Indecisive, obsessive, I crave

dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.

now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”

the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.

natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.

you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”

“for making you look hot?”

“for elder abuse.”

“you’re younger than me.”

“for emotional elder abuse.”

her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”

“you didn’t even pretend to think.”

“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”

you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.

“it’s a pool party.”

“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”

“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”

you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.

bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.

even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.

“he’s already here,” nat says.

you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”

“the pool boy.”

“tony has a pool boy?”

“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”

your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”

“he asked where you were.”

“to insult me?”

“probably to write a poem.”

you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.

natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”

“you’re already annoying.”

“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”

“he’s a large guy.”

“still one.”

“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”

she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”

you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.

bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”

nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.

sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.

everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.

and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.

of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.

you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”

“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.

“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”

“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.

“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”

that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.

then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.

you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.

he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.

just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.

you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.

natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.

“yes.”

“alcoholic?”

“aggressively.”

tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”

you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”

“thank you. sorry about your personality.”

“accepted. i bought another one.”

sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”

your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”

“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”

“it’s swimsuit technology.”

“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”

murder becomes briefly understandable.

bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”

that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”

sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”

bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”

“sounds painful.”

“sam.”

“what? i’m checking on my friend.”

“check quieter.”

you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.

Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”

“both can be true.”

“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”

you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.

Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.

Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”

Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”

The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.

you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”

“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”

“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”

That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.

It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.

Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.

There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.

You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”

“you looked like you were plotting.”

“I plot as cardio.”

“that explains the stamina.”

Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.

He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”

“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”

Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”

“I am threatening its family.”

“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.

Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”

“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”

“You hit me in my innocent head.”

“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”

A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.

Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.

Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.

Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.

Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.

Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.

Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.

“careful,” he says.

One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”

The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.

You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Don’t do that.”

A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”

“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”

You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.

Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”

You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”

You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.

You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”

His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.

Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.

He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”

“your discretion is unsettling.”

“i’m multifaceted.”

You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.

Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.

Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.

That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.

“No.”

She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”

“Desperately.”

“Go ahead.”

You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”

“Terrible lie. Try again.”

“I enjoy sunlight.”

“Worse.”

“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”

Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”

You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”

Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”

You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.

Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.

“He’s always weird.”

“With you, yes.”

“That’s very comforting.”

She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”

“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”

“Broad?”

“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”

“You slipped.”

“Emotionally.”

Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”

You glare. “This is theft.”

“This is friendship.”

“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”

“I let you buy the swimsuit.”

“That was attempted murder.”

Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”

Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.

Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”

“By normal people, maybe.”

“Barnes is many things.”

“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.

Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development. 

Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”

You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”

“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”

“I injured one man.”

“That’s how legends start.”

You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.

You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.

Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier. 

After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.

You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.

You stand.

“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.

“Apparently.”

Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.

Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Bucky looks back. “What?”

“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”

Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”

“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”

That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.

The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”

“Of fun.”

“Terrified.”

“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.

You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.

Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.

“Duck!” Sam shouts.

You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.

The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.

The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.

Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.

Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.

The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”

“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”

“Wasn’t blaming you.”

“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”

His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”

Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”

“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”

“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.

“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”

Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.

Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.

Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”

“Try to survive it.”

Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.

The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.

A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”

You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.

Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.

“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”

Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.

“I was checking on you.”

“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”

“So I see.”

“Then your work here is done.”

The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.

You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.

“Talk to me.”

Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”

“About what you said outside.”

“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”

His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”

The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”

“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”

“It really does.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”

“Trying to stop touching you.”

A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”

Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”

“I’m not.”

“Congratulations.”

His voice lowers. “Look at me.”

“No.”

He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”

That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.

His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”

That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.

Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”

You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”

His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m asking.”

“You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”

The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.

Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.

“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.

His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”

You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”

“That thing?”

His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”

“You hate it.”

His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”

That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.

“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.

“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”

You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”

His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”

The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.

“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”

“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.

“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.

The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”

“Let them.”

Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re agreeing?”

“Trying something new.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.

“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”

His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”

You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.

“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”

“You keep looking away.”

“I was trying to be decent.”

“That felt awful.”

His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”

“Great. Character development.”

He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”

You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is. 

This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.

His thumb stops. “Pity?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounded stupid before.”

You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”

That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.

He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.

Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”

You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”

“Pool water’s worse.”

“Comforting.”

His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”

You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.

“I’m cold,” you say.

Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to get you dry?”

There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”

“I saw.”

“You saw me almost fall.”

“I saw a lot today.”

A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”

“I looked back.”

That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”

You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”

The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.

“People are asking about dessert,” she says.

You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”

Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”

“Yes,” he says.

Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”

“Nat,” you hiss.

Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”

Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”

“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”

Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.

Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”

Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”

Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”

“Into the ocean.”

“Pool’s closer.”

“Too many witnesses.”

His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”

You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.

“Probably.”

“People are outside.”

“Yep.”

“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”

His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”

“And now?”

His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”

Your chest aches. “And?”

He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”

The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.

His eyes darken. “No?”

“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”

The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.

Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”

Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”

He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.

What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.

You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”

You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”

He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”

His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is having a day.”

Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.

Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”

You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.

He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.

Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.

You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”

“I can be patient.”

“You? Since when?”

His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”

You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.

Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”

“Very gentlemanly.”

“Trying.”

You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”

His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.

You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.

Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”

Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”

“You looked away.”

“I was an idiot.”

“That’s established.”

His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”

His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.

Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”

“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”

That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”

“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”

The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”

“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”

Your mouth opens. “He did not.”

“He did.”

“Was he concerned?”

“Very.”

You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.

You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”

“You smiled.”

“He was nice.”

“I know.”

There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”

“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”

You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”

“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”

That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I thought I had time to figure out how.”

“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”

“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”

The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”

His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”

“You heard me.”

“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”

Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”

“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”

The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”

“Shut up.”

“Been trying all day.”

“To shut up?”

“To keep from saying worse.”

His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”

“Don’t get smug.”

“Too late.”

You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.

Your entire body pauses.

Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.

“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”

He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”

Your mouth parts.

“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”

A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”

You do, barely.

“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”

Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”

“Yeah.”

“Usually people ask.”

“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”

That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.

His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.

The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.

Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.

What if someone comes in?

Bucky’s hands move to your hips.

What if the door isn’t locked?

He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.

What if this changes everything?

His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.

He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.

“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.

You swallow. “It was cold.”

“Liar.”

Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.

He does it again.

Lower this time.

Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?

“Bucky…”

His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”

You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”

“What?”

You glance away. “You don’t have to…”

He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”

The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.

His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”

Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.

His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”

The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.

Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.

“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”

Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.

He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.

Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.

His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.

His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”

“He was helping.”

“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”

His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.

You nod, too fast.

His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”

That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.

“Take it off,” you say.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second.

You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.

The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.

You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.

He does not.

His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.

“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”

Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”

“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”

The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.

It does.

It also makes you throb.

Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.

“Hey.”

You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”

His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”

His expression changes.

Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.

Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”

Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”

“I had a hard day.”

“You had a chair.”

“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”

“That must have been so difficult.”

He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”

There is no joke in his voice now.

Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.

“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.

“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.

The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.

Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.

“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”

His eyes open.

You may have gone too far.

His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”

Your lips part. “What?”

“What you said outside.”

The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.

“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.

Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”

You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.

It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.

“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.

You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.

“Answer me.”

You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”

“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”

You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”

“That’s not an answer.”

His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”

“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.

He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”

His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.

“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”

Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.

“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.

His fingers curl.

Your body goes liquid.

“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”

You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.

“Use words.”

A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.

“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”

That one splits you open more than his fingers.

You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.

“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”

Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.

“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”

He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”

“Bucky.”

“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”

Your nails dig into him.

“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”

You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.

“God, do that again.”

You do. Harder.

His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”

Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.

“Yeah?”

“It’s annoying.”

He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”

That should not work.

It works.

The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”

Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.

Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.

You whine.

The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.

Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.

His eyes darken. “Saw that.”

“You see too much.”

“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”

A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”

His brows lift.

Your face burns. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face again.”

“My face likes you.”

“Your face is an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”

The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.

He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.

Bucky stops.

Your eyes fly open.

He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”

Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”

“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”

Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.

“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.

He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”

Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.

He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”

Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.

You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.

Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.

His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.

“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.

Bucky hums into you.

Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.

“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”

“What?”

His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”

You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.

His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.

He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.

Bucky groans into your cunt.

The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.

“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.

He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”

“Again. I can’t…”

His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”

“You have too much confidence.”

“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”

“No.”

“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”

“I was making a point.”

“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”

You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.

Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”

If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.

“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.

His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”

Bucky stares at you.

For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.

His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.

“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”

You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”

“You were jealous.”

“You were avoidant.”

“I was hard enough to see God.”

A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”

“You asked for honesty.”

“I did not ask for theology.”

He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.

“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”

Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.

Your body gives in.

The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.

“Too much,” you gasp.

He stops at once.

The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“Your fault.”

“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”

You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.

Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.

“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.

His expression tightens. “All day.”

“Before today?”

He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

A pause.

The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.

“Long enough to act stupid about it.”

“That could be any amount of time.”

“Months.”

Your chest squeezes. “Months?”

“Maybe longer.”

“You’re terrible at flirting.”

“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.

You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.

He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”

“Finally, a smart idea.”

His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”

Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”

Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.

A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”

“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”

“You did great.”

He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.

Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”

You stop laughing.

His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re judging.”

“I am judging.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“With pool-party condoms?”

“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”

“What emergency did you anticipate?”

He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”

You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.

Bucky’s eyes darken again.

He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.

You clap a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“You left your emergency outside?”

“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”

You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.

“I’ll go,” he says.

“You are not going outside like that.”

His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”

You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”

“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”

“Guest robe.”

“Same thing.”

“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”

Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”

You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”

“Knowing you? Window.”

“Only if things get worse.”

He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”

“It says hurry.”

That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.

This is real.

Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.

Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.

Voices rise in the hall.

You freeze.

Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”

Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”

Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”

Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”

Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”

Bucky says something too low to hear.

A beat of silence.

Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”

Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.

The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.

You stare.

He points at you again. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You’re laughing with your whole face.”

“I would never.”

He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”

“Oh no.”

“Tony knows.”

“Tony knew before we did.”

“Steve looked proud.”

That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.

“Laughing at me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”

“I’m very brave.”

“You slipped twice today.”

“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”

His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”

The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.

“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”

His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”

“About you seeing me.”

His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.

“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”

“Trying to be clear.”

“Terrible habit.”

His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”

Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”

The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.

The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.

Bucky notices. Naturally.

“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.

You look up at him. “Less now.”

“Thought so.”

The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.

The first press against your entrance is almost too much.

He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”

You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.

“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.

A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”

“Then stop hanging.”

His hips push forward.

The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.

“Okay?”

You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”

His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”

You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.

He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

That is better.

You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”

“Maybe I want that.”

He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”

Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”

“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”

Your hands twist in the sheets.

He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”

You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.

“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.

His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“There?” he asks, already doing it again.

You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”

“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”

Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”

He thrusts harder.

The words vanish.

“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”

The filth of it makes you clench.

Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”

“You’re so smug.”

“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”

You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.

“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”

My girl.

You fall apart a little just hearing it.

His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”

“Bucky…”

“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”

You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.

“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”

“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.

“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.

You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.

Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”

“They’ll hear.”

“Good.”

“Bucky.”

His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”

Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.

“You close?”

You nod, helpless.

“Say it.”

“I’m close.”

His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”

Your eyes open. “What?”

“Ask me to make you cum.”

The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.

“You’re impossible,” you whimper.

“Ask.”

His hips slow.

That is evil.

You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”

“Ask me, baby.”

A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.

“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”

Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.

His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.

“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”

Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.

Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.

It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”

You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.

“Where?” he rasps.

The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.

“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”

He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.

Then he softens by degrees.

His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.

Outside, someone cheers again.

Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”

You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”

“We can carpool.”

“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”

He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”

“You crushed me.”

“You wrapped around me.”

“You were available.”

His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.

He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”

You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.

Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face is speaking.”

“My face has been through a lot today.”

He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.

When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.

“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.

His eyes lift.

Right.

You both hear the echo.

This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”

The answer settles over the old wound quietly.

You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.

He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.

You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”

“You owe me an apology.”

“I gave you one.”

“I want another.”

He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”

“For being weird at the pool.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For looking away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For making me think you hated it.”

His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”

You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.

“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.

His arm tightens.

A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.

“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”

Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”

His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”

“Yes.”

“Your thighs almost killed me.”

A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”

“I’m serious. National threat.”

“You’re so stupid.”

He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”

You go still for half a second.

He feels it.

The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.

“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.

You close your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”

A knock hits the door.

Both of you freeze.

Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”

You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.

Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”

“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”

Footsteps retreat.

Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”

Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”

The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.

Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.

“Eventually,” you say.

He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”

“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”

“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”

“That’s ambitious.”

His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”

“You said that before.”

“I lied.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.

Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you. 

His favorite passenger. 

Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights. 

He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk. 

He liked it when you talked to him. 

“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled. 

Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days. 

He liked to think it gave him a refined look. 

Something you might notice.

The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him. 

Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.

It didn’t stop him from hoping. 

He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat. 

The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that. 

It sounded right coming from you. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.

There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip. 

“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you. 

The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable. 

He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence. 

“We made it through another day,” you sighed. 

“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.

You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm. 

He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”

“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”

Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue. 

“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”

He already knew what it was.

“Protein bar?”

“Protein bar,” you confirmed. 

He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand. 

You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then. 

Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior. 

Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said. 

It was a thoughtful thing for you to do. 

“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there. 

Something soft… and real.

Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had. 

You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there. 

“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”

“Same trip as always,” you replied. 

Of course.

A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew. 

Every Thursday.

He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.

Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home. 

He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”

Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you. 

Never you. 

You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”

He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”

“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said. 

It wasn’t always easy to do that. 

“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”

He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”

You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.

“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on. 

“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster. 

“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper. 

You really were something.

“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly. 

A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”

Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there. 

“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”

She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket. 

She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.

The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.

He certainly talked about you enough to her.

He talked about you with his younger sister, too. 

“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”

Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy. 

“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”

You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”

And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice. 

“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”

He liked to think so.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”

“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.

Because he had been counting.

“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”

It seemed like only yesterday to him.

He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind. 

The kindest passenger he had that day.

“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!” 

“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.

“Same thing!” 

He was a goner.

Every week his crush grew stronger.

But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more. 

“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”

Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently. 

His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.  

He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.

“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.

The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend. 

Not once. 

But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?

His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression. 

I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants. 

I just wish it was me.

“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”

For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.

Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.

…I’m in deep. 

“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.

That made him pause. 

“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”

Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it. 

It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?

Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.

“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”

A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said. 

He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.

Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…

He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there. 

“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”

He huffed out a laugh. “No.”

Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver. 

“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”

You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”

“They’re not bad,” he said casually.

As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.

“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”

He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled. “You better.”

The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. 

Or it might mean everything.

He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”

You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him. 

He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous. 

Always. 

“Anytime.”

You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You look nice today, too,” you said.

It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest. 

“Yeah?” he managed to ask. 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”

It was an echo of his own words to you. 

Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he whispered.

He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled. 

You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of. 

But he was just your driver. 

Nothing more. 

“I’m in trouble,” he muttered. 

By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand. 

You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice. 

“Hey,” he said once you got in. 

“Hey,” you echoed, settling in. 

“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road. 

“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”

He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”

“Did you have a good night?”

It was the best night because he got to see you again. 

“Not too bad,” he answered. 

You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”

You could have takeout with me.

“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”

Why did I say that?

“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”

He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”

“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”

Because you’re… you.

It was quiet for the rest of the ride. 

He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest. 

A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”

You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime.”

“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”

“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”

He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot. 

A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile. 

It was him. 

There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue. 

BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!

His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief. 

You mentioned him to your family?

“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?” 

“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”

He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in. 

You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered. 

His heart felt full. 

And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling. 

“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”

“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle. 

You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within. 

She feels something, right? It can’t just be me. 

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”

He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real. 

Or… maybe he just imagined it. 

“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”

“Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”

You smiled softly before you got out. 

He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe. 

But he didn’t take it.

He kept that line drawn. 

You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.

His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.

Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.

Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”

Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything. 

He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.

For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.

Coward. Life’s too short.

He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”

Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday. 

He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you. 

Not at all.

And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.

Just because she said I look nice…

He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.

Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”

He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut. 

“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.” 

The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.

Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”

Maybe he did.

Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. 

“Thanks, punk.”

He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.

Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.

And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.

Eventually.

His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.

There you were again.

The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down. 

Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.

The instinct hit him harder than before.

Yeah. I’m royally fucked.

He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care. 

There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.

It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.

“Same thing,” you murmured. 

“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.

“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.

He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.

It didn’t belong there.

Is she okay? Was work extra rough?

He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”

Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.

Let me help however I can.

“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”

“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”

“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”

“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”

You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else. 

He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.

“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”

He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.

“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”

His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt. 

I chose well. 

“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”

You giggled. “It sure does.”

He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.

He felt like he could breathe again.

“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”

“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”

“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”

“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”

“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.

You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”

“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”

“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”

He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”

You smiled. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”

And I’m just your driver.

Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered. 

He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”

Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.

“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.

“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.

His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”

Sergeant Barnes.

It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened. 

You remembered.

“Of course, I do.”

The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.

“Here we are,” he said minutes later.

“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”

He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.

“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“That’s really sweet, Buck.”

He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”

Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”

They made him feel cool by giving him the card. 

“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”

“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good. 

Say something. Do something. 

But he didn’t. 

There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting. 

But why did it feel like you were disappointed?

“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he exhaled.

He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.

Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up. 

“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.

He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.

But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?

At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?

His phone buzzed. 

Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”

Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”

Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt. 

But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment. 

Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”

Bet? What fucking bet?

Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”

Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”

He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both. 

And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn. 

The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you. 

He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay. 

And you still gave him a smile when you got in. 

Smiling like she’s happy to see me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”

“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.” 

“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”

“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.” 

That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”

“The coolest.”

He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more. 

“Did you have a good night?” 

“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered. 

And thinking of you. Always thinking about you. 

He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way. 

To hold you would be a gift.

“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place. 

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag. 

You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”

Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too. 

It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number. 

You gave him your phone number. 

His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.

“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”

His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot. 

You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.

“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”

“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”

You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. 

He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better. 

This felt more right. 

“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”

You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle. 

He couldn’t look away from you if he tried. 

“Good night, Buck.”

“Good night.”

Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.

He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real. 

Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional. 

But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up. 

“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”

Still counting like me. 

“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”

A neutral message. Polite. Professional. 

“I’m still in trouble.”

And he grinned like an idiot because of it.

You messaged him on Friday night.  

He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.

MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”

His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof. 

A full minute was enough time. 

“And?”

He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt. 

MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”

A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”

MFP: “I trust you.”

That made his breath catch. 

He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”

She meowed happily. 

He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone. 

You messaged him again an hour later. 

MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”

He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”

He deleted it and started over.

“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”

MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”

Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”

MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”

That was a win in his book.

You didn’t message him again until Saturday night. 

MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”

He smiled immediately. 

“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”

MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”

“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”

MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”

He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful. 

“You, too.”

He read the message again after sending it. 

Maybe it was another message that was too short. 

And it was too late to erase it. 

You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday. 

MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”

He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline. 

“There’s no cat like Al.”

MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”

He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene. 

“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”

MFP: “I’m honored.”

He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day. 

It was his turn to message you first. 

“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”

He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough. 

MFP: “Do I have to have water?”

He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face. 

“Need you to stay hydrated.”

Because he cared.

MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”

You’re too good to live on stubbornness. 

“Still need water.”

MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”

Oh, that did something to him. 

MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”

“I will.”

He would for you. 

He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday. 

That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you. 

But he checked his phone more than he should have. 

You messaged him first thing on Wednesday. 

MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”

Relief hit him faster than he expected. 

“Almost. You surviving?”

There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice. 

MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”

He frowned a little. 

“Hang in there.”

He hesitated before adding another message. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was another pause. 

MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He stared at it longer than he meant to. 

Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it. 

He sent one more message before he could stop himself. 

“Can’t wait.” 

He meant it. 

Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.  

Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.

Almost. 

Tonight could be a turning point.

Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.

Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”

Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”

He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.

Like it’s that easy.

He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.

The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before. 

It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.

Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you. 

It didn’t sit right with him at all.

“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it. 

“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.

Same thing.

You didn’t say it. 

You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge. 

There were no comments on anything. 

Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.

Something was wrong.

I fucked this up, didn’t I? 

He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped. 

He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either. 

Maybe you expected more and he let you down.

Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back. 

“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”

“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”

He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”

He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.

He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.

“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.

“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”

The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.

It worried him.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”

He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job. 

You weren’t most people there, were you?

Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.

Like Becca said… you care.

“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”

You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”

He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”

He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment. 

His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up. 

“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”

You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.

“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”

A sense of purpose. A mission. 

“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”

“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”

He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.

“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”

He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”

He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression. 

“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished. 

“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”

You make me feel like I matter. 

“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”

Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that. 

What needs fixing?

“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”

You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.

He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.

“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.

He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little. 

“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.

“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say. 

Lean on me if you aren’t.

Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.

His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.

You weren’t okay.

For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it. 

But something told him he was about to find out.

By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth. 

It had to have helped. 

…Right?

His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.

It cracked.

You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.

What the hell happened?

You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully. 

Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin. 

He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful. 

He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.

You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.”

The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same. 

The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.

And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.

His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him. He was just…

Your breath hitched on the next turn. 

He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.

He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too. 

Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you. 

He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile. 

It’s okay to break with me. 

“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”

“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”

“Hey…” he whispered again. 

You don’t need to be strong tonight. 

You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”

“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”

Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away. 

He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.

 But he wanted to be there for you.

“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”

That did it. 

A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.

His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.

You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.

“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”

Your words were like a punch to the gut.

Oh, no…

“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”

His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering. 

“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”

His throat went tight. 

“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

It all made sense now. 

The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.

While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.

Alone.

And he couldn’t fix it for you.

“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”

Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do. 

“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”

Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.

Not anymore.

His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him. 

Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you. 

“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”

He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…

“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear.  “And you do. You have such a big heart.”

You cried harder, making him hold you closer. 

“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back. 

Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort. 

You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”

Like me being a coward about my feelings for you. 

You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked. 

“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”

You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”

Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again. 

“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”

Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall. 

“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”

You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.

“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”

“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. 

Say whatever you need to. I got you.

“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”

You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears. 

“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted. 

Bucky froze completely. 

You exhaled shakily, like you said too much. 

“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.

I’m the best part of your week? 

Not work, your friends, or even your family?

Me?

Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.

But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter. 

Him.

And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?

His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way. 

Maybe you wanted him, too.

If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?

Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.

“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.

He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine. 

You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired. 

You had a good reason to feel tired.

But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe. 

You’re safe with me.

The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.

Neither of you moved right away when he parked. 

“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”

It wasn’t a question or suggestion.

Should’ve been doing that since the first night. 

“I’d like that,” you uttered. 

“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable. 

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”

You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”

“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”

He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him. 

Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one. 

He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over. 

And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it. 

You took it. 

Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both. 

It felt like your hand belonged with his. 

It feels right. 

He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out. 

The hurt was still there, but you were safe.

You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand. 

The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper. 

He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind. 

Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number. 

Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”

The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list. 

How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks. 

The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.

The way you said he’s the best part of your week. 

The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you. 

Time to erase the line for good. 

He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”

You gazed at him expectantly. 

“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”

Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue. 

“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”

That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.

Just say it. 

“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”

Your breath caught enough that he felt it. 

“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air. 

Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone. 

You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.

“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”

Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company. 

“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.” 

A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm. 

“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”

You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight. 

“I’d like that,” you said 

The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine. 

“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”

Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you. 

Tomorrow?

His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this. 

“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly. 

You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”

Too fast?

I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this. 

“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”

“It is?”

“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”

Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on. 

“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”

“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”

He laughed. “Number seven?”

“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening. 

“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”

“It’s a date,” you whispered.

A date.

You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything. 

The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in. 

But he didn’t kiss you. 

Tonight wasn’t about that. 

His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time. 

“I’ll text you,” he murmured. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

And I’ll be counting down the minutes. 

You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”

He memorized the way you gazed at him,  basking in that glow. “Good night.”

You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves. 

He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again. 

He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.

Dinner and a movie. 

You wanted to spend time with him. 

“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat. 

His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.

When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him. 

His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message. 

Of course, it was you. 

MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”

It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door. 

“Thanks for letting me help.”

He made a difference tonight. 

He almost set the phone down when another message popped up. 

MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”

He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?

“Yeah?”

Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter. 

MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”

He reread the message until the screen went dark. 

Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him. 

Becca would want to meet you. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face. 

“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”

As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you. 

MFP: “You already have.”

The additional layer of assurance did wonders. 

MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”

There it was. 

Soft, familiar, and you. 

“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”

MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away. 

He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions. 

For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go. 

But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket. 

Fifteen Thursdays.

Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave. 

And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more. 

You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. 

Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him. 

He was counting down the minutes. 

And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it. 

Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️