you and Beau hadn’t exactly mentioned getting married you both knew that you were in each other’s futures.

“What’s got you all smiley?” Beau spoke after a while of silence. Your eyes met his gaze, both of your eyes were filled with love.

You shook your head, “you’re literally perfect.” You mumbled feeling shy suddenly. You dropped your gaze back to your page.

Beau shook his head, “I’m not perfect.” He promised. “I’m far from it, honestly, but you on the other hand? Definitely perfect.” He replied with a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’m serious.” You defended your compliment. “I’d marry you right now if you’d ask because you’re so…” you trailed trying to find the right word to describe him.

Beau looked away for a moment before moving his eyes back over to you. You finally raised your gaze back up to meet his, “you’d marry me?”

Your brows furrowed, “Yes! Is that shocking or something?”

Beau bit his own lip for a moment to stop a grin from forming, “I’m holding you to that.”

You grinned, “is that your way of saying we’re going to get married?” You asked playfully.

Beau nodded, “oh, totally.” He promised and his voice held seriousness. “We’ll get married and have at least two babies… I mean, only if you want children.” He assured

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“Baby, I’ve had my life planned out with you since I saw you crying in the library freshmen year.” Beau mumbled as he went back to coloring his page. You knew he was using it as a distraction for dropping his truth-bomb on you.

Your eyebrows creased again, “freshman year? But that’s….” You trailed.

“The first time we met and you told me that your first college crush broke your heart.” Beau whispered letting you know that he remembered.

You looked at your boyfriend shocked, “Beau Maxwell, are you telling me that you were pining after me all of freshmen year?”

“Why are you so shocked?” His voice raised slightly but not in anger. It sounded like disbelief.

“Maybe because that’s a truth bomb I wasn’t expecting?” You explained with your hands waving around frantically seeing as you were shocked. “You’re Beau Maxwell.” You elaborated.

“So?”

“So—how can you say so? You’re the quarterback of the football team.” You explained more in depth. “You have had girls falling at your feet since high school and you just tell me that you were harboring a crush for almost a year prior to us sleeping together.”

Beau pursed his lips while nodding, “We’re together now… so why does it matter?”

You huffed, “what would you have done if us having sex didn’t turn into anything?”

His eyebrows furrowed at that because he honestly didn’t know. He had just been lucky and the plan him and Dean had come up with worked. Which now that he thought back may not have been the best idea.

“I don’t know but it did work so I’m not thinking about it.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the picture in front of him.

🫧🫧🫧

It was now 9pm and Hannah was still tutoring Garrett and you hadn’t heard from Allie in a moment. You and Beau had finished coloring and you had picked up the pages and markers while Beau helped clean up the snacks and drinks.

You two had moved to the couch as a movie played on your laptop that sat on the coffee table. You weren’t really paying attention to what was happening on your laptop. Your mind kept going over the conversation you two had talked about earlier.

It was definitely more of a glimpse of the future than what either of you had previously admitted. It didn’t scare you or anything, but you just wondered if there was anything that could change his though process. You honestly didn’t think that there was, because like you had stated earlier, he was the perfect boyfriend.

“I’m so in love with you.” You spoke softly as you broke the silence that had settled over your cuddling figures as the movie played. You moved your head to where you could look up at him and see him.

He wore a soft smile on his face, “where’d that come from?”

You shrugged slightly, “I just—I’m lucky to have you.” You settled for that even though it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.

His hand softly came up and rested on your jaw and neck, “I’m in love with you too.” He replied softly and leaned his head down just a bit to capture your lips with his.

The kiss had been soft and full of love, something that you were use to Beau doing. It didn’t take long for things to heat up, especially not with how the two of you were talking and feeling.

You blamed your hormones for not being able to hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. And twenty minutes after your phone went off, You blamed yourself for not hearing the door unlock or open at first either.

“So I know we bailed on girls night, but I was thinking—OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed before quickly turning around.

You shoved Beau away with more force than you meant too and quickly stood up to find your shirt that said man how thrown across the room. You huffed and rolled your eyes knowing that Hannah was a bit dramatic because neither of you were naked. You both were just shirtless and making out, so it wasn’t like she had walked in on anything.

“You can turn around now.” You sighed as you handed Beau his shirt.

Hannah slowly turned around and faced the two of you before giving an awkward smile, “so you took Allie’s advice on…” she trailed as her eyes flickered to Beau and then back to you.

You gave her a small smile, “not exactly.” You replied before Beau pulled you into him. Hannah’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve been dating for over a year…”

A flicker of hurt passed through Hannah’s eyes, “and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”

You shook your head quickly, “no. It’s not like that. I trust you and Allie completely.” You assured as you finally relaxed against your boyfriend.

“Then why not tell us?”

You shrugged, “it never felt like a good time.” You mumbled knowing that wasn’t an excuse. “Allie and Sean kept breaking up and I didn’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of her, and then you were worried and busy with the showcase and your scholarship list that I didn’t want to seem like I only cared about my relationship.” You explained hoping that she understood where you were coming from.

Hannah was silent for a moment before she finally nodded. “Okay, I understand why you hid it.” She accepted. “But don’t put your happiness in the closet all because you’re worried about us.”

You gave her a smile and nodded, “okay. No more secrets.” You promised and grinned when you felt Beau kiss the top of your head.

Hannah smiled back, “now I’m going to my room and I’ll put my headphones on as loud as the go and close the door.” She assured and shot you a wink as she walked off to her room.

You smiled turning back towards Beau and pulled him towards your room.

“That went better than you thought?” He asked causing you to nod in response. “Way better.” 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

You hated the idea of getting out of bed. Beau had finally spent the night without worrying about sneaking out the next morning. Which means you woke up in his embrace for the first time in weeks. It was something that always made your mornings feel complete and it made your heart swell with love.

You could’ve stayed in bed for hours, but you were hungry from not having a full dinner last night. So, reluctantly you got out of Beau’s embrace and found some clothes to slip on before making your way to the small kitchen. You started the coffee maker before pulling out some (protein) pancake mix and getting the add-ins.

“Are those pancakes?” Allie’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned and watched her walk out of her room and towards you before hopping up on the counter.

“It is.” You nodded and turned back to the pan on the stove. “I thought you were at Sean’s?”

Allie sighed, “we got into a fight late last night—or early this morning—it doesn’t matter. I just came straight home.” She muttered placing her head in her hands. “I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

You turned and gave her an apologetic smile, “we’re always available for you.” You promised causing her to send you a small smile.

The kitchen settled into a comfortable quietness for a bit before Hannah came out of her room. She joined you two with a smile on her face which dropped as soon as she noticed Allie’s face. You listened to the two girls quietly as you finished making breakfast. You had listened to Allie’s story about Sean, which always was the same, but you couldn’t convince her she deserved better. She had to figure that out for herself.

You had cooked a few sides to go with the pancakes while Allie had went on-and-on about Sean and Hannah had put her input in every once in a while. You didn’t know what to say, mainly because you had a great boyfriend. Someone who truly loved you and you never had to guess or wonder if he did.

Once breakfast was done you told the girls and the three of you made plates and sat at the kitchen table together.

“We seriously need a girls trip away from this place.” Allie groaned taking a sip of her drink.

You nodded, “I’m down.” To which Hannah agreed too.

You three were talking and making plans to take a trip together eventually, until Allie went quiet mid sentence causing you to look her way. Her fork was frozen mid-way to her mouth and her eyes wide. You followed her line of sight to see her staring at Beau casually padding out of your room and into the small kitchen and living area.

“Morning baby,” he greeted softly as he walked over and gave you a kiss on the head. “Ladies.” He nodded in recognition.

You smiled, “morning. There’s breakfast I fixed a few minutes ago.” You offered

He sent you a thankful smile and gave you a soft “thank you, babe.” before going to fix himself some food as well. You turned your attention back towards Allie who had closed her mouth now but was still looking at you.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.

Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox. 

Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much. 

He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch. 

You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.

It makes his head feel warm to think about. 

The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it. 

He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket. 

The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle. 

Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you. 

You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.

He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.

For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so. 

It must show on his face. 

"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"

He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."

You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact. 

Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you. 

Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket. 

A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen. 

Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes. 

Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.

Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up. 

The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.

Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare. 

When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute. 

Then you nod. 

It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper. 

He throws it so hard it hits the wall. 

You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush. 

It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead. 

A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin. 

Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible. 

It would make even the worst cowards brave. 

Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions. 

Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed. 

They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.

The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception. 

There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail. 

He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them. 

Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.

"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."

As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.

"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.

Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it. 

His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin. 

He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass. 

The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit. 

Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in. 

The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years. 

One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss. 

Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly. 

"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!" 

Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan. 

His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand. 

Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you. 

It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-

"Bucky!"

You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.

His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.

Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.

Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart. 

His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs. 

Then it all bursts. 

His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue. 

Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source. 

You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name. 

As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down. 

You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus. 

"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"

Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place. 

He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away. 

"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"

You groan, pulling his lips back to yours. 

Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.

"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?" 

When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night. 

He kisses you again, even harder this time. 

Yeah, he thinks, it was.

Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)

Main Masterlist

It was short, the tug on your leg.

You peer down to see a little girl. Soft brown hair with little clips to keep it out of her face, round face and blue eyes that were full of fear.

“Hey there,” you say, and crouch down. “You okay?”

She blinks, tears falling down her cheeks. “I can’t find my daddy.”

“Hey, hey,” you reach to rub her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

She lets out a sob, unable to control the hysteria shaking her small frame.

“Oh sweetheart,” you breathe, and offer her your hand. “Hold my hand, we’ll find your daddy. Don’t worry.”

She continued to sob, unrestrained sounds that twisted your heart.

You walked slowly down the aisle, allowing her to keep pace with you, heading for the large central aisle where it would be easiest to be found.

“El!” You hear someone shout.

“Daddy?” The little girl turns her head, her eyes alert and wide.

You peek over your shoulder to see a man rushing over.

“Oh my babygirl,”

The girl lets go of your hand, her little feet pushing her forward into the arms of the man.

You smile to yourself, relieved, yet feeling a little out of place at witnessing the reunion.

The man presses his forehead to the little girl’s, his daughter you assumed.

“Are you okay?” He spoke quickly. “You aren’t hurt?”

She shakes her head. “I saw glitter pens, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he spoke as if to himself. “You’re safe.”

It was then his eyes flicker up to you. They are the exact same shade as his daughter’s, a light blue that gave away more emotion than any expression. His hair was the same colour also, pulled back into a messy bun. His face differed from hers entirely, a strong jawline marked with stubble peppered with grey, and faint lines across his forehead and eyes.

He scoops his daughter up with ease, her body looking tiny next to his large build.

“Hi, uh,” he shifts awkwardly.

“Hi,” you press your lips together nervously.

“I, uh, thanks for taking care of my Eileen,” he says.

You shake your head. “It was nothing, only for a few minutes.”

“Still,” his lips twitched. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” you shrug and turn to walk away.

“Come back!” the little girl, Eileen, called.

“El,” you hear her father hiss. “Leave the lady be.”

You feel a tug on your hand, and peek down to see the girl, who must have forced her way down and rushed to catch you.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

You tilt your head, giving it quietly.

“Pretty,” she smiles. “You’re pretty.”

“Eileen Barnes,” you hear her father call out disapprovingly.

“What?” Her eyes moved to her father. “She’s pretty.”

Her father sighs. “She’s busy, babygirl. Let her go.”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, and crouch to Eileen’s level.

“I think your dad is wants to get going,” you tell her softly.

She frowns, her eyes appearing watery once again. “I don’t want to.”

Her father stepped closer.

“Eileen,” he put a hand on her back. “That is enough.”

His voice was gentle yet firm.

“But Daddy,” she began to protest. “She’s pretty and kind. Can we be friends?”

“El, it’s not that easy,” he breathes.

“It’s okay,” your voice came out stronger. “Eileen?”

She peeks up, her eyes meet yours.

“I can be your friend,” you say to her.

“Daddy’s friend too,” she insists. “Daddy is always alone. Daddy needs a friend.”

“Eileen,” her father’s face was starting to go red.

You laugh quietly. “That’s up to your daddy.”

She looks up expectantly at her father.

“El, I—” he looks at you, eyes moving up and down you.

“You are pretty,” he murmurs. “Really pretty.”

You feel blood rush to your cheeks.

Eileen beams, her eyes moving between you and her father.

“I’m Bucky,” he holds out a hand to you. “Bucky Barnes, this is my daughter, Eileen.”

You reach out, allowing him to shake your hand, his hand rough to touch, yet gentle.

“Hi,” you breathe, still a little flustered from his compliment.

Bucky smiles, an expression that makes your heart stutter a moment. The pull of those pink lips, the way it crinkled at the edges of his eyes. It felt like you could stare at him for days and never tire of him.

“I—” he cleared his throat. “Look I know this is, uh, weird. But, Eileen likes you, and she won’t stop until I ask. Would you… do you want to get coffee sometime?”

“Oh,” you stammer. “Yeah, sure.”

You reach into your bag, ripping off the bottom of your shopping list and pulling out a pen, then scribbling down your phone number.

You fold it in half and hold it out between your fingers.

He takes it carefully.

“Text me?” You ask with a small smile.

“Uh,” his eyes move to your lips for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. I will.”

Your smile widens and you pat Eileen on the head.

“See you around then,” you say. “Eileen… Bucky.”

Eileen looks up at her father grinning.

“She’s nice,” she says as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Bucky holds the piece of paper tightly between his fingers, eyes on you walking away.

“Yeah, she is.”

That evening you’d checked your phone constantly, waiting for the text that never came. You checked again the next morning to nothing, and began to wonder if you’d written the wrong number.

A few more days pass, when you hear your phone buzz once.

You reach over from your place on the sofa, eyes still on the comforting program you are watching.

A quick glance shows a text from an unfamiliar number.

Hey, it’s Bucky. We met at the grocery store the other day. Do you still want to meet for coffee sometime?

A small smile graces your face, warmth filling your veins. He hadn’t forgotten.

I’d love to. Any recommendations? x

You send the text without thinking, jerking slightly as you realise that you’d put a kiss on there out of habit.

A few minutes pass before the next buzz.

There’s a coffee shop in the park?

Immediately another text followed.

Eileen will be coming, she can play on the swings whilst we chat x

Your lips part, seeing him also put a kiss made you smile wider.

That’ll be nice. I’d love to see Eileen again! x

She’s dying to see you again, been pestering me every day to skip work to take her x

You laugh at that.

I’d skip work for her x

There is a brief pause.

I would too, if I could. Would Saturday work for you? Say around 9am? x

You check your calendar briefly, confirming what you already knew - you weren’t busy.

That will be fine. Pretty early don’t you think? x

El will be asking when we are going all day if not. She likes to get me up at 6, and there is no stopping her once she is up x

You laugh again to yourself, there was something endearing about how this man complained about his daughter, yet you could hear his adoration for her.

I’ll be sure to get there in time for Eileen x

Appreciate that, doll. See you Saturday x

You duck your head slightly at the nickname, slightly embarrassed at how your heart squeezed despite being alone.

The park is quiet, filled with only a few people running or cycling and the distant sounds of birds.

It takes a few minutes to walk to the coffee shop, the temperature is warm, not too hot to be uncomfortable but cool enough you could wear a light jacket.

The air fills with the smell of freshly baked goods and coffee, the shop itself is small, most of the seating outside on paving slabs overlooking a playground.

You linger a moment, only seeing people enter to take out and then depart. You turn, scanning the area before reaching for your phone checking for a message. There was none.

You silently remind yourself it is only ten to nine, he wasn’t late.

The sound of your name startles you. Your head whips around until you notice little Eileen running at you.

You crouch down allowing her to fling her little arms around you.

“You came!” She declared as you broke apart.

“Of course,” you reach and boop her nose with your index finger. She grins, reaching to do the same to your nose.

You hear someone chuckle above you, and look up to see Bucky. He’s in dark blue jeans, a wool jacket with a hint of red peeking underneath.

“Hi,” you smile at him.

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Daddy!” Eileen rushes back to her father, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward.

“She came! She came!” The little girl bounced in place with enthusiasm.

“Easy El,” he speaks softly. “I’ve already lost one arm, I don’t need to lose another.”

You get to your feet, noticing the girl pulling on his metal fingers.

You feel yourself smiling at the sight. “Shall we go in?”

Bucky nods politely, wrapping his hand around El’s.

“Ohhhh,” Eileen pulls away from her father, the moment you enter. “Look daddy! Pain a-“ she frowns as she thinks. “Pain Aux Chocolat!”

Bucky chuckles with a shake of his head.

“She has a lot of energy,” you note.

“Yeah,” he puts his hands on his pockets, glancing at you a moment before returning his gaze back to the little girl. “She’s always like this.”

“She wanders off a lot?”

“Mhm,” he sighs. “She saw some glitter gel pens when you found her. One minute he was next to me, I turned to reach for some tins and then she was gone.”

“All that for gel pens?” You ask, amused.

“Yep,” he gives a slight smile. “They kept her busy whilst I made dinner.”

You let out a snicker.

“What?” His eyes now return to you.

“I’m sorry,” you press your lips together to suppress your smile. “That’s cute.”

“Hm,” he huffs. “Cute, eh?”

You give him a timid shrug and step forward to join Eileen.

“Hi,” you greet the barista. “Can I have a Latte, one croissant, a pain aux chocolate…” you look down to Eileen. “Would you like a drink, El?”

“Hot chocolate!” She declares. “Please.”

“A hot chocolate,” you turn to Bucky. “Bucky, what would you like?”

He recoils in surprise and approaches, your back tingles as you feel him behind your back. “A black coffee please.”

The barista puts it all in and you pull out your card, tapping it against the reader.

“They’ll just be a few minutes,” the barista tells you.

“Thanks,” you smile and walk around.

“You should have let me pay,” Bucky shakes his head, his hand holding El’s again.

“It’s fine, I wanted to get Eileen something,” you give her a grin.

Bucky sighs.

“Is he always grumpy?” You ask El, teasing him.

“Yes,” she nods.

“El,” his lips twitch and eyebrows scrunch together. “Please.”

The barista then placed down the drinks with two paper bags.

“Thank you!” El chimed in a sing-song voice, eagerly reaching for the drinks.

You get there first, picking up the ones in her reach.

“Thanks,” Bucky sounds immensely grateful. “Eileen, please be careful, they’re hot.”

She gives him a sassy look.

“Why don’t you take the food?” You compromise.

Eileen nods, reaching to take the paper bags.

Bucky reaches to take his coffee. “Let’s find a seat.”

He leads you outside, it remains quiet, peaceful. Bucky strolls to the table closest to the playground, whilst your eyes remain on his back, his wide shoulders.

He pulls out a chair, then another, places his cup down and picks up his daughter to help her up into the chair.

“Take a seat, doll,” he gestures, letting you sit first before taking the last seat.

You carefully reach over placing the hot chocolate in front of Eileen and taking the Croissant.

Eileen seems too distracted by her own food to pay any mind to anything else.

Bucky chuckles fondly before taking a long sip of his drink.

“Want any?” You ask him as you pull part of the croissant apart to eat.

“Hmm,” he considers for a moment. “Sure.”

You smile, ripping off the other end. He leans over parting his lips slightly, you carefully put the piece in his mouth. His mouth closed and he chewed carefully.

You have to sift your eyes away, a warmth filling you at how he’d trusted you.

“Daddy never eats here,” Eileen cuts through your reverie, her blue eyes on her father as she concentrated. “Says it's bad for his muscles.”

You raise an eyebrow and smirk at Bucky.

He leans back, sipping his coffee and doesn’t say a word.

“You enjoy the gym?” You ask.

“Not as much as I’d like,” he places his cup down again. “I’m ex-Army.”

“What do you do now?” You ask, taking a sip of your own drink.

“Boring office job,” he admits. “But I can work from home, and take care of this one.”

He pats his daughter on the head.

“What about—“ you pause, hesitating.

“Eileen’s mother?” He finishes.

Eileen looks at her father, as though sensing the tension of the moment, then at you.

“Mummy works away,” she speaks as if she has said it a thousand times, her eyes suddenly appearing tired.

“Busy lady,” you reply.

“Mmm,” you hear the disapproval in Bucky’s tone. “Eileen, do you want to go try the swings whilst we chat?”

“Huh?” She perks up, then drops from her seat. “Yay!!”

She runs off eagerly into the playground.

“Stay in my sight!” He calls after her.

You watch Bucky once more, his face smooth yet his eyes soften, betraying the love he has for his daughter.

“El’s mother,” he begins, eyes still on his little girl. “She doesn’t come to see Eileen much. El barely remembers her.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, unsure what to say.

He shrugs. “We have each other. It’s enough.”

You gently place a hand on his arm. “You’re a single parent, you shouldn’t have to face it alone.”

“Despite what El told you, I do have friends,” his eyes return to you. “They are few, but I couldn’t have gotten this far without them.”

You nod, relieved. Bucky’s eyes then flicker over you, taking you in.

“You look lovely,” he comments.

“Thank you,” you lean back, hoping the distance will hide the blush on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have a real first date,” you allow your eyes to drift back to him, his eyes on his daughter - now climbing steps on a slide. “You deserve to be taken out for dinner.”

“You don’t need to explain,” your voice is soft. “Your little girl has to come first.”

His head turns slightly, giving you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“Besides, I wanted to see El again,” you continue. “She’s adorable.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, she is.”

There is a moment of silence. You keep your eyes on Bucky, taking in how his eyes never strayed from his daughter, occasionally drinking his coffee whilst his other hand lay on his lap.

“What do you do for work?” Bucky’s voice is quiet.

You twitch a second. “It’s pretty boring. I'm an archivist. Spend all day typing up what is written in old dusty books, or help people find old dusty books.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like it makes you happy.”

Your voice gets caught in your mouth for a moment. “It does,” you admit.

Bucky shifts then, turning his seat towards you.

“Would you like another drink?” He asks, the creases in his expression giving away his nerves.

“No, thank you,” you shift to face him. “I would like to just talk.”

He smiles then. Not the faint twitches of his lips before, a real smile. It seemed to light up his whole face, brightening his eyes, crinkling at the edges and his forehead.

“Your eyes,” you lean forward, heart thrumming a little harder from his gaze. “They’re incredible.”

His face drops, lips parting slightly as he drinks in your words.

“Uh, thank you,” he stammers.

You smile at him, and reach over to place your hand on his.

He swallows, suddenly nervous. “Do you like Italian food?”

“Yeah,” you respond. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s a little Italian restaurant not far from my place,” he says. “We could go, if you’d like.”

“With Eileen?”

He shakes his head. “Eileen is staying with my friend on Tuesday night. It would be just the two of us.”

“I think I’d enjoy that,” your lips twitch.

“More than this?” He playfully responds.

“It’s nice,” you smirk. “And I adore Eileen. But I’d also like to get you alone.”

“Alone, huh?” He chuckles. “That might be difficult.”

You grin at his face, he seemed so happy, a far cry from the grumpy man from earlier.

“I can share,” you tease.

“Yeah?” He turned his hand over, fingers interweaving with yours.

“Yeah.”

Bucky squeezed your hand. “You know in a fight she’d win, every time.”

“I know,” you nod. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Daddy!” Eileen was running over. “Did you see? Did you see? I was so fast.”

You suppress a laugh.

“Oh, I’m sorry, babygirl. I missed it,” he responded. “Go again, I’m watching.”

The little girl’s eyes narrow, eyes flickering between the two of you before running back, climbing the steps and flinging herself down the slide at speed.

“Oh my—” you begin to get to your feet in fear for her.

“Relax,” Bucky mutters. “She’ll be alright.”

“Did you see, Daddy?” Eileen shouts.

“I saw,” he calls back. “You were faster than my bike.”

Eileen beamed, running back over the bark chips to the table.

“That was fun!” She declared.

Bucky grins, pleased to see his little girl so happy. “Need a rest?”

She nods, climbing onto the chair. “I need a drink.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at his daughter.

“Please,” she adds.

“Good girl,” he shakes his head fondly, reaching down into a bag Eileen had been carrying, passing over a drink bottle from the side to her.

She happily slurped through the straw.

“You’re a good dad,” you nudge him gently.

“I try,” he murmurs.

“Daddy’s happy,” she notices and then looks at you. “You’re happy.”

She takes another sip. “You make Daddy happy.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, El,” he chuckles.

“You laugh when I’m silly. Or Uncle Sam is silly,” she says.

“Uncle Sam?”

“My best friend,” Bucky explains. “He’s a pain, but he takes care of El when I can’t.”

“It’s nice of him to take care of Eileen,”

“I love Uncle Sam!” El declares in agreement.

“Because Uncle Sam lets you stay up till 8pm, and brings you chocolate,” Bucky shakes his head in disapproval.

She shrugs, taking one more sip from her drink before taking off again.

“What time do you want to meet on Tuesday?” You ask.

“I’ll book the table for seven,” his eyes were on his daughter.

You nod. “Seven then.”

He nods, his eyes flickering back to you.

“I’ll be waiting.”

You shift from one foot to the other, tugging at the material of your dress praying it’s not too short. You chose a simple red dress that hung just above your knees, in the hopes of being alluring yet modest.

You hear someone call your name, your eyes flicker around, seeing no one until you turn and spot Bucky.

He’s dressed semi formally, jeans, black boots, a light blue shirt that matched his eyes and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Hello,” his voice is quiet yet warm, his left hand holds out a small bunch of flowers with a nervous smile. “These are for you.”

You cannot contain the smile that crosses your face. “Thank you.”

His face remains still, but his eyes betray his relief. “I wasn’t sure what you would like,” he confessed.

You shake your head, stepping closer. “They are beautiful.”

“Shall we—” he hesitated. “Shall we go in?”

You nod, holding the flowers in one of your hands and reaching out with the other to offer your hand.

Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand weave between yours. They are gentle yet slightly rough to touch, yet somehow the feel of them sends a slight tingle up your arm.

Bucky guides you forward to the door, holding his jacket with his thumb and the rest of his fingers grasping the handle, holding it open for you.

“Thank you,” you give him a smile.

His lips twitch slightly upward, and follow you into the restaurant.

It’s small, yet quiet, simplistic in its decor.

You blink as you take it in, eyes flickering as he tugs your hand carefully to speak to the server.

“Table for two, under the name Barnes,” his voice is low.

The server nods. “Ah yes, I have it. Good to see you Mr Barnes.”

They pick up two menus and lead you to a small table to the side, a little out of earshot of the nearest table.

“Here,” Bucky pulls out a chair for you as the server places down the menus.

“Thanks,” you sit, place the flowers carefully under your chair and shrug off your jacket.

Bucky gives you a nod of satisfaction before taking his seat, slinging his jacket casually over the back.

“Any allergies we need to be aware of?” The server asks.

You shake your head.

Bucky doesn’t speak, his eyes remain on you.

The server nods and departs.

“You’re quiet,” you notice.

“I normally am,” he leans back, his gaze still intense.

Now it felt like a first date, the momentarily silence, the awkward feeling sinking into your stomach. Was this a mistake? Did he really like you?

“I come here with Sam,” he breaks the silence.

“Like— on a date?” Your tone is casual yet teasing. His nose crinkles together for a moment before he lets out a soft chuckle that shoots through you, the sound of it makes you want to join in.

“No,” a slight smile remains on his face. “We’d end up killing each other at the mere suggestion of sharing anything.”

You smile easily. “I share.”

“I remember,” he exhales. “Not sure I can say the same.”

Your lips part slightly at the implication.

“You look nice,” he adds, before allowing his eyes to move slowly over you.

There was something there, in the tenor of his voice, the way he was so obvious, yet taking it slow. It drew you in dangerously fast.

You feel blood rush to your face.

“So do you,” you admit quietly, eyes on the stubble of his jawline. Even with his long hair slicked back and the stubble, he looks smart, and the shade of his shirt brings out his features. “You’re— you’re pretty.”

His eyes widened a moment before a real smile graced his face. “Not sure I’ve been called pretty before.”

You pursue your lips. “Well, I think you are.”

He leans over the table as if to speak for no one to hear. Instead a voice interrupts you, the server.

“Can I get you any drinks?”

You see a flash of frustration on Bucky's face, and observe him inhale as if to calm himself.

“I’ll have a glass of white wine please,” you say, giving the server a polite glance.

“I’ll have a beer,” Bucky’s voice was low, tight with emotion that was barely contained.

“I’ll be right over with them,” they walk away again.

Once out of earshot you hear Bucky make a noise of dissatisfaction, one that makes you cover your mouth to hide laughter.

“Eileen is right, you are grumpy,” you allow yourself a small giggle once the server is out of earshot.

“Aren’t you?” His eyes never strayed away from yours. “They had to interrupt when things were just getting interesting.”

“There is no rush,” you say softly.

“I only get tonight with you sweetheart,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know when we will get time like this again.”

“I don’t mind Eileen coming,” you remind him.

“I’d rather not have the questions,” he admits. “El was so young when her mother and I separated. I never expected to meet someone else. I never prepared her for it.”

Your head tilts, sensing guilt.

“Bucky,” you lean forward. “We don’t have to rush, or do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to feel any guilt.”

His eyebrows come together. “It’s not—” he pauses. “It’s been me and El for so long. She has always been my priority.”

You nod. “As it should be.”

The server then approached again, placing drinks on the table, then asked for the order. The pair of you are quick to order, wishing to return to the conversation.

As soon as they left, Bucky reached to take his glass, having a sip.

“I can’t give you what I’d want to give you,” his voice is quiet, almost tired. “I can’t put you first. If my babygirl needs care when we have a date, I have to pick her.”

He sounded as if he were convincing himself.

“Well, we aren’t there yet,” you speak lightly. “Why don’t we see how today goes before worrying about the future?”

He closes his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath.

“You’re right,” he nods, and his right hand reaches over. “We have to make the most of this.”

You copy him, stretching to take it — his large hand eclipsing yours.

“I’ve never seen you around town before,” his voice was quiet. “Not before the other week, have you just moved here?”

“Mm,” you hum the affirmative. “About six months ago, I was offered a higher paid position at the museum. Thought it might be more of a challenge.”

“And is it?”

You sip your wine at the thought of your job. “It feels like I’m doing three people’s jobs,” you admit. “There is more to record, more things to go wrong, more people to cover for.”

You finish your drink and sigh.

“I love it, but I’m not sure the pay is worth the workload,” your voice is quiet.

“Mm,” he hums. “You’re overworked.”

You shrug. “For now,” you give him a half smile. “It’s been stressful the past few months. The move, new job… but meeting you gave me a little bit of normalcy.”

You pause before admitting the next part.

“I was looking at my phone to see if you’d text me, rather than panicking over bills,” you keep your eyes to the table. “It was nice.”

He chuckles softly.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to text you,” he breathed. “I— I was afraid. It’s been so long since I did this.”

“You’re good at it,” you reassure him. “You make me feel seen. You’re listening to me, paying attention to me even when I’m not asking you anything.”

“You’re more interesting,” he says, his fingers now making patterns on the back of your hand.

You shake your head slowly. “You’re an ex-army vet, with a metal arm and an adorable little girl. You are far more interesting.”

It was then your food was brought over and placed before you continue.

“I might have many stories to tell, but many of them aren’t pleasant, sweetheart,” his tone is dark and warning. “I haven’t lived a pleasant life.”

You let go of his hand, picking up a doughball from his plate and holding it between your fingers in front of him to eat.

Bucky eyes you for a moment before biting into it. Something about feeding the man felt strangely intimate.

“If you give me a chance,” your voice came out quiet yet determined. “I’d like to help you create some nice stories. Happy stories. Some about Eileen that you can embarrass her with when she’s older. Some about you and Sam… and maybe some about you and me.”

His brow furrows, contemplating.

“I'd enjoy that,” he admits.

You squeeze his hand a moment before starting to eat. The two of you eat, not quite in silence but in a comfortable quiet where you’d occasionally speak to comment on the food.

You peek up to look at Bucky, the blue of his eyes seem endless as he ponders.

“What is it?” You ask.

“What do you do outside work?” His eyes flicker up to you.

“Currently, not much, I’m still decorating,” you admit. “I like going on walks.”

“Hmmm,” he leans back.

“What about you?”

“Most of my time is taken up by Eileen,” he admits, his eyes still distant. “Or I tinker with my bike.”

“You ride motorbikes?” You tilt your head in interest.

Bucky nods. “Even when I was a kid. My friends and I used to piece together scrap to ride around.”

He pauses a moment, measuring your interest before continuing. “Working on bikes led me to the Army. I thought I could get a degree through them. Didn’t turn out as I planned.”

He looks down to his hands. “I ended up a Sniper. Turns out my hands were good for things other than fixing bikes.”

You could hear the stiffness in his voice, but he continued as if he could no longer contain himself.

“I got promoted to Sergeant,” he then twitched, his metal arm flexing slightly. “Then I lost my arm, and was allowed to resign my commission.”

“I met El’s mother a few months later,” his eyes then locked on yours. “I was still recovering, and she didn't look at me with pity. Things went fast, El came along and…”

His eyes appeared to look behind you, distant as though reliving a memory.

“When I proposed she said no,” his jaw came together, eyes watering slightly. “She screamed about how she’d put up with me for the past two years, and how Eileen and I were holding her back, keeping her life on hold, stopping her career.”

His eyes flicker back to yours.

“El thinks her mother walked away,” his voice was quiet. “But in truth, the next morning I packed up and took El with me. She was seven months old. Her mother never even contested when I requested custody of her.”

“You never got in trouble for taking El?” You wonder.

“No,” he shakes his head. “As I said, my custody was never contested. In truth, I believe she wanted me to walk out and take El with me.”

You lean over, taking both his hands in yours.

“You did the right thing,” you speak softly.

“So I’m told,” his eyes are sad, guilt etched into the lines of his face.

“What would you like for dessert?” You ask, keeping your eyes fixed on him, trying to distract him from his train of thought.

“Hmm?” He blinks. “I don’t know…”

“I was thinking of a tiramisu,” you say. “But the sorbet also looks good.”

“I usually skip and have a coffee,” he admits.

“We could share,” you suggest. “If you’d like.”

His eyes refocus.

“I can’t remember last time I had a tiramisu,” a semblance of enthusiasm began to seep into his voice.

You smile, heart fluttering slightly at your success.

You remove the silk gown slowly before hanging it up, and slipping into your bed.

You allow yourself a soft sigh, eyes closing your eyes as your fingers interlock, remembering the feel of his hands on yours.

Just as your hands begin to trail up your arms, there is a faint buzz. You ignore it, shifting under the covers in an attempt to keep warm.

You hear another buzz, and groan slightly as your eyes flicker open.

Your hand aimlessly reaches for your phone on your bedside table. With a tug, the cable disconnects and you pull the phone in front of your face to see Bucky’s name on the screen.

Your thumb lingers for a moment before pressing the green button and raising the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” You keep your voice quiet, to avoid disturbing others.

“Hey,” you hear the soft rumble. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” you admit. “Just got to bed.”

“Mm, sounds nice,” you hear him rummaging around. “El insisted on a bedtime story, and that I stay with her until she fell asleep.”

He inhales slowly, and you hear his heavy footsteps. “Haven’t got a shower yet.”

“Go and get one,” you encourage him sleepily.

He chuckles on the other end. “Are you falling asleep, sweetheart?”

“Your voice is nice,” you admit in a haze.

His laugh is brighter. “Good. I’m sorry I called, I— I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Bucky,” you blink in an attempt to keep awake.

“It’s been a long time since I met someone who seemed intent on my happiness,” he goes quiet for a moment. “My life is dedicated to Eileen, there is no room for myself.”

You shift to sit up.

“You deserve to be happy,” you say softly. “Eileen wants you to be happy too.”

“Mm,” he murmurs. “I’d like you to come with us.”

“Bucky?”

“Eileen and I were planning to go to a Science Museum in a few weeks,” he says. “I would like you to come with us.”

“I thought you didn’t want to confuse El?”

“Well,” he exhales. “Fuck it. She likes you. I like you. I want you there and I know El would too. It’ll be hard, and we may have to struggle. But, how I feel — it is worth it, you are worth it.”

You blink away at your tired eyes.

“Bucky, I don’t know what to say,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” his voice is smooth, like butter, soothing. “Just be there. That's all I ask.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be there.”

It took three weeks before a date was set.

So here you stood, in the shadow of the museum, a large backpack on your back and eyes flickering across the car park.

You hear a screech of excitement before you feel something collide with your legs.

“You’re here!” You peek down and smile at the girl clinging to your legs

“Hey El,” you greet her, and attempt to crouch down. She backs off for a moment before seeing your open arms, and jumping into them, almost launching you backwards.

You hear a chuckle from above and you give her a squeeze. Your eyes flicker up to Bucky, his shadow casting over the pair of you, protecting you.

“Hey,” he says softly. He is wearing a plain shirt and jeans, a backpack over his shoulders.

Your eyes are unable to resist flickering over the broadness of his shoulders to the way the shirt clung to his arms, down to the veins along his forearms. Seeing him in person like this suddenly made all those video calls and texts worthwhile.

Eileen backs away, stepping back towards her father and giving you a grin.

Without even thought you straighten up, still overshadowed by the man slightly.

“Hey,” you greet him. “What’s with the bag?”

“It’s for a picnic,” he shrugs. “Didn’t want to pay for the cafe.”

You tilt your head and look at Eileen. She looked unfazed, as if it were normal.

“I made ham and cheese!” El declared proudly. “And boring salad for Daddy.”

Bucky visibly rolled his eyes. “It's chicken, and my salads are to die for.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is there enough to share?”

“I made two,” El bounced in excitement.

He pats her on the head gently.

“She insisted we make enough for you,” he shrugs casually. “El, hand please.”

The little girl reaches up automatically, taking his hand whilst Bucky holds out his metal hand to you.

“Shall we?” He suggests.

The inside of the museum is wide and open, a glass roof overhead of the central rocket filling the auditorium.

“Oooo,” El begins to rush forward, dragging her father with her. “A rocket!”

Bucky smirks in amusement at his daughter and gives you a wink.

“It’s a replica of the Rocket from Apollo 13,” Bucky keeps his eyes fixed forward.

Eileen bounds forward to the glass fence. “Three, two, one… Blast off!”

You smile and look over to Bucky who you also see smiling.

“She likes space?”

“I showed her the Artemis launch, and she’s been obsessed ever since,” he squeezes your hand. “She gets it from her father.”

“You like space?”

“Anything Physics,” he nods. “Engineering especially.”

“Nerd,” you tease him.

“Remind me what your job is again?” He sasses back, eyes returning to his daughter. You gently nudge him playfully with your arm, fingers still interlocked with his.

A slight tremor runs through him as he chuckles.

“You’re cute,” he keeps his eyes on Eileen, who is now standing entranced by a small screen showing the launch of a rocket. “People usually aren’t brave enough to tease me.”

“Because you are ex-Army, and built like a house?” You ask, your eyes remain on him, taking in how his hair was down — kept behind his ears.

“Mm,” he agrees. “I have what Sam calls a resting bitch face.”

You snicker, and feel Bucky’s eyes flicker to you.

“You aren’t denying it?”

“You do have this tendency to look a little…” you pause. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“No?” His lips twitch for a moment.

“No,” you repeat. “You’re gorgeous even with the resting bitch face.”

“Mm,” he lifts your joined hands, brushing his lips across your knuckles. “Thanks.”

The next few hours were filled with the excited squeals of Eileen at the different exhibits. Space suits, moon rocks, and a long documentary on the International Space Station. The three of you ended up in the large auditorium, sat on a bench with the picnic spread out in front of you.

Eileen sat talking animatedly about space, about all the planets she had looked up in books, what astronauts did in space and how much she wanted to see the stars.

Through it all Bucky never once interrupted her, to try to deter her from her dream. He nodded and spoke to her casually, almost like an adult.

“You okay there, honey?” Bucky’s voice broke you out of your thoughts.

“You’re such a good Dad,” you say without thinking about it.

He gives you a gentle smile, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “Thank you.”

You look over to Eileen who seems content eating her sandwich, whilst carefully colouring in a page she’d been given. Her eyebrows were scrunched together slightly, and the grip on her small pencil was tight.

“Is it like this all the time?” You wonder. “With you and Eileen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Peaceful, just out having fun,” you say.

“No, this is a treat,” he admits. “Normally we spend our weekends at home, we might go to the park or take a walk.”

“Just father-daughter time,”

“I guess,” he shrugs.

“Daddy colours with me,” Eileen interrupts, taking a sip of her juice. “In our NASA colouring book.”

You smirk and from the corner of your eye spot Bucky, placing his metal hand over his face.

“Daddy bakes with me. We made cookies!” She declares proudly.

Bucky chuckles, allowing hand to fall back to the table. “The icing was everywhere.”

“It was yummy!” She waves her arms in excitement. “Can you make cookies?”

You give her a gentle smile. “Yeah.”

Eileen gasps in excitement. “Come to my house! Let’s bake cookies.”

You laugh quietly.

“Maybe another time,” Bucky reaches over to calm her. “We have more of the museum to see.”

Another hour passed, walking through the long exhibit on the Solar System. The corridors were dark, covered with small lights to represent stars, every so often opening up into a room for each planet, projections of the planet flowing onto the walls, with paintings of the surface of the planet.

Upon reaching Saturn, you hear the sound of rocks for Saturn’s Rings.

“This is incredible,” you murmur.

Ahead, Eileen was bounding forward, keeping a close but far enough she could watch first.

“It is,” he agrees, squeezing your hand. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,”

“Would you like to visit an observatory?” He sounded nervous.

“With El?”

He shook his head. “She’d get bored of the talk. I— I have always wished to go.”

“Bucky,” you smile at him, flattered that he was willing to openly be himself with you. “Of course, I will.”

“You will?”

“Sure, sounds kind of romantic,” you shrug shyly. “Sat looking up at the stars.”

“Maybe,” he sounds unsure.

You squeeze his hand as you speak. “Bucky, you don’t need to give excuses. If you want to go to an observatory, we can go. All I want is to be with you.”

He stiffened a moment before keeping pace with you again, his eyes moving from your face to his daughter.

“You really want that?”

“Yeah,” your voice is quiet against the vast expanse of projected space. “I like spending time with you both.”

You feel a kiss against your hair. “Thank you.”

Your eyes flicker to glance at the lights crossing his features, then forward again. Your mind slowly began to list other date ideas, not just an observatory. Walks under the night sky, visits to climbing walls for El, maybe a motorcycle show or two.

A small smile remained on your face as you leaned into Bucky, feeling a sense of contentment amongst the stars.

One, two, three.

You count the knocks as you tap against the door.

Immediately you hear the sound of rushed footsteps, before the door flings open.

And there he is.

It takes a moment to process the sight in front of you. Bucky stood inside in a white tank top, with simple grey sweatpants and slips on his feet.

“Hey,” his voice is soft. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You feel heat creep up your cheeks, recalling the dazed rush you’d been in. Receiving his text asking you to come round, changing frantically from your loose shirt and leggings into a summer dress, checking yourself in the mirror, once, twice and then a third time before leaving.

“Did you need something?”

He gives you a simple nod and steps aside. “Come in.”

You step inside, taking care to remove your shoes as you hear the click of the door shutting.

“Here,” Bucky passes you, heading straight to the sofa.  You glance around the room, it isn’t as messy as you anticipated. There were no signs of El or her toys. Just a glass of water on the coffee table, and a beer bottle on the side table.

He slumps onto the leather, one arm up perched on the back as he nods down next to him.

You pursue your lips as you sit down, curious.

“Breathe,” his voice is soft. “I wanted to spend time with you.”

You take a shaky breath. “I thought you might’ve—“

You blink to try and hide the tears in your eyes. “I thought you were breaking up with me.”

His lips parted for a moment before he allowed his head to fall back slightly, chuckling.

 “It’s not funny,” you protest weakly.

He stills a moment, tongue moving visibly inside his mouth, leaving you slightly entranced. The things he could do with that tongue…

“I’m sorry I worried you,” his tone was gentle, the fingers of his metal hand tracing your collarbone over your shirt. “Eileen is having a sleepover with a friend.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Really?”

He gave a soft smile as he nodded. “She’s been begging me for months. I thought it might be time.”

“And you invited me?” You twitch, beginning to understand.

“I’ve missed you,” he admits. “The phone calls don’t feel like enough.”

A surge of warmth filled your heart softly running through your veins.

“I missed you,” you reach over to lay your hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you.”

His fingers begin to play with the hair at the nape of your neck. “You’ve been busy, I understand.”

You lean into his hand, the cool metal cupping your cheek.

“So have you,” your voice cracks.

“Hm,” his face relaxes into its usual expression, slightly grumpy with the lines on his face plain. “Too busy.”

Almost of its own accord your hand most up, brushing against the cotton stretched across his chest before allowing the tops of your fingers to linger on the stubble on his jaw.

“I was going to cook you dinner,” he confesses. “Got too eager and invited you before I could decide what to cook.”

You begin to smile, thumb brushing his chin. “That’s okay, I’m just glad to be here.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You’ve dressed up, and I didn’t even cook you dinner.”

The leather of the sofa squeaked as you shuffled closer to him, legs brushing.

“We can order take out?” You suggest. “Order pizza, lounge around with bad TV on.”

He chuckled. “Now that is a good idea.”

He reached into his pocket for his phone, flicking his fingers across it.

The next few minutes were filled with the quiet chatter of debating which pizza to order. Unconsciously, you find yourself pulled closer to him, practically leaning on him as you look at the screen.

“Hm,” he grunted. “It’s going to be a while, sweetheart.”

You allow your head to fall into his shoulder, allowing your eyes to close. His metal arm tightens slightly around your waist.

“What a shame,” you murmur sarcastically.

“Did you have plans?” he teases back.

You tilt your head up as your eyes open. “I wasn’t sure how late you’d want me to stay.”

“Oh,” he breathed and shook his head. “Doll, I want you to stay all night.”

“All night?”

“You think I’d let my baby girl out of my sight for the night if I didn’t?” He points out.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “You wanted to—“

“I hoped,” his flesh hand was in your hair now, holding you in pace whilst his left kept you against him. “I can’t keep up this façade, pretending I don’t want more with you. Like you don’t brighten both our lives with your presence.”

“Bucky,” your breaths are shallow, fast, eyes fixed on his.

His face contorted, several emotions passing across his face whilst his eyes softened.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he pleads. “I couldn’t bear to go through it again.”

Your eyes water slightly, heart tightening in empathy. The past month he’d held back, only holding your hand, or pressing a kiss to your forehead. You’d feared the lack of intimacy indicated no interest, but now you knew otherwise.

He had avoided moving too fast out of fear of repeating the past.

“It’s not too fast,” you promise. “I did wonder why you held yourself back.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns. “I— I didn’t want to lead you on. I like you, in fact, I adore you. You’ve worked past the steel I’ve forged around my heart to make your home there, and you’ll never leave.”

You swallow audibly.

“When I met you,” your voice is quiet. “All I wanted to do was try and put a smile on that face. You looked so shaken from El wandering off, and concerned about disturbing me. My heart went out to you. The more time we spent together, the more you showed me every facet of who you are. The more I found myself wanting to be around you. Ironically, you make me happy when all I wanted was to do that for you.”

“You make me happy,” he gives you a nod before licking his bottom lip. “Let me show you.”

His breath fans across your face, and you faintly smell beer on it. A slight movement and his lips are on yours, keeping you secure against him as you reciprocate feeling the softness of his lips but not pushing any further.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is thick as his forehead leans against yours.

“Have you been drinking?” You say quietly, your heart sinking at the thought of him being drunk.

“Oh,” he hand drops from your face, reaching behind him to pick something up and show you the brown bottle — mostly full. “I took a sip when I heard you knock, I needed some courage.”

You glance at the bottle, feeling your muscles loosen up and give a relieved laugh.

“Sorry,” you apologise.

“Don’t apologise,” he shakes his head. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” you reach up to allow your fingers to tangle in the hair, flowing from above his ear to the base of his neck.

“Fair enough,” he takes a long sip before placing it back on the side table behind him. You quietly laugh again. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” you grin. “Needing a beer like you’ve never spoken to a woman. It’s cute.”

“I don’t need a beer to speak to a woman,” he pretends to be offended. “I need a beer to speak with you.”

You snort. “Corny.”

Unable to hold the serious expression, he laughs lightly.

“I am,” he agrees, then leans forward to press a quick peck to your mouth.

“Hey!” You complain with a laugh of your own. “Bucky!”

His left arm tightens around your waist a moment, and he continues to tease you. “Sweetheart.”

“You’re so—” you wave your arm in mock frustration.

“Devastating handsome?” He winks.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, making a choking noise. His eyes widen slightly his horror, hand moving up to rub your back.

“You okay?” His tone dips in concern.

“You made me choke on my own spit!” You accuse him.

A relieved look passes his face.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, his hand still gently moving up and down your spine.

The sight of him suddenly felt too much. The fear in his eyes, the pink of his lips pressed together, the way his jawline twitched slightly as he strained.

“You are handsome,” you admit, leaning closer and pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah?” His lips twitch up slightly.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “And kind, and funny.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “And you’re the most generous woman I have ever met. Beautiful, gentle and caring. You ask nothing of me, you accept my poor excuses for not being with you—”

“Taking care of your daughter isn’t a poor excuse,” you interrupt.

“Let me finish,” he presses a finger to your lips. “You don’t mind Eileen being on our dates. You ask after her, treat her as your own.”

His blue eyes soften. “She loves you, you know?”

Your lip trembles slightly. “I love her.”

Bucky’s lips pull up into a proper smile, a rare sight. “As do I.”

The doorbell then rang.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Coming!”

In a flurry of shuffling and cursing, Bucky got off the sofa and headed to the door. The sight of such him stumble around, almost tripping brought a giggle to your lips.

You hear him grumble at you down the corridor before enthusiastically greeting the delivery driver, exchanging pleasantries before re-emerging into the room, carrying several boxes under his arm.

“You remain wordless, amused as he lays out the boxes onto the coffee table.

“Ah,” he slumps back next to you, remote in hand to turn on the TV. The chatter and music seemed faint compared to the sound of Bucky shifting to grab his beer again and reach for a slice with the other.

“Happy now?” You tease.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Been a long time since I had an evening like this.”

“Should I leave you alone with—?” You nod to the food.

“No,” he answers quickly, placing his beer down, then swapping the pizza from one hand to the other before holding out his free arm. “Get over here.”

You shuffle over, half your body covering his, as he finishes off his slice.

“Here,” his left arm holds you as his right reaches over for another slice. “Open.”

You blink a second before opening your mouth to allow him to feed you. You chew slowly, taking in his relaxed expression.

“This is nice,” you admit. “Domestic, comfortable. Like… home.”

He freezes for a moment. “Like home?”

You nod softly. “Better, because you’re here.”

“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically. “We could make this more permanent, honey.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could stay over,” he suggests. “Spend the weekends with El and me.”

“I thought you didn’t want to cause Eileen any confusion?” You say quietly. 

He snorts. “I’d cause her more by keeping you away.”

“And what if we sleep together?”

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it,” he snags another piece, taking a big bite to avoid speaking further.

“Bucky,” you voice is almost a whine. 

“Hush and eat your food,” his voice is gentle, no semblance of harshness in his tone.

“Yes sir,” you mutter, reaching over to join him in having pizza.

Slowly, as the take out boxes emptied, you ended up laid down, Bucky underneath, his back against the armrest, whilst your head was on his chest as your fingers brushed against his shirt.

Every so often, you’d move up and kiss him, softly. Taking your time to make the most of being alone with him. Then he’d occasionally move, tilting his head down to push his lips against the crown of your head, then tilting your head back to kiss you lazily, no force behind it, only a tempered heat that sparked the desire for more.

“Hey,” you hear him murmur. “You awake, sweetheart?”

“Barely,” your voice is a whisper, his body rumbles as he chuckles.

“Need me to carry you to bed?” His tone is teasing again.

“I— I don’t have any clothes,” you don’t move despite the comment.

“You can have some of mine,” he promises. “Come on, doll. Let’s get you in bed.”

As he moved, keeping you on his lap before turning and picking you up with surprising ease, it occurred to you that this is what he probably did with Eileen every night. Let her tire herself out before scooping her up and gently putting her under the covers.

It was a basic act of love. Something Bucky was used to, rather than the awkwardness of trying to force something on a date.

You barely notice where you are until he pops you onto what you assume is his bed. He goes to his drawers pulling out several pieces of clothing

“Here,” he gently tosses you a grey shirt. “I’m gonna change. Feel free to use the bathroom.”

He leaves through the open door, and you hear his footsteps as he heads down the corridor.

The room is dimly lit by the light filtering from the neighbouring bathroom, the bed sheets a simple navy blue, and upon the drawers were framed photos. Several were of Eileen, one was of Bucky, his arm around a man you didn’t recognise — Sam, you assumed. Then there was another, a new one, that you recognised. It was you, sat next to Bucky on the bench in the Space Museum. The photo was blurry, having been taken by Eileen herself, but even so you could see the happiness in Bucky’s eyes, the slight tilt in his lips.

You hadn’t realised you were standing until you reached to touch it, eyes watering slightly at his sentimentality.

“Hey,” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “You okay, doll?”

“You framed this?” Your voice is shaky.

“Of course,” he speaks casually. “It’s the only picture I have of you.”

“It’s only been two months,” you peek over at him from the corner of your eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” you feel him step behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. “Whether you know it or not, you’ve brightened my life. You’re important to me.”

“Bucky,” tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m not worth your tears, baby.”

“Yes, you are,” you sniffle, placing your hands on his. “You’re worth it all.”

You feel his breath against your ear, lips brushing faintly against your hairline.

“Still sleepy?” He asks.

Your head twists to look behind you then up at him. “A little, but I want you more.”

His eyes widen slightly at your words. “You’re sure?”

You nod, turning in his arms, and wrap your own arms around his neck.

“Yes,” you agree. “Nice and slow. Like you said.”

“I can do that,” he pulls you forward, stepping back until he falls back onto the bed, bringing you with him.

“Buck!” You laugh as you land on his chest, the thin cotton of his pyjamas gave little protection when your hands brushed his hardness of his chest.

He chuckles. “Buck, eh?”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks. “It kind of slipped out.”

“It’s okay,” he pulls you up carefully until you are face to face. “It’s more than okay.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head with a gentle smile. “I only allow those closest to me to call me Buck.”

“Yeah?”

The smile turns into a smirk as he hums in approval, leaning up to kiss you.

The kiss is different again, slow like before but with clear intent. A hand reaches to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. His lips move with precision, taking care not to push too far.

“Slow,” he murmurs against your lips as if reminding himself. You lean down this time, pressing gentle kisses across his face, working down to his neck before giving it a nip with your teeth.

“Easy,” his fingers brush through your hair. “Gonna get me off before our clothes are off.”

You giggle quietly. “Sorry.”

“No apologies,” his hand moves from your head to tilt your chin up. “Don’t be sorry for any of this. This is perfect.”

You pull back, and catch the hurt in his eyes. Your chest tightens with guilt, and you manage a deep breath before reaching under your skirt — pulling the dress off in a single movement.

“Oh,” his hands fall to your hips, eyes locked on your bare chest only covered by a simple bra. “That’s not slow, sweetheart.”

“I want to feel you,” you admit as you reach down, hands roaming up his arms as you lower yourself back down onto him.

He doesn’t say a word, instead his right hand moves up your skin, leaving a soft tingle in its wake, before stopping just at the hem of your bra.

“May I?” His voice is low with desire, eyes on your chest.

You nod, feeling enraptured by the sensation of his hands on you. His hand slid under your bra cupping your breast, then brushing his thumb over your skin.

“They’re real soft,” he murmurs, concentrating on how his fingers seemed to disappear into them.

“Been a while?” You guess.

His eyes flicker to yours. “I never got to experience this — to just touch. To get to know someone so intimately.”

“Here,” you reach up and pull down the straps on your bra, then unhook from behind you and throw it on the floor. “I trust you.”

He pulls himself further up, keeping you seated on his lap whilst his hands hovered over you.

“Still okay?” He asks, and you nod.

The sensation of one hand cold and the other warm, sent your mind into overdrive with sensation. Your nipples perking up slightly in interest as his fingers squeezed.

You reach forward, humming quietly at the feel of him on you, and reach for the bottom of his top.

“May I?” You whisper.

“Please,” he removes his hands and allows you to pull it over his head. Your breath catches in your throat for a moment at the sight of him.

You had known he was well built, and big, but seeing him without a shirt felt altogether different. Large shoulders framing his chest. Curiosity breaks through, your hands drift onto his chest, brushing softly against his chest, downwards as you notice there is no six pack, only the feel of muscle with a healthy layer of fat. It felt soft, like somewhere you wished to lay your head on every night.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” He asks, eyes fixed on your every expression.

“It feels nice,” you admit.

“Don’t exactly look like I’d fit the cover on Men’s Health, do I?” His tone is joking, but you scowl at him regardless.

“Yet you probably could lift a small car with those muscles,” you say, fingers now pressing into the muscles of his arm, one hand exploring soft muscle the other tracing the plates of his arm.

“That’s what the metal arm is for,” he jokes and leans forward to press a kiss to your mouth again.

You laugh as you pull away from the peck. “Could you lift me?”

“Easily,” he admits casually.

“Very humble,” you tease him, as his fingers begin to trace your sides.

“You asked,” he smirks.

“I did,” you agree, brushing your nose against his. “I’m curious what else,” your hand roams over his metal arm. “This arm can do.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dirty.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. He laughs then, all tension removed from the moment. 

”Bucky,” your voice is almost a whine.

“Breathe,” his voice turns soft. “It’s just us. You don’t have to hide anything.”

You give him a playful scowl, then shake your head.

“Are you asking me to talk dirty?” Your voice is slightly hesitant.

”Only if you want to,” his fingers made patterns on your bare sides. “Or I can…”

You feel his lips brush your cheek before speaking low in your ear. “You have no idea how hard it has been to keep our dates safe for El’s eyes. Trying to keep my eyes off you. When we first met—”

He pauses, shifting back to stare at you, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry about that. I checked you out and spoke without thinking. I was as embarrassed as you were, it’s why I wished to escape, and why it took me so long to text you.”

Your arms tighten around his neck. “You’re only human.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle, licking his bottom lip anxiously. “Thanks”

You lean forward to press a kiss to his mouth, moving slowly as you press yourself against him. One hand presses against the small of your back as the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck.

You gasp as he turns, causing you to land on your back head against the pillows looking up at him.

“Had enough talking?” His voice breaks slightly.

You nod, still slightly wide eyed.

“Good,” he buries his head into your neck, inhaling through his nose as his hands moved down to your underwear.

Your own hands mirrored his, reaching to pull him free. The moment dragged, suddenly the urgency of made it feel like no matter how hard either of you tried the clothes were just not coming off.

“That was more difficult than when it was my first fucking time,” he grumbles, kicking his leg to ensure he was completely bare.

You laugh quietly and shake your head. “Come here.”

He leans down again to kiss you. Even as your lips moved with his your could feel him against you, the warmth of his skin against your chest, your hands feeling the muscles of his back.

With a groan, his hips roll over yours to allow you to feel how hard he was. Your legs lift instinctively to allow him easier access.

There were no words passed between you. Bucky only lifted himself slightly to look into your eyes as you give a tiny nod to confirm you were consenting to all of it.

A hand abruptly landed on your thigh, curling inwards before moving between your bodies reaching to grasp himself and line himself up.

“It’s been a while,” he admits. “If I do anything it hurts, or anything you don’t like. Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” your voice is breathy, almost silent from the tension of the moment.

His blue eyes stay fixed on you, reading your expression before you feel the tip of him press against you.

He moved slowly, as if he feared that moving too fast would break you in half. Yet somehow it made everything better. You gasped as you stretched around him, friction building despite your arousal and the an ache that had previously gone unnoticed seemed to soothe as he bottomed out.

You exhale slowly as he pressed his forehead against yours, the room silent other than the sound of heavy breathing.

“You okay?” His voice broke slightly at the intensity.

“Yeah,” you respond, reaching so your arms wrap around him, hands grasping his shoulders. From the corner of your eyes you see the showdown of his own arms bracing himself above you.

Bucky keeps his eyes on yours. “Keep yours eyes on me, please.”

His hips move and withdraw slightly before pushing forward gently. A moan gets caught in your throat as you feel the stretch again.

The look in his eyes is intense, focused and his jaw ticks slightly as he concentrates.

“You’re making it real hard to hold it together honey,” he voice come from between clenched teeth.

“Slower?” You suggest and he shakes his head sharply.

“That’ll kill me,” his lips twitch in amusement at the thought. “I need to move.”

You brace your feet against the softness of the bedsheet, allowing your thighs to wrap around his hips lightly.

“Then move, Bucky,” you whisper your encouragement. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

He remains still, his eyes still focusing on you.

“Trust me?”

The words seem to stir something in him, his face softens, jaw loosening and he lets out a sharp exhale as though he had been holding his breath.

In a single movement he pulls out, then in an instant he pushes back in, watching as you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

His body begins to move in rhythm, faster than the first few thrusts but enough you find yourself keeping up, attempting to sync up with him.

The room felt oddly quiet only than the soft slapping of skin and your breathy sighs of pleasure.

“Feels good,” he murmurs, and leans down brush his nose against yours. He begins to move faster, just enough that you see him groan, his mouth passing yours a moment before leaving a trail of saliva from the edge of your lips to jawline.

“Bucky,” you moan as you feel him give a hard thrust and hold it there.

“More?” He suggests, his lips at your ear.

“Please,” your eyes sting slightly as your chest tightens slightly, desperate.

He pulls himself up to hover over you. One hand grasping your thigh, pulling it up, swinging your calf over his shoulder and pressing down.

“Oh f—” you cry out as you feel him push deeper, brushing against a spot that sends a flood of warmth through you.

“There,” he inhales, taking a moment whilst his left hand brushed your side, the cool of the metal leaving tingles in its wake before slipping down between your legs. “I’ve got you.”

The headboard banged against the wall with his next thrust, your voice gets caught in your throat, lips still parted as he hits with such precision you begin to fear being overheard at the noises you suppress.

“Let it out,” he commands, tone gentle. “I wanna hear it.”

Your voice cracks slightly as a long moan escapes you. “Bucky, please—”

“Close?” He asks and you nod frantically.

It was then he leaned down to kiss you, your bodies still rocking in an attempt to sync up, your legs begin to tremble around him. The metal of his fingers brushed the swollen nub between you, forcing your apart just a moment as your back arches into him with a soft cry, before he presses himself down on you. His weight holding you in place, mouth suppressing your sounds. His fingers continue, rubbing hard against you as he snaps forward hard.

Your body clamps around him, your cries muffled by his mouth. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, as you feel him continue, the friction against your walls making your eyes roll.

Bucky kisses your deeper then, almost as through to push you further into the mattress as he presses hard against your walls before his large frame shudders, and you feel a rush of liquid alongside your own.

His forehead lays softly on top of yours, and you watch his entire face soften. His eyes are shut, lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply before letting out a quiet laugh.

“Bucky?” You whisper, his eyes flicker open. The blue piercing through you.

“That was reckless,” he chuckles, shifting his weight to prop himself on both arms. “No condom.”

“Oh,” heat rushes to your cheeks as you realise the slight faux pas. You lips part to apologise.

“Don’t apologise,” he cuts you off. “I haven’t felt like this in nearly a decade. Just doing something because it’s fun, consequences be damned.”

You swallow, fingers reaching up to brush against his cheek. “I like that.”

“Yeah, enough to do it again?” His voice is quiet, nervous.

“Now?” You suppress a smile.

“Maybe in an hour,” he shrugs. “Was thinking of a bath? Then we can sleep, get El and maybe brunch?”

“That sounds…” your eyes gaze over for a moment, consumed by domestic thoughts. Sitting in the living room, colouring with Eileen. Having Bucky laid on your lap, running your fingers through his hair. Maybe a day would pass when you’d surprise Eileen with a sibling.

“Sounds nice,” you agree.

His shifts instantly, scooping you into his arms to carry you into the bathroom. His arms tighten around you instinctively and you hear him murmur above you.

“As long you’ll have me, I’ll be here.”

"You played so well tonight." Your thumb rubs the side of his bicep.

"Thank you for coming and supporting me.” His lips linger against your forehead.

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

He sighs contently, gaze drifting down. "My jersey looks good on you." He lifts your arm up and you do a spin for him. "Really fuckin' good."

Your heart pounds through your ribs.

He ducks his head beside your ear. "I don't know if I'll be able to keep my hands off of you until we get home."

Your lips part, cheeks heating up. He grabs your waist and pins you against the hood of his bronco. The car beside you pulls out and they honk at you.

You grab the side of his jaw and bring his mouth to yours. The kiss is far beyond innocent or appropriate for a public setting. Your free hand travels to the back of his head, nails clawing through his hair. He groans and grabs a handful of your ass.

You both are so caught up in each other that you fail to notice the people walking by. A whistle flows through the air and you pull away, glancing over. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, Hannah, and Allie are scattered throughout the lot, hopping into cars. Dean is headed in a straight line towards you.

He throws his hands up in the air. "If you're going to put on a free show, don't stop on my behalf."

You squint at him and Beau steps back. He walks over and pulls him in for a quick hug. They exchange quick compliments regarding the game and Dean shoots a wink at you—hinting to the double meaning. Beau gives his chest a shove, forcing Dean back a step.

A black jeep sounds its horn across the lot reminding Dean of his reason to come over. "Party at my house tonight. Be there." He starts to walk backwards while pointing a finger at you. "Don't distract him…too much."

You roll your eyes. ”We'll be there. Bye Dean."

Beau blows him a kiss through the air and turns back to you. He attempts to resume what Dean interrupted but you stop him.

"You heard the man. Party." You poke his chest.

He pouts, eyes begging, but you don't give in. Instead, you walk over to the passenger side of the car. He opens the door and helps you in. The sight of his last name stretched across your back makes his breath hitch. Garrett honks again as he drives by snapping him back to reality.

He walks around, sliding into the drivers seat. The bronco hums to life, cool air blowing softly onto the two of you. You close your eyes and sigh at the feeling, it was exactly what you needed after being outside for hours. The sound makes his brain short circuit.

You expect him to drive off or even buckle his seat belt, but neither of those come. When you turn toward him, his attention is glued to you.

"You feeling alright?" Your eyebrows furrow. "I can drive home if you need. We don't have to go to the party."

"No, I'm fine." His grip is rough against the inside of your thigh. "You're just gorgeous...so unreal."

A heat simmers low in your belly and you squeeze your thighs together. His jaw clenches, thumb gliding across your thigh. His other hand cups your face, bringing it to him.

He meets you in the middle, tongue pressing into your mouth instantly. The kiss is filthier than the last. The hand on your thigh reaches underneath you and grabs your ass. He murmurs something incoherent. You pull back and tilt your head.

He smirks and pats his lap. You get the hint, kicking off your shoes. He grabs your waist and helps guide you over the center console.

Once on his lap, you can't help but laugh. The space is so small and forces you to be completely against him. He smiles and gently holds your face, kissing the tip of your nose.

"I love you," he whispers. His grip drops down to your lower back.

You bite your lip. "I love you more."

You reach down and pull the lever causing the seat to fall back. Both of you giggle and get comfortable. Your hips accidentally grind against his and the laughter quickly turns into a groan. He's painfully hard and being able to feel your warmth isn't helping. You rock your hips, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh fuck baby." His eyes roll back as you continue. The back windows of the car have already started to fog despite the car running.

Headlights beam in as another car passes and you stop.

He glances up. "What's wrong?"

"What if someone sees us?"

“I don’t think anyone will." His face is full of certainty. "But we can stop if you want."

You glance around the lot. Two cars sit unoccupied in the corner and it's probably the janitors.

“No.” You clit pulses. “I need you now.”

You lean down and press your lips to his again. He grabs your ass and grinds against you.

"Your skirt." Beau says between kisses.

You attempt to take it off but the lack of room makes it surprisingly difficult. He smiles sympathetically, suggesting to turn around. You face the steering wheel and it's much easier this way. He also gets a perfect view of your ass. You turn to face him but he stops you.

"Stay facing that way." His fingers drag across your shoulder blades. "You look so good wearing my name. I wanna see it while I'm inside of you."

You hold onto the dashboard as he pushes down his shorts and boxers as far as possible. The leather is slick against your knees making it difficult to stay in the seat. Luckily, he grabs your hips and guides you backwards before you slide too far.

“Ride me baby.”

You hum and reach for his cock. It’s heavy in your palm and drenched in fluid. He helps line it up with your pussy, shaky breaths leaving him as your arousal coats the tip further. His jaw drops slack as you lower onto him.

You pause and wait for the stretch to subside. Once it does, you can fully feel him inside. There’s not an inch he doesn’t touch. “So…full.”

“Uh-huh.” His fingers tighten around your hips, guiding you up slowly. “And so fuckin' tight.”

You take a second to breathe before lifting and sinking back down. You both moan much louder than you should, but it's not like anyone is around to hear. You continue the movement, holding onto the steering wheel for balance. His body trembles as you squeeze him.

You try to speak but the words only come out in incoherent increments. Normally, he would tease you but tonight, it's too much. He bucks into you, tip of his cock hitting your sweet spot.

Your head falls forward, body trembling under the force of him and your orgasm approaching. He can feel it and slides a finger down to your clit, circling hard.

The combined effort sends you over the edge. You gush around him with a final thrust, he cums inside of you. Your body shudders as it hits your walls, filling you more than he already does.

Slowly, he lowers you down onto his chest. You both breathe heavily, coming down from the high. The windows are covered in fog and you reach up drawing a heart in the corner.

He chuckles and turns to face you, lips brushing against your hair. “We're definitely not making it to that party.”

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

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