#...wait that sounds.. yeah. scratch that tag.

It happens on a Tuesday.

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

You home.

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

Eventually. Why?

There’s a longer pause this time, then,

Found something.

You grin at your screen.

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

Three dots disappear, then reappear.

Not an appliance.

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

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

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

White.

And glaring at you.

You blink.

“…Is that… a cat?”

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

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

“She followed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Home?”

He nods once.

“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”

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

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

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

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

“She’s so small.”

He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”

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

“She’s not—”

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

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

“He probably deserved it.”

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

“He existed near her.”

“That’s not a crime.”

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

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

“You brought her here.”

“She wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”

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

“She needed one.”

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

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

Bucky goes very still at the sound.

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

“She likes me.”

“She tolerates you.”

“She loves me.”

“She met you ten seconds ago.”

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

Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.

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

His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”

“She absolutely is.”

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

“You know… we’re not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She deserves it.”

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

“She was defending her territory.”

“She weighs less than the pigeon.”

“She has spirit.”

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s judging you right now.”

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

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

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

Click. He looks up at the sound.

“You take too many pictures.”

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

“I’m building a cat tree.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.

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

“She’s fragile.”

“She scratched a grown man.”

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

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

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

And now, your cat.

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

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

Chosen.

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

Bucky stirs.

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

“Claiming me.”

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

“She gets it from you.”

He cracks one eye open to look at you.

“I’m not territorial.”

“You absolutely are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

He doesn’t look up.

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

Like he always does here.

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

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

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

He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Click.

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

“Maybe.”

“Why.”

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

“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

“She always judges me.”

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

“I am not weak.”

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

He doesn’t answer that.

Click.

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

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

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

The subway platform becomes another favorite location.

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

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

You lift the camera.

Click.

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

“Don’t tempt me.”

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

The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.

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

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

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

Click.

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

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

“Do what.”

“That.”

He frowns faintly.

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

“Like what?”

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

It becomes your favorite.

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

“Who is he to you?”

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

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

Your boss smiles faintly.

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

Lucky.

You think about that word the whole way home.

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

You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”

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

“Hey.”

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

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

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“What?” You blink.

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

“Why?”

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

“Buck.”

He exhales slowly.

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

Your chest aches.

“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.

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

“Me too,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's wrong,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

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

It slips into something quieter one night.

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

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

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

“Yeah. People who know how.”

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

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

“I’m not losing—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightens.

“Buck,” you murmur softly.

He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.

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

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

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

“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

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

A pause.

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

You huff quietly. “I can tell.”

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

By morning, you’re tangled.

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

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

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

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

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

You are.

You both are.

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

You don’t notice it at first.

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

You’re tired.

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

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

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

You don’t move.

And then they close again.

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

“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.

Too late.

The train lurches forward again.

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

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

The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.

“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep walking.

Don’t react. Don't—

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

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

He answers on the first ring.

“What broke?”

Any other time it would make you laugh.

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

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

“Where are you.”

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

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

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

“Stay on the phone.”

Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”

“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

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

Your breathing stutters.

“Buck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The drive is quiet.

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

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

You’ve seen that look before.

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

“I’m okay,” you say quietly.

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

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

“I know,” he says.

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

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

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

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

For a second, neither of you moves.

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

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

You shake your head. “No, I—”

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

“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

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

The kiss isn’t careful.

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

It’s desperate.

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

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

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

“I know,” you whisper back.

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

Your breath stutters.

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

His voice drops, quieter but steadier.

“Be mine.”

The words land heavier than anything else tonight.

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

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

“I am,” you say.

There’s no hesitation in it.

“I've always been yours, Buck.”

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

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

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

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

Your answer comes easily.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, does he take his time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good?" he rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.

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

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

Everything feels warm.

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens immediately.

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

No answer.

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

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

“There you are,” you breathe.

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

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

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

You stop yourself.

Thought what?

That he left?

That this disappeared overnight somehow?

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

“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.

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

“C’mere.”

You let him.

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

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”

A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.

“There she is.”

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

“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.

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

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

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Like he’s still convincing himself.

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

Where you want to be.

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

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

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

“Yours,” you whisper back.

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

Those small ears twitching, that sleek black hair, the soft fur that looked like it would melt under your fingers—everything about him pulled you in. The shine of his well-groomed hair and the smooth glow of his skin made it clear he was taken care of, maybe even a little too well. The expensive collar around his neck screamed spoiled indoor hybrid. High maintenance or not, you didn’t care. You just knew you wanted him.

Convincing Jay to hand him over, though, wasn’t easy. You had begged, reasoned, argued, even tried to guilt-trip him. Why couldn’t he just say yes? It’s not like he didn’t already have Jake, that big golden retriever hybrid who followed him everywhere. Jay barely had time for Jungwon, always letting him sit quietly in the corner, waiting for scraps of attention that never came. It pissed you off. Jungwon deserved better—someone who’d actually give a damn, who’d spoil him the way he clearly wanted to be spoiled. And that someone was you.

“Do you even know how to take care of a hybrid? He’s still unneutered, for fuck’s sake.”

You just shrugged. How hard could it be? Feed him, give him a bed, maybe pet him when he looked sad—that’s what hybrids liked, right? You didn’t really care about the rules or the paperwork or whatever else Jay kept ranting about. All you knew was that Jungwon liked you. Every time you visited, he would curl up beside you, purr softly, and look at you with those sleepy eyes that made your stomach twist. He was sweet, warm, and completely irresistible.

So yeah, maybe you didn’t know shit about taking care of hybrids. But that didn’t matter. Because every time Jungwon leaned into your touch, you were sure of one thing—he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

“Okay, let me have him neutered before I hand him to you—”

“But I want him now!” You cut Jay off, you stomped your foot, frustrated like a kid. Jay was already glaring at you, jaw tight, trying to hold back his irritation. He just didn’t get it. You didn’t want to wait another damn day—you wanted Jungwon in your house, curled up on your couch, sleeping in your bed, right now.

The hybrid sat quietly beside you, flicking his tail lazily as the two of you argued. His ears twitched, catching every word, but he looked almost amused. When he noticed the tension building in your shoulders, he nudged your knee softly with his head. The touch instantly melted your annoyance. You pouted, reaching down to rub the soft spot behind his ear, and the moment your fingers touched him, a deep purr rumbled from his chest.

“See?” you said, looking at Jay with a grin. “What’s so hard about giving him to me? He likes me, right, ’Wonie? You want me, right?”

Jungwon’s tail swished once before he nodded, eyes half-closed as you scratched behind his ear again. A faint smile played on his lips, and his purr grew louder, vibrating against your hand.

Jay sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. You could tell he was giving up, though he clearly didn’t want to. “You’re annoying,” he muttered. But after a long pause, he finally said, “Fine. Take him.”

You didn’t even wait for him to finish before jumping up, excitement bursting out of you. You grabbed Jungwon’s things from the corner—his folded clothes, his pillow, his scratching pad, and that expensive bed that looked softer than yours. Jungwon followed behind you, tail flicking side to side as if he already knew he was going somewhere new.

While you shoved his stuff into a bag, Jay kept lecturing like an overbearing parent. “He’s very sensitive to food. Only this brand is good for him—don’t feed him any raw meat unless I say so. And no dry treats; they mess with his stomach. I’ll check on him every month to make sure he’s maintaining weight, and for God’s sake, get him neutered as soon as possible.”

You barely listened, nodding half-heartedly as you zipped up the bag. “Yeah, yeah, got it,” you said, rolling your eyes. You didn’t care about the boring details. You’d figure it out later. Hybrids weren’t that complicated.

Jay knelt beside Jungwon and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Be good, okay?” he said quietly. Jungwon smiled faintly, his ears twitching as he purred in response. Without hesitation, he turned to follow you out the door, his tail brushing against your leg as he walked past.

The sun hit his black fur when you stepped outside, and it shimmered like silk. You could feel your chest tighten just looking at him. He was yours now. The thought made you grin like an idiot.

“Bye, Jake! I won’t miss you!” Jungwon called out, waving lazily at the tall golden retriever hybrid standing near the gate. Jake just tilted his head, blinked once, he huffed and turned back inside, clearly unbothered.

You snorted, unlocking your car. “Guess he’s not much of a talker,” you said.

Jungwon climbed into the passenger seat, curling his legs under himself like a cat would. His ears perked as he looked out the window, curious but calm. When you started the car, he looked over at you and smiled—a soft, knowing smile that made your heart race all over again.

Jungwon turned out to be the most affectionate hybrid you’d ever met. He never slept on his own bed, no matter how soft or expensive it was—every night, he somehow ended up beside you, curled against your chest or tucked under your arm. People always said cat hybrids were distant, that they preferred their space and rarely craved touch, but Jungwon proved that wrong every single day. The moment you got home from work, he was there, tail swaying slowly, ears perked up as he waited by the door. Before you could even drop your bag, he’d be pressing his head into your neck, his fur brushing your skin, purring softly as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

They said cats absorbed bad energy. Maybe that was why you always felt lighter when he held you. Jungwon didn’t talk much, but his presence filled every empty space in the apartment. When you were gone, he mostly slept—curled up in the sunny spot near the window or sprawled across the couch, tail twitching as he dreamed. But the second you came home, it was like he’d woken up just to play. He’d grab your sleeve, drag you toward the floor, and make you chase after him until you both ended up laughing and breathless.

Despite his clinginess, Jungwon was curious—especially about the outside world. Sometimes, when you were watching TV or scrolling on your phone, he’d tug gently at your clothes and point toward the window. You’d follow his gaze to see a group of hybrids playing in the courtyard—dog hybrids tossing a ball around, a fox hybrid lounging in the sun. His tail would sway as his eyes followed their movements. He never said much, just looked up at you, silently asking for permission to go out.

You always gave him the same answer. “No, baby. Those hybrids outside probably have lice or something. I don’t want you catching that. You’ve got plenty of toys here, yeah?”

His eyes softened immediately, those big golden eyes full of quiet disappointment. For a second, guilt twisted in your chest, but you forced yourself to ignore it. Jay had drilled into your head how sensitive Jungwon was—his fur, his diet, his health. You weren’t about to screw that up just because he wanted to roll around in the dirt with a bunch of random hybrids.

Still, he tried. Every time.

One evening, as you were folding laundry, he came up behind you and tugged at your shirt again. “Please,” he whispered, almost trembling. His ears drooped, and his tail brushed weakly against your leg. “Outside?”

You sighed, trying to stay firm. “No, Jungwon. You’re an indoor cat. You know that.”

He frowned, lips pushing into a pout as his fingers clung to your sleeve. “Just a little? I’ll stay near you.”

You shook your head, placing the folded shirt down and cupping his face. “You’ve got everything you need here. You’ve got your shows, your games, your toys—and me. Isn’t that enough?”

He looked away, mumbling under his breath. You couldn’t quite catch what he said, but you could tell he was sulking. He flopped onto the couch, tail flicking in quiet frustration. You rolled your eyes, but deep down, part of you wondered if you were being too strict. You just wanted to keep him safe. That’s what owners did, right?

You walked over and sat beside him, brushing your fingers through his hair. His ears twitched under your touch, and though he tried to stay upset, he couldn’t help but lean into your hand.

“See?” you said softly. “You don’t need to go out there. You’ve got everything right here.”

     You weren’t sure if it was just your imagination, but lately, he’d been... different. You didn’t know much about hybrids—honestly, you barely knew the basics—but you couldn’t help wondering if there was some kind of behavioral difference between indoor and outdoor ones. Did keeping him inside for too long mess with his head somehow? Because the longer he stayed with you, the moodier he seemed to get.

At first, you brushed it off. He was just bored, maybe lonely. You had work and errands; you couldn’t always give him attention. But then it got worse.

Like today.

You froze in the doorway, staring at your clean laundry now soaked in something that definitely wasn’t water. For a moment, your brain refused to process it. Then the smell hit you, and your stomach turned.

“Jungwon!” you snapped, your voice rising with anger.

He was lying on the couch, golden eyes half-lidded as he stared at you. His tail swayed slowly from side to side, and for the first time since you’d brought him home, his face was completely blank—cold, almost detached.

“What the hell is this?” you hissed, pointing at the pile.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just kept watching you with those eyes.

You took a deep breath, trying to remind yourself that hybrids were still part animal. Accidents happened. Pets sometimes acted out for attention. Maybe this was just that. Maybe he was mad because you’d been gone late again. You could fix that.

So the next day, you came home early with a bag from the hybrid shop. “Wonnie, look!” you said, trying to sound cheerful as you knelt in front of him. “I got you a new toy. You’re gonna love this one.”

It was a soft scratching ball with catnip scent—the lady at the store said it was perfect for feline hybrids. You expected him to jump at it, to smile like he used to, but Jungwon just stood there, eyes flicking from you to the toy. His expression didn’t change.

“Come on,” you said gently, waving it a little. “Don’t be grumpy. I know you’re mad at me, but look, I got this for you.”

He walked closer, slowly and quietly, and then, crouched to sniff it. For a second, you thought it worked. His nose twitched, and his ears perked up—but then, out of nowhere, he ignored the toy completely and leaned in toward you, sniffing your shirt instead. His breath hit your neck, and his tail flicked faster.

“Uh, Jungwon?” you said, blinking in confusion as he pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.

His ears flattened suddenly, and a low sound rumbled in his throat. Before you could say anything, he pushed you down onto the floor, claws gently but firmly gripping your arms. His pupils were blown wide, and when he hissed, the sound was sharp enough to make you freeze. Then he grabbed the toy, ripped it apart with a furious growl, and tossed it aside.

“Jungwon!” you shouted, startled. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

He didn’t answer, just stared at you, chest rising and falling fast. You could see the muscles in his jaw tense as he tried to control himself, his tail thrashing behind him. His breathing was heavier than usual, his ears twitching like he was irritated—or in pain.

You’d never seen him like this before. His usual warmth, his soft tone, the quiet purring—it was all gone, replaced by something wild and restless. He looked… agitated, like he was fighting something inside himself.

When you reached out to touch his arm, he jerked back, eyes wide for a split second before he turned away completely, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t make out. Then he stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

You sat there for a long moment, staring at the shredded toy and the scratch marks on the floor. You didn’t understand what was happening—he had never acted like this before.

And that’s when you knew you needed to call Jay.

The phone rang twice before he picked up. “What now?”

“He started acting weird, okay?” you blurted out, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear while fumbling with a bandage. “I just kept saying no to letting him outside because it’s dangerous, but then his behavior started getting worse."

Jay sighed so loud it made you roll your eyes. “Why would you not let him outside?”

“Because he’s an indoor cat, duh?” you said flatly, trying to dab some alcohol on the small cut near your collarbone.

There was a pause, followed by an irritated groan. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have given him to you!” Jay snapped. “You’re such an idiot sometimes. Hybrids like Jungwon can’t be cooped up forever. They’re not toys, they need to socialize. When you isolate them, their instincts start to twist—they get anxious, restless, and it screws with their behavior.”

You frowned, trying to juggle the phone and the first-aid kit while listening. “I was just protecting him, okay? I didn’t want him to get sick or catch anything from those random hybrids outside. And now he’s peeing on my clothes, the sofa, the cabinet—everything! He even hissed at me earlier after sniffing me. Then he tore apart the toy I bought him. He’s acting like he hates me.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Jay’s tone changed completely. “Wait. What did you just say? He hissed after sniffing you?”

“Yeah,” you said, pacing across the living room. “It’s like he gets mad out of nowhere. His eyes go blank, then he just—snaps.”

“Did you…” Jay’s voice tightened. “Did you neuter him?”

You froze. “…No?”

The silence that followed was worse than the yelling you were expecting. Then, suddenly, it came—Jay cursing under his breath so harshly that you flinched and held the phone away for a moment.

“Pack his things right now,” he said through gritted teeth. “His clothes, bed, everything. Bring him to me. I told you to neuter him immediately, didn’t I? He’s a hybrid in pre-heat, for fuck’s sake! You have no idea how dangerous that is. He’s not just acting out—his body’s fighting him. His hormones are spiking and he doesn’t know how to control it. He’s probably confused, frustrated, and on edge. You can’t be near him like this.”

You winced, pressing your hand over your bandaged shoulder. “Jay, calm down—”

“Calm down?” he cut you off. “You’ve trapped a sexually mature hybrid in heat inside your apartment without supervision. He could hurt you! You need to get him out of there before it gets worse. Pack his things. Now.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Jesus, Jay, you make it sound like he’s gonna kill me. Fine, fine. I’ll bring him over. You can deal with it.”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were exhausted. Between work, lack of sleep, and Jungwon’s strange behavior, you were at your limit. Maybe it was better this way. Jay could handle whatever this “heat” thing was. You’d just pick Jungwon up after he calmed down.

You kept Jay on the line as you gathered Jungwon’s things—his folded clothes, his scratching pad, his blanket that still smelled like him. You were halfway through stuffing his bed into the bag when you heard the door creak open behind you.

“Jungwon?” you called softly, turning around. He stood there in the doorway, his expression is blank. His pupils were dilated, ears lowered slightly, and his tail was swaying. You offered a nervous smile, clutching the bag. “Hey, baby. I’m sorry, but… I have to take you to Jay for a while, okay? You’re not feeling well and—”

The second Jay’s name left your mouth, everything changed. Jungwon’s body tensed, and before you could react, he lunged at you. The bag fell from your hands as his weight slammed into you, knocking you to the floor. His claws gripped your shoulders tightly, and you let out a sharp cry when you felt his teeth sink into your skin.

“Fuck!” you shouted, your phone slipping from your hand and clattering onto the floor. You reached for it desperately, but Jungwon’s weight pinned you down. His breathing was ragged, his growls low and rough against your neck.

“Jay!” you screamed, your voice cracking as you tried to shove him off. “Help!”

Jungwon bit again, not deep enough to tear flesh but enough to make you cry out. His tail lashed violently, and his pupils were blown wide like a cornered animal’s. He was shaking, muttering incoherent sounds that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you tried to push him off again, but he only pressed harder, his body trembling against yours.

“Jungwon, stop—please!” you begged, voice breaking as you felt his breath hit your skin again. That’s when you felt his hard length pressing against you, grinding through the thin fabric separating your bodies.

He leaned closer. “No, Jay. Mine. Only mine.”

Your chest tightened. “N-No, baby, we’re going to see Jay,” you stammered, tears stinging your eyes as you pushed weakly against him. “We’re going to help you, we’ll fix this—”

“NO!” he snapped. His hands shot forward, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re mine,” he growled again.

Your breath hitched when his hips rolled forward, the friction sending an involuntary gasp through your throat. His bulge pressed hard against your clothed core, and your body betrayed you—hips twitching, heat pooling low in your stomach. “J-Jungwon…” you whimpered.

He bent lower, his breath ragged against your ear, his words coming out in a broken chant. “Mine… mine… mine…” His scent filled your head, you could feel his instincts bleeding through, his control slipping completely as he buried his face against your neck, teeth grazing the soft skin there.

You cried out, not knowing if it was fear or desire that escaped you. His grip tightened, his muscles tense with a predator’s restraint. Then his mouth crashed against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear sliding down your cheek as his tongue pushed deep, claiming your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. He moaned into you, his sounds vibrating against your lips.

You tried to turn away, but he followed, his mouth crashing against yours again, harder, more desperate. His tongue pushing past your lips like he couldn’t get enough. When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his pupils blown wide. He grabbed the hem of your blouse with shaking hands and tore it open, the sound of fabric ripping echoing through the room. The sudden chill on your exposed skin made you gasp and arch weakly as your body reacted to the raw force of it.

Your shoulders and neck burned, blood rushing under your skin from where his grip had been. Jungwon shifted, sliding down until he straddled your stomach, his tail twitching erratically behind him. His gaze trailed slowly over your body, pupils dilated so wide that the gold in his eyes had almost vanished. His breathing came in small, broken sounds—half whimpers, half growls.

He reached into his pajama bottoms and freed himself. Your breath hitched the moment you saw it—thick, flushed, the tip slick and red. Pre-cum was already dripping down his length, his hand trembling as he wrapped his fingers around it. He whimpered softly, the sound high and broken, and looked at you through his lashes.

“H-Hurts,” he said, his voice trembling as his hand began to move clumsily. “Please… hurts.”

You couldn’t look away. His hips twitched, his movements messy, his ears flattening against his head as he whined again. “H-hurts, hurts!” His voice cracked, and his tail lashed behind him as if his body couldn’t handle the tension building inside him. Watching him like that made your thighs clench together.

“Help… please,” he whimpered again, his breath stuttering, his hand moving faster but without rhythm. “Please, help me.”

Your chest tightened. “Wonnie…” you whispered, unsure if it was pity or desire making your voice shake. His head snapped up at the sound of his name, eyes glassy and pleading, his ears twitching toward your voice. Slowly, with trembling hands, you reached down and replaced his hand with yours.

The moment your skin touched him, Jungwon’s entire body jerked. His breath hitched, tail bristling, ears flattening tight to his skull. You stroked him once, twice—barely had the time to adjust your grip before his body went rigid. His head fell back, a strangled sound ripping from his throat as thick, hot ropes of cum spilled over your fingers and stomach. His hips twitched violently as he rode out the wave, muscles shaking, his moans dragging long and broken.

You froze, staring up at him as he trembled above you, ears flicking weakly. His claws dug into the floor beside you, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence.

“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, staring at the mess between you, unsure if you should pull away or reach for him again. 

Jungwon’s breathing was heavy and uneven, his chest rising and falling with deep, shaky gasps. His eyes were still blown wide, the wild gleam in them refusing to fade.

Without a word, he caught your wrist, his fingers curling around it as he lifted your hand closer to his face. You froze when his tongue slid out, long and rough, dragging over your skin to lap at the mess that had splattered across it. You shuddered as the sharp, bristled texture of his tongue grazed your wrist.

A soft, helpless sound escaped you, and Jungwon’s ears twitched at the noise. His gaze met yours as he kept licking, each stroke slower than the last, his tail flicking lazily behind him as if he was calming down from the earlier frenzy. But the moment his tongue reached your palm, he gave a low growl, almost a purr—and then leaned forward again, shifting his position until his weight pressed you into the floor once more.

His nose brushed against your stomach, tracing a slow path downward. Every touch sent small tremors through your body. When he reached the waistband of your panties, he inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as if the scent alone was driving him insane.

Your body tensed. You were panting now, trying to steady your breathing, but when his pointed nose pressed against the damp spot between your legs, all sense of control vanished. He rubbed his face against you, nuzzling the soaked fabric. A small, helpless moan slipped from your lips, and his tail flicked sharply at the sound.

His tongue darted out, pressing into the thin fabric over your clit, slow and experimental at first. The sensation hit you hard and your hips jerked upward without meaning to. You gripped the floor beside you, fingers digging into the surface as you tried to hold yourself still. But Jungwon didn’t stop. His ears twitched as he listened to your shaky breaths, and then he repeated the motion, licking at the cloth again, this time with more pressure, more intent.

“J-Jungwon,” you breathed out, voice cracking. He hummed softly against you, his nose nudging the wet spot. The movement of his tongue grew firmer, dragging up and down until your thighs trembled and your body betrayed you again, spreading your legs wider beneath him. The smell of arousal thickened in the air, and he groaned low in his throat, his tail curling tight behind him as his cock twitched, already hard again despite just having come.

He pulled back for a second, panting, a thin strand of saliva connecting his mouth to your soaked panties. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and leaned in again, “smells so good,” he whispered, before his tongue pressed harder against you, dragging up the wet fabric until your breath hitched and your back arched from the floor.

He slid your panties aside before his tongue met your heat. The first touch made you gasp, a sharp sound that escaped your throat before you could hold it back. Your thighs trembled, the muscles in your legs twitching as his tongue traced slow, teasing circles over your folds.

Jungwon let out a low, needy sound against you. He reached up, guiding your trembling hand until your fingers rested against his ear.

“Please,” he whispered, then he dived back in.

You moaned, your fingers tightening against his hair as you tilted your hips forward, giving him more. “Just like that, 'Wonnie,” you whimpered, the words breaking apart on your tongue. His tongue moved rougher now, faster, his nose bumping your clit with every stroke. You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips — they came out raw and uncontrollable.

Every time he lapped at your entrance, your vision blurred. Your pulse raced in your throat, and a heat spread from your core to every part of your body. You rolled your hips, pressing harder against his mouth. He groaned in approval, his tongue responding eagerly.

“Ahh—fuck, Jungwon!” you cried out, grinding in slow, desperate circles. Your breath hitched each time his tongue flicked your clit, and your legs shook violently.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with desire. The sight alone made your stomach twist tighter.

“Fuck, fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking. The rhythm between you two grew frantic, unrestrained. His tongue matched your every move, his grip on your thighs were firm.

The pressure inside you snapped. Your body arched, your moans turning into sharp cries as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Jungwon didn’t stop. He held your hips in place, tongue still swirling inside you, dragging your orgasm out until you were shaking uncontrollably.

You could barely breathe, chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. But Jungwon wasn’t done. He lifted you suddenly, his strength catching you off guard as he knelt on the floor and wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Jungwon—wait, I’m still—ah!” you screamed as he pushed into you in one deep thrust. The stretch was almost too much, your walls clenching tightly around him. Sweat dripped down your temple; your nails dug into his shoulders.

He groaned, his instincts taking full control. “So good,” he muttered before thrusting deeper, harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. Every move sent another wave of pleasure up your spine, and every time you tried to speak, it came out as a moan.

“Too much—ahh, Jungwon!” you gasped, but he didn’t slow down. His pace quickened, his body moving wildly as his hips slammed into yours. You felt him everywhere — his grip, his breath, his rhythm — all of it. He lifted your hips higher, keeping your legs open for him, your back arching, the new angle making his thick tip hit deep inside you, right against your sweet spot.

“Fuck—right there,” you gasped, your voice cracking.

Jungwon grunted, pushing harder, deeper, until all you could do was scream his name. Your vision blurred again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as another orgasm ripped through you. Your throat was raw from the sounds spilling out of you.

Your ears rang, and your lower body hung in the air, helpless in his grasp. Each thrust made your head bump softly against the floor, your hair sticking to your damp skin. Drool escaped from the corner of your mouth, but you didn’t care. The pleasure had swallowed you whole.

His pace grew faster, pushing in, pushing out, pushing deeper, and deeper, and deeper until your body tensed again, trembling from the overstimulation, but Jungwon was so lost. 

He only grunted, his thrusts growing faster until your walls fluttered around him for the second time. You could feel the way his muscles tightened, the tremor in his arms as he held you up.

 Then you felt the deep pulse inside you, his release spilling into your warmth. He groaned loudly, his body shuddering as he pushed his cock deeper, as if trying to mold himself to you.

The heat spread through your core, his cum filling you until it was almost too much. But your body, still sensitive and trembling from the overstimulation, reacted on its own. Your pussy clenched hard, then force to pushed his length out, a gush of liquid following right after.

A sudden squirt splashed between you both. Jungwon froze for a second, eyes wide in confusion as his cock slipped free, still twitching and spilling the last of his release. He tilted his head, ears twitching, panting heavily, watching the way your hips twitched and how your slick, trembling folds pulsed with the aftermath.

He reached down, fingers spreading your folds as more liquid flowed out, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor. His expression softened, almost in awe. "Pretty,"  he muttered under his breath. His fingers traced the inside of your thigh, then slowly pressed them against your entrance again, testing your sensitivity. You flinched, whining at the overstimulation, but he couldn’t help himself.

Your hips twitched again as his thumb rubbed gentle circles over your swollen clit. You tried to catch your breath, still dizzy, your chest rising and falling fast. Jungwon leaned down, licking the side of your neck, his tongue dragging lazily over your skin before he nuzzled your jaw.

“Mine,” he whispered before his teeth sank gently into your nape.

Jay pushed the front door open and he stepped inside cautiously. Behind him, Jake followed silently, gripping a metal muzzle in one hand. 

Jungwon was kneeling on the floor, his body pressed tightly against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hands steadying you as his tongue dragged slowly across the fresh bite wound at your shoulder, as if he was trying to clean or soothe what he’d done. Blood glistened faintly against his lips before he shifted, nuzzling against your hair, low growls rumbling in his chest and he began to groom you with short, slow strokes of his tongue.

The bite mark was still fresh, crimson streaks tracing down your shoulder, and scratches lined your thighs and waist. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, half-lidded and glassy, lips parted as you breathed unevenly. You looked at Jay through the open door, your expression dazed.

The sound of footsteps pulled Jungwon’s attention immediately. His body tensed, his nostrils flaring as he lifted his head, his fangs visible when he bared his teeth. The once-soft glow in his eyes turned sharp and threatening. He hissed a warning sound and his grip around your waist tightened, dragging you closer until your back was flush against his chest.

This was his first op since you’d given birth, four weeks back. A month. That was all his daughter had been in the world, and already he’d left her. Left you. He hadn’t wanted to go—had almost told Val to find someone else. The thought of leaving you alone with a newborn had made his chest feel tight, worse than any press conference.

But staying home had felt impossible too, a gnawing panic every time he wasn’t in the room to check if Gracie was breathing, if her little fists still curled around his thumb, if her face was still flushed the way newborns sometimes got.

Separation anxiety, they’d probably call it. He just thought of it as his brain refusing to unclench.

Now, with Walker staring at him like he was waiting for a full report, Bucky gave the same answer he always gave when someone asked about his personal life. Short, flat. “She’s fine.”

John shrugged when Bucky didn’t offer more. “I was just asking ‘cause when Olivia had the baby, she got hit with the baby blues.”

Bucky blinked, slow. His brain snagged on the phrase. “What’s that?” He didn’t want to ask, but the words slipped out before he could catch them.

Walker leaned back, like he was talking about the weather. “Y’know. Mood swings, crying at the drop of a hat, getting snappy over nothing. Irritable as hell. It lasted a couple weeks, then she leveled out.” He gestured vaguely, his hands still wrapped in tape from earlier. “Hormones, man. Rough couple weeks.”

Bucky grunted, jaw flexing. He looked away, back out the jet’s small window at the clouds sliding past. Baby blues. It sounded ridiculous, like a song title from the forties. You weren’t crying at the drop of a hat. You weren’t snapping at him. You were—fine. Tired, yeah. But fine.

Walker kept talking, of course, like Bucky hadn’t already gone quiet. “Course, blues are nothing compared to postpartum depression. That’s the real kicker. Scariest thing I ever read about, swear to God.”

Bucky’s head turned before he could stop it. “Post-what?”

“Postpartum depression,” John said, like it was obvious. “It’s when it doesn’t stop at the crying jags. It’s deeper. Severe. Some moms don’t even connect with their kid until months later. Others—” he hesitated just long enough to make it worse—“others take the baby with them when they go.”

Bucky’s throat worked, but he didn’t answer.

Walker scratched at his jaw, oblivious to the way the air in Bucky’s chest had frozen solid. “Point is, it doesn’t always look like much from the outside. They’ll still feed the baby, rock the baby, do everything right. But upstairs?” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “They’re not there. Like ghosts, Olivia called it.”

Bucky stared down at his gloved hands, flexing them once. He wanted to dismiss it—chalk it up to Walker running his mouth. But the words stuck.

He cleared his throat, the sound rougher than he meant it to be. “Well… she’s fine.” The words landed too quick, too sharp, like shutting a door. “She’s bonding just fine with Grace. Can barely put her down. Still does everything—makes dinner, keeps the place going.”

Walker nodded, easy, like that settled it. “Good. That’s good. Just saying, keep an eye out. Sometimes it sneaks up on you.” He then leaned back in his seat, already tugging at the Velcro on his vest, the conversation forgotten as quickly as he’d started it.

Bucky made a noise low in his chest—agreement or dismissal, even he couldn’t tell. He leaned back in his seat, eyes shutting like the conversation was over. It was.

Except it wasn’t, because the words wouldn’t stop echoing. Sneaks up on you.

His house in Brooklyn had become the closest thing to safe Bucky had ever known. Two floors, three bedrooms, a little strip of yard out back. He’d bought it back when people still looked at him like a candidate, not a soldier—back when he thought congressman might fit on his shoulders better than the title he carried before. Turned out it didn’t, but the house remained.

Perfect for you, for him. For the baby.

By the time he stepped inside, it already smelled like home—faintly of onions and garlic, dinner already finished. Something about it loosened the knot in his chest. Boots off by the door, jacket slung over the chair. He always checked for you first, habit burned into him.

He found you in the kitchen, hands sunk in suds. Hair tied back, that same worn Fleetwood Mac tee you swore you’d never throw away. There was something achingly ordinary about the picture.

Bucky came up behind you, arm sliding around your waist, his chin grazing your shoulder. The soap smelled like lemon.

You turned your head, lips brushing his cheek before giving him a small, easy smile. “Hey, you’re home.”

He kissed you—quick, domestic, nothing dramatic. Warmth spread across his chest anyway.

This. This was what Walker didn’t get. Whatever baby-blues or post-what-ever, it didn’t apply here. You were standing in their kitchen, making dinner, smiling at him like you always had. Fine. You were fine.

You nudged him gently with a soapy elbow. “Go wash up. I’ll dish you a plate.”

He lingered, one hand still at your hip. “You gonna eat with me?”

The question caught you mid-rinse. You blinked, then waved it off without missing a beat. “Already ate.”

It slid out so easily it sounded true.

Bucky searched your face for a moment, then nodded. Why wouldn’t he believe you? You’d been cleaning dishes when he walked in—of course you’d eaten. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, let it go, and headed toward the bathroom to wash up.

By the time he came back, the smell of roasted chicken had thickened in the air. A plate waited for him on the kitchen table, steam curling up from it. You were still in the kitchen, humming faintly under your breath as you rearranged things in the fridge. Domestic. Normal.

And with that, his eyes found the bassinet in the living room—the one you always kept within reach, whether you were cooking or folding laundry or half-reading on the couch. Gracie lay awake inside it, tiny fists flexing against the air like she was trying to punch her way into the world.

Bucky bent over her, metal finger grazing her tiny knuckles. “Hey, princess,” he murmured, voice gone soft in a way it never was anywhere else. “You keepin’ your mama busy?”

Her eyes blinked up at him, unfocused but searching and so startlingly blue. She kicked, one sock sliding half off. He fixed it automatically, heart aching with something too big to name.

Behind him, you called his name, telling him dinner would get cold.

He went to sit down, fork in hand, plate steaming in front of him. The food was good—seasoned the way he liked it, chicken falling off the bone, vegetables cut small like you always did. He should’ve been starving after the mission, but every bite felt heavier than it should.

Across the room, you kept moving. First rinsing a mug, then folding the dishtowel just so, then rearranging a stack of mail that didn’t need rearranging. You weren’t frantic about it, not even fussy—just… preoccupied.

“You gonna join me?” he asked, chewing slow.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiled faintly. “I told you, I ate already.”

He swallowed, nodded, went back to his plate. But his eyes tracked you while he lifted another forkful, and the lie sat in his stomach heavier than the food. He couldn’t prove it, not really. Still, he knew the way your mouth looked when you told the truth. This wasn’t it.

He tried again. “How was your day?”

You paused at the counter, fingers smoothing over the corner of a notepad like you’d forgotten why you picked it up. “Fine.”

“Fine how?”

“Gracie napped. I did laundry. Same as always.” You pulled the fridge open like the answer was written inside, lingering there even though you didn’t take anything out.

Short answers. Distracted. Like your mind was somewhere he couldn’t follow.

Bucky stabbed another bite of chicken and told himself not to overthink it. You’d had a long day, that was all. But the doubt crawled in anyway, thin and sharp, worming under his skin.

He looked down at his plate, then back at you moving aimlessly through the kitchen. You were there, but not really there.

And Walker’s words wouldn’t stop echoing. They’ll still feed the baby, rock the baby, do everything right. But upstairs? They’re not there.

That night, Bucky couldn’t make himself sleep.

You were curled into his chest, soft breaths fanning against the cotton of his shirt. On the nightstand, the baby monitor glowed faint blue, carrying every small sound from the nursery—the sighs, the rustle of blankets, the occasional squeak that meant Grace had stretched in her sleep. Two rhythms of breathing, steady and even. Both safe.

Still, his chest stayed tight. His eyes burned, refusing to close.

After a while, he eased his arm from around you, careful, slow. You shifted but didn’t wake. He lingered, watching your face in the half-dark, then swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold under his bare feet as he padded down the hall.

In the living room, he opened the laptop, its glow too harsh against the quiet. He sat hunched forward on the couch, shoulders tense, and typed it out the way Walker had said it: postpartum depression.

The search page opened into a rabbit hole, and Bucky let himself fall.

Symptoms. Persistent sadness. Loss of interest in things you once loved. Appetite changes. Insomnia. Difficulty bonding.

His stomach dropped lower with every line. He scrolled slower, heart picking up pace, as though reading too fast might make the words more true.

Article after article, neat little lists with words too sharp to skim past.

Risk factors: first child, recent life changes, lack of sleep.

Symptoms: sadness, emptiness, loss of interest, exhaustion beyond normal.

Consequences if untreated:

– Depression and anxiety that linger for years.

– Babies delayed in talking, in smiling back, in trusting anything.

– In severe cases, mothers hurting themselves. Hurting their babies.

Bucky stared at the last line until the screen blurred.

He shifted on the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His stomach felt like it used to after missions gone bad, that hollow, leaden churn that no amount of water could fix.

But then his mind snapped back, defensive as hell. Not you. You weren’t sad. You weren’t empty. He’d seen you humming over the dishes, kissing his cheek when he came home. He’d watched you hover over Gracie like she was the most precious thing in the world. That wasn’t detachment, that was love. That had to be love.

He clicked into another tab anyway. And then another. The hours slipped by, pages blurring into one long warning he refused to swallow.

Upstairs, the baby monitor crackled with the faintest rustle, and he froze, listening. Gracie sighed in her sleep, and then all was quiet again.

Bucky leaned back into the couch, the glow of the laptop painting his face. He closed the tab but didn’t shut it down.

He wasn’t gonna borrow trouble. You were fine. Tired, maybe, but fine.

At least, that’s what he told himself until his jaw hurt from clenching.

The next morning, he started seeing everything different.

You sat at the table with him, plate in front of you, but you only picked at it. Nibbled the corner of toast, left the egg yolk untouched. By the time Bucky had cleared half his plate, you’d leaned back, fork abandoned, gaze drifting somewhere over his shoulder.

“Coffee’s cold,” he muttered, nudging his chin toward the mug by your elbow.

You blinked, like it took a second to even register. Looked down at the cup, frowned faintly. “Oh.” You pushed it away instead of drinking.

He made himself chew slower, watching you out of the corner of his eye. Soldier’s eyes, narrowing in on details. In the field, he could tell when a man was about to draw a weapon by the twitch of a finger. Now, at his own kitchen table, he tracked the way your focus slipped, like your mind had been cut loose from your body.

Later, you were in the rocking chair, Gracie in your arms. Her tiny lips worked greedily at your breast, but your eyes weren’t on her. They were fixed somewhere in the middle distance, expression slack, humming absent. The kind of stare Bucky had seen on too many faces in too many bunkers, people stuck somewhere they couldn’t climb out of.

He stood in the doorway, watching, the ache in his chest heavier than his own dog tags. How the hell had he missed this? A whole month of telling himself you were fine—memories colored in with things that maybe weren’t even there.

He swore he remembered you humming down at her, smiling soft, lips brushing her hair. But now, he wondered if he’d just invented that, stitched together scraps of what he wanted to see.

Because the truth was right here: you weren’t engaged. You were going through the motions, holding her close like instinct demanded but with no light in your eyes.

He rubbed a hand down his face, breath sharp.

Back in the thirties, nobody had talked about this. Hell, nobody had talked about anything when it came to mothers. Women were expected to cope, to get on with it. The Depression had starved half the country, then the war chewed up what was left—nobody had the luxury of words like mental health. You broke? You broke in silence.

And now here you were, his wife, with their baby in your arms, and Bucky realized he’d been walking around blind.

A couple days later, Gracie let out her first real coo, high and sweet, like the sound barely knew what shape it wanted to be. Bucky had grinned before he could stop himself, heart thudding. “Hear that? She’s talkin’ to us.”

You hummed. Didn’t look up from folding a blanket on your lap. The smile you offered was paper-thin, polite, the kind you gave strangers in elevators. By the time you glanced at Gracie, your eyes were somewhere else already.

Another time, he’d caught Gracie gripping his finger tight, her fist no bigger than a walnut. He chuckled, crouching down so you could see. “Strong like her ma. Look at that, sweetheart—little champ’s already training.”

You nodded absently, gaze fixed past the window. “Mmhm.”

The laundry in front of you was still half-folded, hands paused mid-motion like you’d forgotten what you were doing.

At night, he’d wake to the sound of the rocking chair creaking in the nursery. You’d be in it, body bent over Gracie, eyes rimmed red. When he asked what you were doing, you’d say, “She wouldn’t settle.” But the monitor on the nightstand had been silent, the baby already sound asleep.

You didn’t eat at all. You’d plate food, move it around with a fork, then excuse yourself to go check on the baby. When he came into the kitchen later, your portion would still be there, untouched, gone cold.

The things you loved had gone untouched too. The stack of notebooks on the shelf, the pen you usually chewed down to the cap. The record player sat ignored, Fleetwood Mac vinyls gathering dust on the shelf. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard you singing along to Stevie under your breath.

Bucky started cataloguing it all like evidence: the faint smiles, the distracted nods, the cold mugs of tea, the endless movement that led nowhere.

And with every tally mark, his gut turned heavier.

In the field, he’d been trained to notice weakness, to exploit it before it killed him. Now, he was noticing something else, something he didn’t know how to fight. His wife—present in every room, hands always on the baby, but her mind slipping further and further away.

And all he could think, bitter in his chest, was how he’d missed it for weeks. It was like watching someone drown in shallow water, unable to reach down and pull them out.

By the end of the week, Bucky was unraveling right alongside you.

He’d lived through decades of war, torture, brainwashing. He’d outlasted Hydra, lost friends, clawed back pieces of himself from nothing. But sitting across from you at the kitchen table, watching you stir your coffee without drinking it, he’d never felt more useless.

What was he supposed to do? Kiss you harder? Hold you longer? Sit you down and demand you talk about what was eating you alive? None of it sounded right. None of it sounded like something that would fix this hollow that had taken root in you.

And Christ, the guilt.

If you were drowning, wasn’t it his job to pull you out? Wasn’t that what vows were supposed to mean? For better, for worse. He thought of the way your face had lit up on your wedding day, and then compared it to the empty way you looked down at your plate now. The difference made him sick.

He lay awake at night, jaw clenched, staring at the ceiling while you breathed soft against him. He could protect you from an army, but not from this.

The thought chewed him raw: maybe he wasn’t enough. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be your husband, your daughter’s father. Maybe you were slipping away because he wasn’t the kind of man who could keep you tethered here.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw sparks, trying to push back the rising tide of helplessness. Didn’t work.

He’d never felt this powerless, not even with a muzzle clamped over his face and orders screamed in his ear.

Because at least then, he’d known who the enemy was.

Now, it felt like the enemy was in his own house. In your own head.

And Bucky had no idea how to fight it.

He woke to cold sheets.

Not unusual. He’d gotten used to reaching for you in the dark and finding nothing but the dent where you’d been. Usually it meant you were in Gracie’s nursery, rocking her back to sleep, whispering things he couldn’t quite catch through the door. He told himself it was normal—mothers had instincts like that. He’d even started sleeping lighter, just in case you needed him.

But tonight was different.

The monitor on the nightstand hissed faintly, then carried the creak of wood—long, drawn-out, rhythmic. The nursery chair. Rocking. Then, beneath it, small wet sounds. A breath that caught, then broke. Sniffles, small but sharp through the static.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

He pushed up on one elbow, listening hard. The rocking chair creaked again, steady as a metronome, but the monitor carried the rest: your uneven breathing, the sound of you trying to swallow something back and failing.

His stomach dropped.

He swung his legs out of bed and moved quiet, careful, the way he had on a hundred missions before. The wood floor was cool under his bare feet, his chest already tight.

The nursery door was cracked, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. He pushed it open slow.

You were there in the chair, Gracie cradled in your arms. Her tiny body rose and fell with the rhythm of your rocking, face slack in sleep. But your face—fuck.

Tears tracked down your cheeks, lips pressed together like you were holding in a scream. Shoulders rounded, body curled protectively around the baby. And your eyes… they weren’t on her. They weren’t anywhere. Just fixed somewhere beyond the wall, hollow in a way that turned his stomach.

Bucky froze in the doorway, throat tight, fingers curling against the frame. He’d seen soldiers cry. He’d heard men beg for their lives, watched friends die with their guts in their hands. None of it hit him like this—his wife, rocking their baby, and breaking apart one silent sob at a time.

For a second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then he forced himself forward, each step heavy. He crouched down beside you, knees cracking, trying to make his voice work without betraying the way his chest was burning.

The rocking chair creaked between your breaths. Gracie shifted against your chest, a soft sigh, oblivious.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly. His voice didn’t sound like his own—too raw, too thin. “Look at me.”

It took a moment, but your gaze finally slid to his. Wet lashes, eyes glassy and full, your breath catching like every inhale hurt.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Your mouth opened, closed. You shook your head once, quick and desperate, eyes darting away like you couldn’t hold the question. “I—I don’t know.”

Bucky’s throat burned. He swallowed hard, forcing words past the tightness. “Just try,” he murmured. “Try to tell me. Anything.”

The chair rocked under you, steady as a heartbeat. You blinked hard, a tear slipping free, your voice breaking on the way out.

“I feel… it’s like—” You stopped, shook your head again, jaw clenching. “I don’t know how to explain. I should be… happy. I should be—” A sharp breath, your hand tightening around Gracie. “But I’m not. And I don’t know why.”

Bucky’s chest squeezed like a vice. He wanted to reach out, to steady you, but he kept his hands on his knees, afraid to break the fragile air between you.

You sucked in another shaky breath, words tumbling out jagged, unfinished. “She’s perfect. She’s… she’s everything. And I—” your lips trembled—“I feel like I’m not even here. Like I’m just… watching myself do all of it.”

The chair creaked again. His ears rang with it.

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes locked on yours, like maybe if he steadied enough for both of you, it would hold.

His palms rested gentle on your lap, grounding, though his own hands trembled faintly. He tilted his face up toward you, eyes glassy but steady, begging without saying the word.

“Talk to me,” he rasped. “Please.”

Your breath shuddered in and out. You shifted Gracie higher against your chest, like that movement alone might shield you from having to answer.

“I don’t…” Your voice cracked, thin and uneven. “I don’t feel it.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Feel what?”

You shook your head, frustrated with yourself, as if the words kept slipping out of reach. “Her. This. Any of it.” Your throat bobbed, your eyes going distant again before snapping back to his. “I hold her all the time because—because I need to, but…” You trailed off, tears streaking down your cheeks. “It doesn’t feel like it’s mine. She doesn’t feel like she’s mine.”

The air went out of his lungs in one hard rush.

You looked down at Gracie’s sleeping face, lips trembling. “I keep waiting for it to come. That… spark. That connection everyone talks about. But all I feel is… empty. Like I’m watching someone else rock her. Feed her. Like my body knows what to do, but I don’t.”

The chair creaked. Gracie sighed, soft and content, while your face crumpled with quiet devastation.

Bucky swallowed hard, forcing composure into every line of his body, even as his chest felt like it was caving in. He pressed his thumbs lightly against your knees, desperate to keep you tethered here with him.

His mind went white-noise blank. He searched for words—any words—but every phrase that rose up sounded wrong. Hollow. Like trying to stitch a wound with air.

So he stayed there, kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees, jaw tight as his brain short-circuited.

The chair creaked again, steady as a clock. You rocked Gracie against your chest, hand patting her back in rhythm, your eyes drifting past him, unfocused.

And then, so softly he would’ve missed it if not for the curse of his sharpened hearing, you said it.

“I just… wish I wasn’t here anymore.”

The world went silent.

Bucky’s throat closed, his vision stinging. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t clear the lump. His breath snagged in his chest, ragged, his jaw locked to keep it together.

He nodded, slow. Careful. Like a man defusing a bomb.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough.

His thumb rubbed absently at your knee, small circles he wasn’t even aware of making. He forced himself not to contradict you, not to blurt out the instinctive don’t say that. He couldn’t invalidate it, couldn’t push it away. Not when you were drowning right in front of him.

He sat there, frozen, heart in his throat, trying to stitch together some kind of answer. Everything he thought to say felt like it would snap you in half.

So he softened his voice, let it go quiet in a way it rarely did. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go back to bed, yeah?”

Your grip tightened on Gracie, your chin tucking closer to her head, rocking harder like you were bracing against a storm only you could feel. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Bucky murmured, coaxing. He lifted one hand, brushing your arm, gentle as if you’d shatter. “We’ll take her with us. She can sleep in our room tonight. Right by your side. Okay?”

Your gaze flicked down to Gracie, then back past him, unfocused. He could see the refusal forming on your lips, but he pressed on, keeping his tone calm, steady. “I’ll bring the bassinet. You don’t have to let go.”

It took coaxing, slow as pulling someone back from a ledge. His hands over yours, guiding as you finally let him help you stand. You clung to Gracie all the way down the hall, Bucky’s arm braced around your waist, his body ready to catch you if your knees buckled.

Back in the bedroom, he eased you onto the mattress, tugging the blankets up over your lap. You still held Gracie, reluctant, until Bucky swore again she’d stay right there—he set the bassinet flush against your side of the bed, close enough that you could reach down and touch her if you needed to.

When you finally laid back, empty arms trembling against your chest, he climbed in beside you. He drew you into him slowly, tucking you into the curve of his body. His hand rubbed up and down your back in steady strokes, not rushed, just there. A rhythm to match the rocking chair you’d left behind.

Your breathing hitched, uneven, but little by little it began to sync with his.

Bucky lay there, eyes open, staring into the dark like it might give him an answer. His hand kept moving up and down your back, slow, mechanical, because stopping felt like it would undo you both.

He couldn’t tell how long he lay there like that. Minutes. Hours. Time bent, stretched thin.

Finally, his voice cracked the silence, low and rough. “I think…” He swallowed, throat burning. “I think you’ve got postpartum depression, baby.”

The words hung there, jagged. He half-wished he could take them back the second they left his mouth.

You didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched, long enough that his chest ached with the weight of it. He almost convinced himself you’d drifted off, that you hadn’t heard.

But then, quietly—barely more than a breath—you said, “…Yeah.”

His heart thudded once, hard.

Another pause. You shifted against him, tucking your face deeper into his neck, as if it hurt to say the rest. “I think so too.”

Bucky shut his eyes, jaw clenching. His chest was tight with something sharp, guilt and grief and helplessness all at once. He’d lived through a century of war and still, this—four words from his wife—was what undid him.

For a long while, he couldn’t find his voice. He just held you closer, pressing his lips to the crown of your head like it was the only thing keeping him together.

When he did finally speak, it came out hoarse. “We’ll… we’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. Figure it out, yeah?”

You nodded faintly against his chest. “Okay.”

He exhaled, shaky. His arm tightened around you, hand splayed wide at your back like he could anchor you there by sheer will. He didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t know how to fix this.

Your breathing evened out first, shallow and steady against his chest. He lay still, listening to it, feeling the slight rise and fall of your ribs pressed into him. The rhythm of it should’ve soothed him. It didn’t.

Bucky kept staring at the ceiling, the room thick with shadows, his body heavy with exhaustion he couldn’t surrender to. Every time he blinked, his mind replayed the past weeks in jagged flashes.

And he hated himself for it—for swallowing Walker’s words whole, for brushing it off with she’s fine. For convincing himself you were fine when you’d been falling apart right in front of him. He should’ve seen it.

The guilt pressed down, a weight on his chest heavier than the nightmares ever had been. He wasn’t built for this. He could dismantle a rifle in thirty seconds flat, track an enemy through a snowstorm, survive torture and keep breathing. But he couldn’t fix this hollow ache in your eyes. Couldn’t stitch together something he couldn’t even reach.

His arm tightened around you instinctively, his hand rubbing once more over your back though you were already asleep. Don’t leave me, he thought, though he didn’t let it touch his lips. Don’t slip further than I can follow.

The bassinet creaked faintly when Gracie shifted, a soft whimper before she settled again. Bucky turned his head toward it, jaw locked. His daughter slept two feet away. His wife slept in his arms.

And he lay awake, helpless, gnawed hollow by guilt and the dawning truth that this was a war he couldn’t fight for you.

a/n — not my best work, in mind it was much sadder and angsty

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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"not this time. it's... well, just open it."

you watched him, suddenly feeling a little shy. you’d spent the last three weekends hunched over a crochet hook, watching endless youtube tutorials and swearing at tangled yarn until your fingers cramped. it wasn't perfect—the stitches were a bit uneven in places, and one of the ears was slightly more lopsided than the other—but it was made with a lot of love and an embarrassing amount of patience.

chan pulled the item out of the bag, and for a second, he just went completely still.

it was a small, plush wolf—a homemade wolf chan. you’d even managed to find a tiny scrap of black fabric to give him a little hoodie that matched the one chan was currently wearing.

"you made this?" chan asked, his voice barely a whisper. he held the wolf like it was made of glass, turning it over in his large hands. he poked the lopsided ear, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. "wait, did you actually crochet this yourself? like, from scratch?"

"yeah," you mumble, looking down at your shoes. "i know it's a little wonky. the tutorial was in spanish and i don't actually speak spanish, so i just kind of guessed halfway through. and i think i stuffed the head too much, so he looks a bit... intense. but i wanted you to have something to keep you company when i'm not here."

chan didn't say anything for a long moment. he just kept staring at the little wolf, his thumb rubbing over the yarn. when he finally looked up, his eyes were shimmering with that specific, soft look that always made your knees feel a bit weak. it wasn't just a "thanks" look; it was the look he got when he was genuinely overwhelmed.

"it's not wonky," he said firmly, though his voice cracked just a tiny bit. he stood up, the chair rolling back with a loud click, and stepped into your space. "it's the best thing i've ever seen. look at his little face. he looks just like me when i'm stressed."

"he looks like he’s had six espressos, chan. just like you."

he laughed, a real, belly-deep sound that seemed to chase the exhaustion right out of the room. "okay, fair point."

he set the wolf down right in front of his main monitor, tucked between his interface and his speakers. "there. now he can judge my mixing decisions. 'chan, that kick is too loud,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, making you giggle.

then, his expression shifted. he reached out, taking your hand in his and running his thumb over the small red mark on your index finger where the needle had nipped you. "is this from making him?"

"maybe," you admitted.

chan sighed, pulling you into his chest. he smelled like expensive cologne and stale coffee, a scent that shouldn't work but somehow felt like the safest place on earth. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist and squeezing tight.

"you're too good to me," he mumbled into your skin. "i'm sitting here losing my mind over a bridge that won't work, and you're at home stabbing your fingers with needles just to make me a little mascot."

"i just wanted you to smile, channie. you’ve been looking so tired lately."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your hips. the dim studio lighting made the moment feel heavy, intimate in a way that made your pulse jump. "i am tired," he confessed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "but honestly? seeing this... seeing you... it's better than sleep."

he looked back at the little wolf chan on the desk, then back at you, a mischievous little glint entering his eyes. "though, i have to say, he's much softer than i am. does this mean i have competition for your attention now?"

"don't be jealous of a ball of yarn," you laughed, swatting at his chest.

"i'm a very competitive person," he joked, but then his smile softened again, turning into that quiet, sincere expression that felt like a hug. "thank you. seriously. i’m never taking him off this desk. if the building catches fire, i’m grabbing the laptop and the wolf, in that order."

"glad to know i'm at least top two," you teased.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like the lingering sweetness of his earlier coffee and something uniquely him. when he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath warm against your face.

"you're number one," he whispered. "the wolf is just a very close second because he was made by you."

he squeezed your hand one last time before sitting back down, but he didn't go straight back to the music. instead, he picked the wolf up again, adjusted its tiny hoodie, and gave it a little pat on the head.

"alright, wolf chan," he muttered to the plushie, "let's finish this track so i can go home with the person who made you."

you sat on the couch in the back, watching him work with a newfound energy, the little yarn wolf standing guard over the sliders and knobs. it wasn't a professional piece of merch, and it wouldn't pass a quality check in a store, but seeing the way chan kept glancing at it with that goofy, smitten grin made every cramped finger and tangled thread worth it.

LEE KNOW

minho’s apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft thud of a cat jumping off a counter. he was sitting on the floor, intensely focused on brushing dori, who was purring loud enough to vibrate the floorboards. he didn't even look up when you sat down beside him, though the corner of his mouth hitched up in a tiny, almost invisible greeting.

"you’re late," he remarked, his voice smooth and teasing. "soonie and dongie already gave up on you. they’re napping in the bedroom because you weren't here to entertain them."

"i had errands," you lied badly, feeling the weight of the small gift box in your bag. "and i brought something. for you. well—mostly for you."

minho finally paused, setting the brush down. he leaned back on his palms, eyeing you with that sharp, cat-like curiosity of his. "a peace offering? what did you do? did you accidentally delete my gym playlist or something?"

"just open it, lee know."

you pulled the box out and handed it to him. he took it, his long fingers nimble as he pried the lid off. inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a handmade leebit keychain.

you had spent hours on it. it wasn't the official plastic kind; it was sewn from soft, cream-colored felt with little hand-embroidered eyes and that signature grumpy-yet-cute expression. you’d even stitched a tiny heart on the back, hidden under the cotton tail.

minho went silent. his usual quick-witted wall of snark seemed to hit a snag. he picked it up by the metal ring, letting the little felt rabbit dangle in front of his face. he poked the bunny’s cheek, then looked at the slightly crooked stitching along the ears.

"it's... a rabbit," he said flatly, but his ears were starting to turn a tell-tale shade of pink.

"it's leebit," you corrected, feeling a flush of heat creep up your own neck. "i made it myself. i know it's not perfect—the ears are kind of different lengths and i think i used the wrong shade of thread for the nose, but—"

"it looks like it’s judging me," minho interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. he looked at you then, his dark eyes searching yours. "how long did this take you?"

"too long. i poked myself with the needle like ten times. sewing is way harder than it looks in those aesthetic hobby videos."

minho looked back at the keychain. he didn't laugh or make a joke about how "ugly" it was, which was what you had actually prepared yourself for. instead, he carefully hooked the ring onto his finger, watching the little bunny swing back and forth.

"you’re a dummy," he murmured, his voice lacking any real bite. "you should’ve just bought one if you wanted me to have a keychain."

"but that wouldn't be from me, would it?"

minho huffed, a soft sound that was more of a fond exhale than a sigh. he reached out and, instead of taking the gift away, he grabbed your hand, turning it over to look at your fingertips. he found a tiny, faded red dot from a needle prick and ran his thumb over it, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"you’re clumsy," he said, though he didn't let go of your hand. "don't do it again. i don't need felt rabbits that cost you your blood."

"you don't like it?" you teased, though you could see the way he was already trying to find a place for it.

"i didn't say that." he stood up, crossing the room to where his keys were sitting on the kitchen island. you watched as he methodically threaded the leebit onto his heavy ring of keys, right next to his car fob. it looked a little ridiculous—this soft, handmade, slightly wonky bunny hanging next to his sleek metal keys—but he didn't seem to care.

he walked back over, dropping back down onto the floor beside you. dori immediately crawled into his lap, and minho began absentmindedly stroking the cat’s ears while keeping his other hand close to yours.

"it’s going to get dirty," he noted, staring at the keychain. "felt is a magnet for cat hair. it’ll probably look like soonie in a week."

"i can make you a new one if it gets gross."

"no." he looked at you, his expression softening into something rare and vulnerable, the kind of look he usually reserved for his three cats when he thought no one was watching. "i want this one. it has character. it looks like it’s been through a war, just like its creator."

"hey!"

he chuckled, a low, private sound. he leaned in then, bumping his shoulder against yours. "thank you. really. it’s... it’s cute. even if the ears are lopsided."

"i think the lopsided ears give him personality."

"sure," minho smirks, finally letting a bit of his usual mischief back in. "it matches you perfectly then."

you went to swat him, but he caught your wrist, pulling you closer until your foreheads were almost touching. the teasing light in his eyes didn't fade, but it was joined by something much warmer, much more solid.

"it’s the first thing i’m going to see every time i leave the house," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "so you better be ready for me to text you every time i look at it."

"i think i can handle that."

"good," he murmured, before leaning in to close the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that felt like a quiet "thank you" and a promise all at once.

when he pulled back, he glanced at the leebit keychain again and then at dori. "don't tell the cats, but this might be my new favorite thing in the apartment."

CHANGBIN

the gym bag was heavy on changbin’s shoulder when he walked through the front door, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead from a particularly brutal late-night session.

he looked like he’d been through the ringer, but the second he saw you sitting on his floor surrounded by bits of black and pink yarn, his entire face shifted. that tired, heavy-lidded look vanished, replaced by a curious, slightly lopsided grin.

"what’s all this?" he asked, dropping his bag by the door with a dull thud. he walked over, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and peered down at the chaos of your workspace. "are you starting a textile factory in my living room?"

you laughed, quickly trying to scoop up the scrap pieces. "it's just a project. i was trying to finish it before you got back, but you're early for once."

"early?" he scoffed, checking his watch. "it's almost midnight. i think i'm right on time for whatever mischief you're up to."

he sat down on the floor across from you, his legs folded comfortably. he didn't care that he was sweaty or that the floor was covered in fuzz; he just wanted to be in your space. he watched you for a moment, his eyes darting between your hands and the slightly lumpy shape hidden behind your back.

"come on, show me," he nudged, his voice dropping into that playful, whiny tone he used when he wanted to get his way. "i've been lifting heavy things for three hours, i think i deserve a reward."

you sighed, though there was no real frustration behind it. "okay, fine. but you have to promise not to laugh. i'm still learning how to do the structure properly."

you slowly pulled the item from behind your back. it was a handmade, crocheted dwaekki—but it wasn't just a simple doll. you had turned it into a small, plush weights-lifting buddy. the dwaekki was wearing a tiny, crocheted black headband, and you had even managed to stitch two small gray dumbbells that were permanently attached to its little paws.

changbin’s reaction wasn't immediate. he just stared at it, his mouth falling open slightly. then, he reached out, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate as he took the doll from your hands.

"no way," he breathed, his voice thick with genuine shock. "you made a buff dwaekki?"

"he’s a gym rat," you explained, your voice a little shy as you pointed out the details. "see? i tried to give him slightly broader shoulders by adding extra stitches in the rows, and i used a metallic yarn for the dumbbells so they’d look like real iron. he’s supposed to be your workout partner for when you’re at home."

changbin was quiet, his thumb tracing the tiny headband you’d carefully sewn on. he looked at the stitching—which was tight and neat, evidence of the hours you’d spent hunched over a lamp—and then he looked at the weights.

"look at his little gains," changbin whispered, a huge, face-splitting grin finally breaking out. he looked like a kid on christmas morning. he held the dwaekki up at eye level, making it 'flex' its little stuffed arms. "he’s literally me. he’s perfect. look at the definition on his ears!"

"it’s just yarn, bin. there's no definition."

"to the untrained eye, maybe," he countered, holding the plushie to his chest. "but i can see the hard work. i know how much effort goes into making something like this."

he looked at you then, and the playful energy settled into something much deeper. changbin had always been the one to provide the 'strong' energy—the one who protected, the one who worked out to stay sturdy for the people he loved—but receiving something that acknowledged that part of him in such a soft, domestic way clearly hit him hard.

"you really sat here and did all this for me?" he asked, his voice softening. "how many times did you have to redo those arms? i know how perfectionist you get."

"four times," you admitted. "the first version looked more like a pig-rabbit with a giant marshmallow. i had to keep adjusting the tension."

changbin let out a soft, breathy chuckle and leaned forward, pulling you into a hug that smelled like salt and citrus. he was warm—radiating heat from the gym—but it felt like home. he kept the dwaekki tucked between you, the little yarn dumbbells pressing into your shoulder.

"thank you," he murmured against your hair. "seriously. i'm going to put him right on my bedside table. or maybe i'll take him to the studio so i can show chan and han that i have the coolest partner in the world."

"please don't take him to the studio, he’s probably going to fall apart if you handle him too much."

"he’s built different, just like his dad," changbin joked, pulling back to look at you. he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your face. "i mean it, though. i love it. i love that you put so much of your time into something just to make me smile."

he leaned in and pressed a firm, sweet kiss to your forehead, then another to your nose. "i was actually having a really frustrating session. my reps felt heavy, my mind was all over the place... but i come home to this? it’s like all the stress just evaporated."

he picked up the dwaekki again, making it do a little dance on his knee. "we're going to be the strongest duo in the k-pop industry. just me and yarn-bin."

"is that what you're naming him?"

"obviously. he needs a strong name." changbin grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "and since he’s always holding those weights, he’ll never skip arm day. he’s an inspiration to us all."

you couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. even though he was a world-class rapper and a literal powerhouse, he was currently losing his mind over a six-inch tall ball of pink yarn and stuffing.

"i'm glad you like him," you said, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"i don't like him," changbin corrected, pulling you closer until you were tucked under his arm. "i love him. but i love the person who made him way more. so, you win."

he spent the rest of the night showing 'yarn-bin' around the apartment, taking pictures of the doll 'lifting' his actual protein shaker and sending them to the group chat, ignoring the flurry of 'you're so whipped' messages that immediately came back.

and as you watched him, tired but beaming, you realized that no matter how big his muscles got, he’d always have the softest heart for anything you made for him.

HYUNJIN

the sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, honey-colored glow across hyunjin’s living room. he was sitting on the floor in front of a blank canvas, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched out some loose, flowing lines.

the smell of linseed oil and turpentine always seemed to cling to him, a scent you had grown to associate entirely with his creative process.

you walked in quietly, trying not to disturb his flow, but he noticed you immediately. he always did. he set his charcoal pencil down, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he wiped his hands on a stray rag.

"you’re back," he said, his voice light and melodic. "i was starting to think the art supply store swallowed you whole. did you find the brushes you were looking for?"

"i did," you said, sitting down on the rug beside him. "but i also spent the last week working on something else. a little surprise."

hyunjin’s eyes sparked with instant interest. he was someone who lived for aesthetics, for beauty, and for the thought behind a gesture. he leaned in, his long hair falling over his shoulder as he tucked it back behind his ear. "a surprise? for me?"

you reached into your bag and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped bundle. inside was a handmade jiniret beret. it wasn't just a hat; you had spent hours knitting the soft, white wool, making sure the tension was just right so it would sit perfectly.

on the side, you had meticulously embroidered a tiny jiniret face, complete with the little beauty mark under the eye. you had even added two small, pointed ferret ears that stood up subtly from the top of the beret.

as you handed it to him, hyunjin’s breath hitched. he took it with both hands, his fingers brushing over the soft yarn. he didn't say anything at first, just stared at the embroidery, his eyes tracing every single stitch you had made.

"you made this?" he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "the embroidery... it’s so small. and you even got the mole right."

"i wanted you to have something you could actually wear," you said, feeling your heart flutter at the way he was looking at it. "i know you love berets, and i thought a jiniret one would be cute for when you’re painting or just hanging out. the wool is really soft, i made sure of it."

hyunjin didn't just look at it; he treated it like a piece of high art. he turned it over, looking at the inside, seeing the neatness of your work. he looked back at you, his expression softening into that deep, soulful look that always felt like it was searching your very heart.

"this is beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "the fact that you took the time to knit this... to do the embroidery... it’s more than just a hat. it’s like you gave me a piece of your time. and that’s the most precious thing."

"it’s just a beret, hyunjin," you teased softly, though your chest felt tight with affection.

"no, it's not 'just' anything," he countered, shaking his head. he immediately pulled his hair back into a low tie and placed the beret on his head, adjusting it in the mirror leaning against the wall.

he tilted his head, watching the little ferret ears perk up. "how do i look? do i look like a proper artist now?"

"you look like the cutest artist in the world."

hyunjin turned back to you, a bright, genuine laugh escaping him. he crawled over the short distance between you on the rug, framing your face with his hands. his palms were still a little stained with charcoal, but you didn't care.

"i’m never taking it off," he declared, his eyes shining. "i’m going to wear it to practice. i’m going to wear it when i go for walks. i want everyone to know that my favorite person made this for me."

"it might get hot in the dance studio," you pointed out, laughing.

"then i’ll just sweat for the sake of fashion and love," he joked, but then he grew serious again. he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. "thank you. truly. it’s so me, but it’s even more you because i can feel how much you cared while you were making it. it’s my new favorite thing."

he leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that tasted like the quiet of the evening and the sweetness of the moment. when he pulled back, he was still smiling, the little jiniret ears on his head making the whole scene look like something out of a dream.

he spent the next hour trying to paint a portrait of the jiniret beret itself, insisting that such a masterpiece deserved its own canvas.

for hyunjin, it wasn't about the gift itself—it was about the fact that you had seen him, understood his style, and put your own heart into creating something just for him.

and to him, that was everything.

HAN

jisung was slumped on his bed, surrounded by a mountain of tangled headphones, half-finished lyric sheets, and empty snack wrappers. the room was dim, lit only by the soft, warm glow of a desk lamp, and he was staring at his laptop with a look of utter defeat.

he looked like a squirrel who had forgotten where he hid his nuts for the winter—vaguely panicked and very overwhelmed.

"han?" you called out softly, stepping over a stray hoodie on the floor.

he jumped about six inches into the air, his eyes wide as he scrambled to pull his headphones down around his neck. "oh! hey! i didn't... i was just... you know, music stuff. big brain moves. very productive."

"you were staring at a blank document for ten minutes, weren't you?"

he deflated instantly, his shoulders slumping. "fifteen. the lyrics just aren't lyric-ing today. i feel like my brain is made of mashed potatoes."

"well, maybe a change of pace will help," you said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching into your bag. "i finished that thing i was telling you about. the project i was keeping secret."

jisung’s ears perked up. he was always a sucker for surprises, his curiosity being one of his most endearing (and sometimes chaotic) traits. "the top-secret mission? the one that made you ignore my memes for three hours straight last tuesday?"

"exactly that one."

you pulled out a small, handmade quokka pouch. it was made of a fuzzy, caramel-colored sherpa fabric that felt like a cloud. you’d sewn it by hand, adding a little zipper across the top of the head.

the face was the best part—you’d used black beads for the eyes and pink felt for the cheeks, giving it that classic, wide-eyed han quokka expression. inside, you’d tucked a few of his favorite honey candies just for good measure.

as you handed it to him, jisung didn't move for a second. he just stared at the little fuzzy face in his palms, his mouth slightly agape.

"is this... me?" he asked, his voice cracking a little. he squeezed the pouch, his eyes lighting up as he felt how soft it was. "wait, it’s a pouch? i can actually put stuff in here?"

"yeah. i thought you could use it for your in-ears, or your guitar picks, or just... snacks. it’s not perfect, the zipper was a nightmare to sew in and i think one of the cheeks is a little higher than the other, but—"

"it's literally the greatest thing i've ever owned," jisung interrupted, his voice hushed with genuine awe. he started petting the fuzzy fabric, a huge, gummy smile spreading across his face. "you made this? with your actual hands? like, with a needle and thread and everything?"

"i did. i have the battle scars to prove it."

jisung looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch. he looked like he was about to burst into tears or start dancing, and with han, it was usually a 50/50 shot.

instead, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you in a messy, enthusiastic hug that sent you both toppling back onto his pillows.

"you're the best," he muffled into your shoulder, squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe. "seriously. i was feeling so stuck and gross and uninspired, and then you just... you walk in with a fuzzy version of my face. how am i supposed to be sad now?"

"i'm glad you like it, hanji."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shimmering with that soft, vulnerable affection he usually tried to hide behind jokes and loud noises. he reached out and poked your nose, your smile turning a little shy.

"i'm never letting anything happen to him," he promised, clutching the pouch to his chest like a treasure. "i'm going to take him everywhere. he's going to be my emotional support quokka. if i'm in the booth and i can't hit a note, i'm just going to look at his little bead eyes for strength."

"just don't get him dirty. sherpa is hard to wash."

"i will protect him with my life," jisung declared, his dramatic flair returning. he sat back up and immediately started emptying his pockets, carefully tucking his favorite picks and a crumpled-up lyric scrap into the pouch. "see? he’s already helping me organize my life. he’s a miracle worker."

he looked at you then, the playful energy settling into something quieter. he reached out, taking your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.

"thank you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "i know how much work goes into stuff like this. the fact that you spent your time making a tiny, fuzzy me... it makes me feel really, really loved."

"you are really, really loved, you idiot."

he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the cramped room. he leaned in and pressed a quick, messy kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead, his nose cold against your skin.

"well, the mashed potatoes in my brain are starting to feel like actual ideas again," he joked, picking up his pen and pointing it at the pouch. "me and the quokka are going to write a masterpiece now. stay and watch?"

"wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

he spent the next two hours working, occasionally stopping to pet the pouch or show it a line he’d written to see if it 'approved.' and as you sat there in the quiet hum of his room, watching him finally find his flow again, it seemed that sometimes the best way to fix a creative block was just a little bit of handmade love—

and a lot of fuzzy fabric.

FELIX

the kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, buttery scent of baking that always seemed to linger in felix’s apartment like a permanent hug. he was bent over the counter, his tongue poking out just a little as he carefully piped tiny white flowers onto a batch of chocolate brownies.

he looked soft—wrapped in an oversized cream sweater, his hair a bit messy from a long day of rehearsals, and a smudge of flour decorating the tip of his nose.

"you’re just in time," he chirped, not looking up but recognizable by the bright, honeyed tone of his voice. "i’m just finishing the last few. i made these especially for you because i know you had a stressful week."

you leaned against the kitchen island, watching him. felix was always the one giving—the one baking, the one checking in, the one pouring his entire heart into making sure everyone else felt seen and loved. it made your heart ache in the best way, and it made you even more nervous about the lumpy, soft shape currently hidden in the deep pocket of your cardigan.

"actually, 'lix, i have something for you too," you said, your voice a little quiet.

he stopped mid-piping, his head snapping up. his eyes, wide and sparkling with that genuine, childlike curiosity he never seemed to lose, locked onto yours. "a gift? for me? but it’s not my birthday. or a holiday. or even a friday—wait, it is friday. but still!"

"it’s just a little thing. i’ve been working on it for a while."

you reached into your pocket and pulled out a handmade, crocheted bbokari sun-hat. it was tiny—not meant for a human, but sized perfectly for the little bbokari plush he kept on his bed.

you had used a vibrant, sunshine-yellow yarn for the base, and you’d even managed to crochet a tiny white daisy to stick on the brim. the stitching was a little tight in some places and a bit loose in others, and the daisy was definitely more of a... suggestive flower shape than a perfect one, but it was bright and cheerful, just like him.

felix’s reaction was immediate and visceral. he didn't just smile; he beamed, his entire face lighting up like a switch had been flipped. he dropped the piping bag—thankfully on the parchment paper—and wiped his hands frantically on his apron before reaching out.

"oh my gosh," he breathed, his voice dropping into that deep, rumbling register that usually meant he was feeling something very strongly. he took the hat from your palm as if it were made of spun gold. "you made this? look at the little flower! look at the yellow! it’s so... it’s so bright!"

"it's for your bbokari plush," you explained, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. "i thought he looked a little lonely on your bed, and i know how much you love the sun. it's not the best quality, i'm still a beginner, and the daisy is kind of a mess, but—"

"it is perfect," felix interrupted, his voice firm but incredibly soft. he walked around the counter, clutching the tiny hat to his chest. "it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me. do you have any idea how much i love it? i can feel the sunshine in the yarn."

"really?"

"really." he grabbed your hand, his fingers warm and slightly sticky from the frosting. "come on, we have to go put it on him right now. he’s been waiting for this his whole life."

he practically dragged you to his bedroom, his excitement so infectious you couldn't help but laugh. he grabbed the yellow chick plush from his pillows and sat on the edge of the bed, his movements careful and focused as he settled the handmade hat onto the plushie's head. he adjusted it, tilting it slightly to the side so the wonky daisy was front and center.

"look at him," felix whispered, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. "he looks so stylish. he looks like he’s ready for a picnic in the park. he looks like... he looks like he's loved."

felix turned to you then, his expression shifting from playful excitement to something much more tender. he reached out and took both of your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.

the room was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the oven timer, but the air between you felt thick with everything he wasn't saying.

"thank you," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble. "i know you’ve been busy. i know you’ve been tired. the fact that you sat down and moved your fingers like this, row after row, just to make something that would make me smile... it means everything to me. it really does."

"i just wanted you to feel as special as you make everyone else feel, felix."

his lower lip trembled just a tiny bit, and before you could say anything else, he lunged forward, wrapping you in a hug that felt like being enveloped in a warm cloud. he buried his face in your shoulder, his arms squeezing tight. he smelled like vanilla and cocoa and that clean, floral scent that was just felix.

"you're so sweet," he mumbled into your neck. "i don't deserve you. i'm going to keep this hat forever. i'm going to tell everyone who comes over that my favorite person made this for my favorite chick."

"you're going to make people think i'm a professional crocheter, 'lix. please don't let them look too closely at the stitches."

he pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders, his gaze intense and sincere. "the stitches are my favorite part. they show where you were thinking, and where you were working hard. every little mistake is just a part of the story. i think it's art."

he leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as sweet and warm as the brownies cooling in the kitchen. it was a slow, lingering moment, full of the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from knowing someone truly cares about the little things. when he pulled away, he was still smiling, his eyes locked onto yours.

"now," he said, standing up and pulling you with him, "as a thank you, you have to be the first one to taste the brownies. and then we have to take a million photos of bbokari in his new hat to send to the members so they can be jealous."

"i think hyunjin might actually cry if he sees it," you joked.

"good," felix laughed, leadng you back toward the kitchen. "let him be jealous. he doesn't have a handmade hat made with love."

he spent the rest of the evening alternating between feeding you bits of warm brownie and posing the plushie in different spots around the apartment, insisting that the 'lighting' was better in the living room for a photoshoot. he looked bright, happy, and utterly smitten with a tiny piece of yellow yarn.

with felix, it didn't matter if you gave him something expensive or something made of scraps. as long as it came from the heart, he would treat it like the most important thing in the world.

SEUNGMIN

the library at the company building was deserted, the long rows of bookshelves casting deep shadows across the carpet. seungmin was tucked away in his favorite corner, a stack of vocal sheet music and a lukewarm americano on the table in front of him.

he looked incredibly focused, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he marked up a bridge with a red pen. it was one of those rare moments where he looked peaceful—no cameras, no teasing members, just him and his music.

you stepped into the light of his desk lamp, holding a small paper bag like it contained a live bird. "still at it?"

seungmin didn't jump; he was too composed for that. he just looked up, his eyes softening as he took in your presence. he leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight, and tapped his pen against his chin. "i could say the same to you. shouldn't you be heading home? the last shuttle left twenty minutes ago."

"i stayed late to finish something," you said, pulling out the chair across from him. "actually, i finished it for you."

seungmin’s brow arched. he had that classic, skeptical look on his face—the one he wore when he was trying to figure out if you were about to prank him or say something incredibly sincere. "for me? is it a list of all the times i've been right this week? because that would be a very long document."

"keep dreaming, seungmin."

you reached into the bag and pulled out a handmade puppym scarf. you had spent the last two weeks knitting it, opting for a high-quality, cream-colored wool that was thick and incredibly soft. at each end of the scarf, you had needle-felted a small, round puppym face. you’d worked painstakingly on the eyes to make sure they had that specific, slightly judgmental but adorable puppy stare that everyone associated with him.

as you laid it across the table, seungmin’s red pen rolled away, forgotten. he didn't say anything for a long moment. he just reached out, his long fingers brushing against the wool. he picked up one of the ends, staring at the needle-felted face you’d spent three nights perfecting.

"you made this," he said. it wasn't a question; it was a quiet realization. he looked at the stitching, then at the little felt ears. his expression was unreadable at first—the typical seungmin poker face—but then his ears started to turn that vibrant shade of pink that always gave him away.

"i know you're picky about fabrics," you said, feeling a sudden rush of self-consciousness. "i made sure it wasn't scratchy. and i know it's a bit... cute. maybe too cute for you to wear out, but i thought since the weather's getting colder, and you're always complaining about the draft in the vocal rooms..."

"it's not too cute," seungmin interrupted, his voice a bit lower than usual. he picked up the scarf and began to wind it around his neck, his movements slow and deliberate. he tucked his chin into the soft wool, looking at you over the top of the cream-colored fabric. "it's perfect. the tension in the knitting is actually very consistent. did you block the wool after you finished?"

you blinked, taken aback. "i—yeah, i did. how do you even know what that is?"

he gave a small, smug shrug, though his eyes were shining with something much warmer than his usual sarcasm. "i pay attention. besides, if you're going to give me something handmade, i have to appreciate the technical skill involved."

he adjusted the ends so the puppym faces were visible on his chest. he looked ridiculous and incredibly endearing all at once—the serious, stoic vocalist wrapped in a fluffy, handmade puppy scarf.

"it smells like you," he noted, his voice muffled by the wool.

"is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"it's a 'stop talking so i can enjoy it' thing," he countered, though a small, genuine smile finally broke through his defenses. he reached across the table, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. "thank you. seriously. i know how much time this takes. it’s much better than the store-bought ones."

"you're just saying that because you don't want to hurt my feelings."

seungmin let out a short, dry laugh. "have i ever hesitated to hurt your feelings when your singing is flat? no. i'm saying it because it's true. this is... it's special."

he stood up, gathering his sheet music and his empty coffee cup. he didn't take the scarf off. in fact, he tucked the ends into his coat as he put it on, making sure the little puppym faces were still peeking out just enough.

"come on," he said, nodding toward the door. "since you missed your shuttle making me a masterpiece, i guess i have to walk you home. it's only fair."

as you walked through the quiet halls of the building, the air was crisp and cold, but seungmin seemed perfectly content. he kept his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked deep into the scarf. every time he caught his reflection in the glass doors or the elevator mirrors, he’d linger for a second, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"you're going to wear it to the dorm, aren't you?" you asked as you stepped out into the night air. "the members are going to lose their minds."

"let them," seungmin said, his voice steady. "they’ll be jealous. jeongin will probably try to steal it, but i’ll just tell him it’s a restricted item. only for people who are always right."

you snorted, nudging his shoulder. "oh, shut up. you are not always right."

"okay. just most of the time."

he stopped walking for a second, turning to face you under a flickering streetlight. the wind caught his hair, but the scarf stayed firmly in place, keeping him warm. he looked down at you, his gaze quiet and intense.

for all his teasing and his sharp tongue, seungmin was someone who felt things very deeply, and you could see the weight of his gratitude in the way he looked at you now.

"really, though," he whispered, stepping a little closer until your coats brushed. "thank you for seeing me. and for... this. i’ll take care of it. i promise."

he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow and sure. he tasted like black coffee and felt like the soft wool of the scarf—warm, comforting, and solid. when he pulled back, he didn't move away, staying close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"now let's go," he moped, though his eyes were bright. "if i stay out here any longer, the wool might get damp, and then i'll have to make you knit me a backup."

"don't push your luck, seungmin."

"too late," he teased, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you along the sidewalk. "i've already decided you're making me matching mittens next."

you complained the whole way back, but the way he kept glancing down at the little puppym faces on his chest told you that he wasn't going to be taking that scarf off for a long, long time.

I.N.

the company dorm was uncharacteristically quiet when you arrived, the rest of the members either still at the studio or out grabbing food. jeongin was sprawled on the living room sofa, his legs hanging over the armrest as he scrolled through his phone.

he looked like he’d been through a long day of choreography—sweatpants on, hair a bit flat from a beanie, and a tired sort of peacefulness in his expression.

when he saw you walk in, his entire face transformed. his eyes crinkled into those sharp, fox-like crescents, and his dimples made a sudden, prominent appearance. "you’re finally here! i was about to start eating the couch cushions out of boredom."

"i brought a distraction," you laughed, tossing your bag onto the coffee table. "and no, it’s not snacks, so stop looking at the bag like that."

jeongin sat up, his interest piqued. he was the maknae, but he often carried himself with a lot of maturity; however, when it came to you and anything you did for him, he turned back into a curious kid in an instant. "if it’s not food, it better be good. did you get me that game i wanted?"

"better," you said, pulling out a small, soft bundle.

it was a handmade foxy.ny plushie—but it was different from the ones you could buy. you had used a soft, peach-colored minky fabric that was almost velvety to the touch. you’d spent hours hand-stitching the white patches on the face and the belly, making sure the proportions were just right.

your personal favorite part, though, was the outfit. you’d dressed the little fox in a tiny, hand-sewn version of jeongin’s favorite blue denim jacket, complete with a little white hoodie underneath.

jeongin’s jaw dropped. he took the plushie from your hands, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric. he held it up, turning it around to look at the tiny jacket. "no way... you made the jacket? even the little hood?"

"yeah," you admitted, feeling a bit of heat rise to your face. "the denim was a nightmare to sew because it's so thick at that scale, and i think the sleeves are a tiny bit too long, but i wanted him to look like you. i even gave him your eyes."

jeongin didn't say anything for a second. he just stared at the fox, his thumb rubbing over the tiny denim collar. he looked up at you, his expression soft and a little dazed. "this is... insane. i can't believe you actually sat down and sewed a tiny jacket for a fox just because of me."

"i know it's a bit childish, but—"

"it's not," jeongin interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. he stood up and pulled you into a tight, exuberant hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. he smelled like laundry detergent and the faint scent of the skin cream he used. "it’s the coolest thing ever. seriously. i’m going to put him on the top shelf of my desk so he can watch me sleep."

"he might get dusty up there."

"then i'll buy him a tiny umbrella," he joked, pulling back to look at you. he was beaming, his dimples deeper than ever. "thank you. i know you've been working on this for weeks. every time i asked what you were doing, you'd get all suspicious and hide your hands."

"well, i didn't want you to see the messy prototype. it looked like a potato with ears."

jeongin laughed, a bright, clear sound that always made your heart skip. he sat back down on the couch, pulling you down beside him. he kept the foxy.ny plushie in his lap, his hand resting protectively over its head. "i'm going to take a picture of this and send it to my mom. she's going to be so jealous."

"don't you dare," you groaned, hiding your face in his shoulder.

"too late," he teased, already pulling out his phone. "she needs to know that i'm being well taken care of."

he spent the next twenty minutes posing the plushie in different spots, making it 'wave' at the camera and pretending it was judging his choice of tv show.

he was so genuinely happy, so proud of this little lumpy thing you’d made him, that you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief.

after a while, the playful energy settled. jeongin leaned back against the cushions, pulling you into his side. he tucked the plushie under his arm and rested his head on yours, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

"really, though," he whispered, his voice sounding a little tired but incredibly sincere. "thank you. i know being an idol means i'm always busy and away... and sometimes i feel bad that you do so much for me. but things like this? they make me feel like i'm always home, even when i'm not."

"that was the goal, innie."

he leaned down and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to your temple. "mission accomplished."

as the door finally clicked open and the sounds of the other members returning filled the hallway, jeongin didn't move. he just held you closer, clutching his tiny fox companion, looking entirely content to stay right where he was.

and when hyunjin eventually burst into the room and immediately shrieked, "is that a tiny denim jacket?!", jeongin just smirked, held the plushie higher, and said, "yeah. and you're not allowed to touch it."

There’s a question in the slight raise of his brows, ice blue stare piercing through you.

“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, Leon.”

“What about the coffee shop guy?”

You let out a sigh, “We just flirted a bit while waiting for our coffee.”

“Hmm.” His hand falls naturally down to your neck, fingers curling to give your nape a light squeeze. “Has your number and everything.”

“I didn’t know you had a habit of snooping.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you feel the faint weight of his thumb on your windpipe. “Or being jealous.”

“I didn’t check your phone. You stopped kissing me to check the message, remember?”

“Ah, happened to see it, did you?”

“Yeah. How old is he? Forty something?”

“Younger than me, for sure.” Next thing, you’re swatting away his hand from your neck and pushing him flat against the bed, throwing your leg over his hips to sit on his stomach. “Divorced, most probably. With kids.”

He grunts and grabs your thigh, squeezing his eyes on the impact. You laugh, remembering the times he used to plop you down on top of him without a noise of complaint. He was two decades younger then.

“But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I like ‘em old.”

His eyes follow the slick space between your thighs, pressed to his abs, up your naked stomach and breasts. He looks at you the same way. Still hungry after all those years.

“Oh, I’m aware.”

You scratch down his firm chest like you would scratch a cat’s fur, nails grazing his ribcage. He lets out a content hum, eyes closed for a brief pause, and his hand on your thigh doesn’t remain idle, his nails dig into your skin. It’s not supple anymore, as with age it’s lost its elasticity.

You see his Adam’s apple move when you scoot down to his pelvis, his free hand on the mattress anchors your palms right above his belly button. He sniffs shortly, eyes glued to your face. “I can’t go again this soon.”

Age has gotten him too. His refractory period longer each time.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You swear his eyes are redder than usual, it’s easy to attribute it to his lack of sleep, and the glossiness to the post-orgasm clarity. “I’m just teasing you.”

Normally, you’d double down and continue to make fun of him —“What, can’t get it up again, old man?”— and he’d be very smug about it, knowing he’d get you off in a few minutes with his fingers, mouth, or thigh. Then he’d be able to go again, leaving you more than satisfied. But it felt different this time. He held you closer, firmer, and he was quieter to hear you more clearly if you had to guess. So you felt as if you owed him a softer time.

“You should message him back.”

Your hands escape under his hold to mess up his hair, smoothing it back to see his wrinkled face clearly. Pulling on the long locks, you fully lay down on him, breasts pressed to his chest, and mumble against his closed lips. “Hey, you know your limp dick after sex is not a big deal to me. I like you just as you are.”

After a particularly firm pull on his hair, he lets out a soft moan. “No, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.” You start kissing him, voice muffled by skin. From his temple to the deep crow’s feet next to his eye, to his cheekbone and prickly stubble and down to the corner of his lips, you get him to open up his mouth after a few licks. The wet sounds of kissing fill the dimly lit room, urging you to grind yourself on Leon’s happy trail.

“Fuuuck,” he sighs. “Get closer.”

“Any closer and I’ll be in your skin,” you chuckle, trying to shimmy down to his cock. You’re positive he’ll get hard after a few minutes of grinding, you’re still dripping slick from your previous escapades.

“Not down,” he asserts. “Come up.”

Thinking he wants you over his face, you make a move, but his fingers dip into the flesh of your hips to plant you right on his abs.

“Sit here. Do your thing.”

“What?”

Instead of telling you, he shows you. You see his chest muscles tighten, hear him grunt and press you even harder to himself. That’s when you also feel his midriff tighten against your bare sex.

You try it out, grind your core against his hardened abs. It feels better than humping a pillow, even though the last time you humped one was many years ago. A pillow doesn’t have muscular arms to move you how he likes, doesn’t have the warmth of a textured skin. A pillow doesn’t catch on to all the right places, it leaves you frustrated and wanting more.

But this feels right.

The slide of your wet cunt against his abdomen makes the heat between your legs travel up your chest, your pulse thrumming at your throat. Your knees might give out any second with the way they’re burning, but you don’t dare stop rolling your hips because Leon is not quiet this time. You think you can get off just from listening to his low moans.

He’s not like any other man. He prioritizes your pleasure above all else, gets off on the idea of you using him, his focus is always on your contorted expressions and strained noises. It’s the same for you too. With him, you’ve found the perfect equilibrium of give and take with lots and lots of practice.

In truth, you’re both using each other.

He goes away, you see other people, and he does too, and comes back, calling you at indecent hours, and next thing he's ringing at your door, pushing you inside, bending you in all sorts of positions, kissing you like there's no such thing called tomorrow. You get to play this fucked up cat and mouse game over and over again, until one of you gets bored, you suppose.

(It’s easier this way.)

“Le-Leon, breathe—“

He’s so tense and red under you, keeping his muscles tight and firm, blunt nails digging crescent moon marks on your hips. “Shit, no, don’t—don’t stop. Keep going.”

You disrupt the rhythm, pause your hips when he tries to drag you back and forth on his abs again, which makes his eyes open. “Mmnh—please.”

“Stop, Leon.”

For a couple of seconds, there’s a quick battle of movement between you two. You shove his arms away from your body all the while he brings them back on, you push when he pulls. A couple of slaps land on his forearms. “Calm down—ughh— you were going to tear an artery!”

You try to get up and off him but he clasps your wrists together on your chest, pushing you down to let you feel how hard he’s gotten just from making you pleasure yourself on him.

“You didn’t finish,” he says, tone so calm it pisses you off. Like he wasn’t just about to strain himself into oxygen deprivation.

Taking deep breaths through your nose, you rattle your handcuffs— Leon’s tight grip on your wrists. “This isn’t what I want.”

And that’s all it takes for Leon to loosen his grip, thumbs caressing your wrists in apology before wiping his palms on his face.

It’s your chance to throw yourself on your side, facing him. So you do just that, gather your legs and cross your ankles.

One of his hands drops unceremoniously to the mattress, the other stroking his scruff. A drop of wetness clings to his crow’s feet that you are left facing.

“I’m so sorry. About everything.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, it was good. Really good—before, I mean.”

“Yeah, we used to be really good.”

You spring up immediately, trying to get a good look at his face. “What was that? Are we not good anymore? I meant the sex, before you tried to give yourself an aneurysm.”

Instead of answering your question, he deflects it. “Call the coffee shop guy tomorrow.”

He’s not the type of man to sulk, so he doesn’t turn his back to you, just turns his head.

Tired of his bullshit, you reach and cup his jaw, making him meet your eyes. No more tears, just exhaustion. “What the fuck is your problem?”

A beat of silence passes, he reaches up very calmly to smooth out the stubborn wrinkle between your eyebrows. “I need to believe you’ll be alright.”

You take your hand away like you’ve just touched something very hot. “Are you saying you want to end this?”

“We need to.”

“Why?…”The word comes out involuntarily, your brain feels fuzzy, taken aback by the sudden resolve. “Is it something that I did?”

“You know it’s not.” He’s stroking your arms for comfort. You’re not sure who it’s meant to be for. “There’s no guarantee that I will be back.”

Your mouth opens and closes, unsure of what to even say. “What do you mean? Are they relocating you?”

He doesn’t need to say no to that, you only ask these questions to make yourself believe in something other than what he’s insinuating, you can read his expression well enough.

“Where are they sending you? You know I won’t tell anybody.” You shake him by the elbows like that would get him to spill everything.

“I would tell you if I could.”

“When? Or am I also not allowed to know that?”

“In a few weeks.”

“A few weeks,” you repeat absentmindedly. “We still have time.”

“Look at me.” Seizing you by the arms, he grounds you back into reality. “This is might be my last goodbye to you—“

“No—!” You push his arms away. You’re surprised he lets you.

“Listen to me carefully. I need to be back at work tomorrow—no, listen—I won’t be able to see you. There will be preparations. Busy couple of weeks, then I’ll be gone. I need you to know that I regret ruining your chance at a normal life.”

A second at most, that’s how long Leon waits for you to respond. You’re shellshocked as he dangles his legs off the bed.

Thud.

His feet hit the floor. He bends down, searching for his boxers.

Your gaze lingers on the moving muscles of his back. He pulls the band over his hips, a soft grunt escapes him. There, your nails have left several reminders across his back.

He fishes for his socks with his toes, pulling them closer to the bed where he can pick them up easier.

Your head feels heavy against the soft pillow, time feels slower as he stands up and dresses himself.

Your ears stop ringing while he’s fumbling with his belt, and you finally find enough strength to fling yourself off the bed. Clutching onto him for dear life, wet cheek pressed to the back of his shirt, you keep inhaling his musky scent without an ounce of shame, already afraid of forgetting it.

And he lets you cry it out, no words exchanged.

You’re not twenty anymore, so you don’t care how this looks. You, sobbing and clinging to him naked while he, fully clothed, stands and waits for you to finish mourning.

He doesn’t turn around to look at your face as you let go of him to wipe your tears, just reaches to the nightstand for his car keys and wallet. Throwing on a robe, you follow him to your door out of habit.

Look at me, you plead in your head, holding the door open. And in a very familiar manner, he does.

Normally, you’d wrap your arms around his neck for a quick peck on the lips and he’d caress your back as an apology for leaving you so sore. “Don’t wait for me,” he’d say. You don’t expect it this time. Just like how you don’t expect him to cup your face and thumb away at the corners of your eyes now. Maybe it’s his apology for leaving you crying.

He wears an expression you haven’t seen before, as though he’s made peace with it despite everything. You’ve never seen a man accept his death so easily.

“Be well,” he whispers, lips pressed to your forehead.

He isn’t hurried as he walks towards his car in the dark, as if he’s waiting for you to call out “See you when you’re in town again!” from your patio like you always do.

But your familiar cheerful shout never reaches his ears this time. Instead, he pauses at his open car door, watching you, your arms crossed tightly as you shift from one bare foot to another under the pale glow of the patio light.

You raise your hand and wave into darkness as if you’ve just felt his eyes land on you. For a moment, he thinks you do.

He raises his hand in return, but you don’t see him as you press your hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs and go back inside.

He gets a series of texts from you at five a.m., blaming himself for making you lose sleep.

It reads:

You didn’t ruin anything, Leon. I chose this. I chose to wait for you every time. I was happy. And I don’t regret anything.

I don’t quite understand what you mean by ruining my chance at a normal life. I’ve racked my brain over thinking about this.

All I’ve been able to come up with is that you mean I’d have a partner or kids by now if I had never met you.

Or if we’d stopped seeing each other a long time ago.

I want you to know that neither option would have made me happy. I’m glad I met you. I’m glad I know you.

It was so good while it lasted.

He stares at the screen until his work alarm makes him sit up in his bed, head bowed between his shoulders, elbows on his knees. You don’t deserve it but he really shouldn’t reply to you.

Another text:

Did I wake you up? Sorry.

Going to his message settings, he disables his read receipts, so you won’t be able to know he’s seeing your texts the minute you send them. And maybe stop expecting him to answer.

If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to keep in touch until you know when.

I didn’t get to kiss you goodbye, I think I deserve this at least. Don’t you think so, Leon?

And then you’re typing for a very long time. Leon doesn’t even blink, thumb pressing on your last message, making it the only visible text on his phone screen. He lets it go when a new one appears.

Don’t you think I deserve to know where you’ll be buried?

Hours later, his personal phone pings again when he’s having his blood drawn for a general health check up before he’s sent to Raccoon City.

Leon I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t see my last message. It was out of line.

I can’t tell if you’re seeing this either.

But if you are reading these, let me clear myself up.

I have no idea what kind of work you’ll be doing this time, like always.

Your goodbye was intense. I guess I wanted to let you know how hurt I am. You left me with a panic attack.

I don’t know how you can be so sure of your own death. I’ve always believed you excelled at your job. No matter how dangerous it got.

Because you were always back in my arms in one piece.

I have a strong feeling it’ll be the same again. I’m not ready to lose you. Not yet.

The keys are under the potted plant as always. You’re welcome in my house at any time, you know that.

Please, let’s talk about this.

DSO provides agents with rings that track their health, meant for significant others to be notified if something bad happens suddenly.

Leon takes it.

He fishes out his phone from his pocket and keeps his messages to you very short:

Hey

The link I’m sending you is an app that tracks my health ring. Download it and track my code. I’ll send that as well.

It’s for you to know when it happens. My team will be able to contact you and answer any question you might have.

Your reply is instant:

Thank you.

Can I call you?

His bloodwork results cause havoc among the medical team. He’s showing symptoms of the t-virus. Sherry’s results don’t look too good either.

With further testing, Leon learns that his chronic fatigue and physical strain isn’t all due to his age.

After a four-hour-long executive meeting, the medical team decides to test all Raccoon City survivors. Sherry doesn’t waste a second to call Claire. Leon, on the other hand, has no way of contacting Ada. Thankfully, he can call Jill and tell her to come get tested as soon as possible.

They ask Leon if he’s been in close contact with anyone recently. He doesn’t hesitate to provide them with all your information.

They ask Leon to pull out of this mission and wait for the researchers to come up with an antidote. He insists and tells them he feels just fine, and that it'd be a short mission anyway. There really isn't much left of Raccoon City, except for another underground lab, apparently.

Five days later, there’s a nationwide public service announcement on the news about “taking the appropriate measures against this flu season” and about how “viral infections are preventable if citizens act responsible and get tested”, and it’s a deception tactic to screen for the t-virus. A cover for the medics going to former Raccoon City residents’ doors, and yours, for being in close contact with one of their infected agents.

Leon thinks it’s probably a good idea to prepare you before some health professionals show up at your door unannounced. Again, without answering your previous texts, he sends his.

An ambulance will be at your door tomorrow. You need to get yourself checked. Please do it.

And don’t wait for me.

He doesn't have a plan for the worst possible outcome. There's no cure. If you're infected as well, there will be a special place in hell for him, Leon thinks. He shouldn't have visited you. He shouldn't have let you get close to him in the first place all those years ago. He shouldn't have indulged.

He doesn't know what to do. He just doesn't want anyone dying because of him anymore.

You’ve seen his last messages. Your results are clean. He’s requested them and the people at the lab were kind enough to ease his mind by sharing them with him.

While the fact of you being unaffected soothes him greatly, there's still one more concern: How is he going to navigate being infected while he knows you'll be in that damn app every day, tracking his vitals?

So he takes the ring off one morning when he sees the decaying skin around his arms and neck in the mirror.

There really isn't much time left for him.

Leon, are you alright?

Your text confirms that you've been looking at that tracking app religiously. Because you text him exactly fifteen minutes after he takes the ring off. He wonders how it must look on your end.

A part of him wants to be selfish and accept your generousness, to find you in your house clueless, wants you to wrap your arms around his neck upon seeing him. He wants so badly to drown in your tenderness that he entertains the idea of abandoning the mission altogether. You'd stroke his graying hair and tell him it would be alright. You'd welcome his dying body with open arms, and you'd be warm, so warm in contrast to his cold and deteriorating skin. Only you would understand.

But he fucked that up, didn't he?

The next time Leon considers buying a lottery ticket, he'll call you and ask for the numbers because you must have some prophetic visions. You must, because he remembers the text well.

I'm not ready to lose you. Not yet.

One of Chris' men is telling him about getting them out of here. Several of his team members drop in on them from an opening in the structure above. Something something about an evacuation, a way out.

Leon and Grace are out of there in no time. He's telling the medics to check on her first, that she's injured. He's being coddled as well, someone throws a blanket around him, asking him how he's feeling. Multiple walkie-talkies are scratching at his ears, blue and red lights of cop cars blinking and blinding his vision.

He's safe. And alive.

Grace healed him. She made the right choice.

After checking up on Grace and reassuring her about little Emily, Leon walks back to the van that's going to drop him off at the DSO headquarters, pulling his ring out of his back pocket to put it back on his finger.

The soles of your feet ache, making your lower back strain. Hot water helps ease the pain a little but it’s only for a short burst, then it comes back again.

You’ve rinsed the soap off twenty minutes ago, right before a terrible head throb blackened your vision. Now you stand under the scalding hot cascade with your arms coiled around your shoulders, cheek pressed to your own skin.

There’s no guarantee that he will be back. He’s said so.

You’ve given yourself a headache thinking about it.

Burying your hand in your sore scalp, you pull at the wet strands, all the dead hair coils around your fingers. Stress isn't kind. There won't be much hair left on your head at this rate.

Unable to track #1z9-8Upi. Contact support for more details.

The letters are engraved behind your eyelids, burning your vision each time you close your eyes. Thanks to that, you don't need to look at your damn phone screen anymore. The pop-up message will still be the same no matter how hopeful you reach for your phone. You want to bring Leon back from the dead and tell him he's a liar to his face. He said they'd contact you when he'd pass away. They didn't.

You have no way of reaching out to anyone, either. The app doesn't actually have a “support”.

Sure, the link seemed dodgy when Leon first sent it to you, because the app didn't seem to be found through a regular search, or when he sent you his code made up of jumbled letters and numbers, though you trusted him and downloaded it anyway.

Facing away from the stream of water, you sit on the floor of your tub when your back screams bloody murder, knees sighing relief as you pull them to your chest. You realize too late that you've been standing while locking your knees straight. Your body is beyond tired at this point, sleep hasn't been in the picture for a couple of weeks.

Because how could you sleep or move on with your life when your Leon was six feet under the ground somewhere?

You should have taken pictures of him. Then you'd have something to remember him by during moments like these. You know he wouldn't have let you as if you've signed an NDA before doing anything with him. You didn't. Not when you met him at a bar years ago, not when he first showed up at your doorstep, not even when he kept coming back every time he was in town.

Now you regret not taking a single picture. Even an image of his faint silhouette on your bedroom wall, back when he used to get up first and dress before going into your kitchen, would have been enough.

“Hey.”

Great, now you're hallucinating his voice, too.

“I thought you didn't hear me come in.”

A sound of metal screeching on metal, like a shower curtain being moved. Then, you lose the feeling of water hitting your back. Someone turns it off.

Oh.

He's actually here. In the flesh.

Your head whips up in a flash before a half-yelp, half-sob escapes your lips, and you quickly turn your face to the wall. Hiding your hiccups with a palm, your eyes nearly cave in with how you're squeezing them shut.

“Hey, hey, hey—”

Next thing you know, your arms are being moved by your wrists. He opens you up like a gift, fingers under your chin tilting your face to the light, eyes examining your tear-streaked face with so much worry. He's sitting at the edge of the tub, waist twisted just to look at you, holding your hands just above your face. Just like how he had you over him last time, except you don't have much strength in you now, and you're not fighting him.

You don't know who moves first, you jump at his neck just as he bends down to you, holding the sides of the tub, he corners you while holding himself up in a very uncomfortable position. You squeeze him so hard that he loses all balance and almost falls sideways into your lap. You want him to.

You want him to crush you with his undeniable being. Right here in your tiny bathtub.

Everything that comes after is a blur. Him hoisting you up on your feet by your armpits, you clinging to him like a baby with separation anxiety, soaking his clean clothes with your drenched skin. He doesn't mind as he cups the back of your neck and wraps his arm across your back. Pulling him down to your chest, you watch his form become somehow smaller trying to nuzzle the space between your shoulder and neck, taking in not so subtle sniffs. Nothing seems to be enough as you try to get him in the tub by hugging him tighter.

The only noises in the bathroom come from two people clawing at each other relentlessly. You pull him at every chance while he tries to protect you from a crash, tries to maintain balance by slamming his palm on the shower curtain gathered on the side. You pull at that arm, tripping him on the edge of the bathtub, his leg bent at the knee to catch himself at the very last second. If he wasn't so big and heavy, this would've been your window to haul him in. His knee must be hurting now, still, he keeps on talking.

“Okay, okay. I'm here, yes, okay, let's just—”

And he's grunting, kissing you in between, on any patch of skin he can reach. Your lips, the spot behind your ear, the edge of your jaw, down your neck and clavicle, your shoulder as you press your cheek against his ear. A pathetic kind of noise, coming deep from your throat, cleaves the humid air when you grab his wandering hand and press it to your breast just to get a taste of a familiar feel. You need his rough and calloused skin on yours, and you're not afraid of demanding it, not now.

You take the charge, he takes it away from you. You whine, sniffle, he pants into your mouth. He pushes just to feel you pull. You're skimming your hands down his chest and stomach, slipping them up his navy blue shirt, he's groping your bottom to pull you into himself. You scratch up and down his abdomen, pulling at the hairs at his chest, and he's gripping you nice and tight.

“Alright, time to get out,” he says huskily, lips half stuck to yours, ending the chaos. Wrapping his arms under yours, he pulls you out. You lift your feet up, making his job easier.

Now much calmer, you have a clearer vision of him. “You look younger.” Your voice cracks. After all that, it's the first thing you say to him. It's ridiculous.

He's reaching for towels, wrapping you up and wiping your face, tucking your soaked hair away and petting at the corner of your eyes. He's here and he's real, you feel the weight of his hand, rough skin against the dampness. You rest your cheek against the wide breadth of his clothed chest, cartilage of your ear crushed under his steady thrumming heartbeat while he squeezes the water out of your hair with a towel. Your arms are coiled around his waist as he cups the back of your skull to kiss you square on the mouth. He starts off slow with a soft brush of his lips, then takes your bottom lip, pulling gently, dull nails raking down your spine. There's no rush in this kiss, you're both taking your sweet time loving on each other.

“I thought you died,” you utter quietly.

“I'm here.”

“I was so scared.”

He continues to soothe you with sweet whispers even when carrying you to your bedroom. You continue to ramble. “You shaved?” you ask at one point.

He huffs out a low chuckle, settling you on your feet near your bed. “Felt dirty.”

It's not the end of the world, you know it'll grow back to how you like it in two days.

He starts patting you dry by your shoulders with he towel he just unwrapped from your body, bending down to press a kiss to the jutting bone of your hip as he pats down the small of your back. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders when he kneels down to dry the backs of your legs. Reaching back, he picks up a comfortable pair of panties from the nightstand's second drawer. He waits for you to step into them, rolling them up your legs so the band snaps into place.

For some reason, you can't help but find the situation all too comical. He manages to return from the brink of death, yet still kneels at your feet, handling you with such care, as if you're a delicate little thing. It's always give and take with him. Always.

A quiet, breathless laugh slips past your lips.

The muscle in his jaw ticks, he looks up. “I half expected you to be angry.”

“I don't care about anything right now, Leon. You came back to me.”

His eyes fall shut upon relief, a low rumble in his throat, as your fingers run through his hair, sliding down to fist at the back of his shirt. The fabric is damp from your struggle in the bathroom, so you tug it up and over his shoulders, and he lifts his arms to help you. Then he sits you on the bed, traps your feet between his thighs on the ground, and lays his head on your lap, bare chest pressed to your knees.

Arms hugging your dangling legs between his, he wordlessly asks for it, and you scratch his back like it’s second nature.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” you mutter. “It's not your fault.” Whatever it is.

You don't know what causes it but there's a sudden, very primal, predatory look on his face right now. Is he angry?

“Leon?”

Unwinding his arms from your legs, he drops a kiss on your knee, eyes never leaving yours, hands sliding down your calves to give your ankles firm reassuring squeezes. He stands up, slow and deliberate, and taps his finger under your chin. The power easily and smoothly changes hands when you're with him. Because now, he's the one looking down at you from above. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he undoes his belt, letting the buckle thud on the floor. “You make me want to be selfish.”

Your breath hitches. “Be selfish, Leon. It's okay.”

He's lunging at you, mouth open and fierce against yours, groaning, ripping your legs open while pushing your back flat on the bed. Fist in your hair, jaw slack, he starts sliding down, down, and down, biting on your breast, teeth gnawing at your nipple. He has to let go of your hair when nuzzling his nose into your navel, just above the band of your underwear he helped you put on. With a soft bite to your clothed mound, you're trembling under his hold. You grip his hair, yelping, his hair an anchor for your squirming.

He spits on your sex, rubs his saliva with his lips, and slacks his jaw for a long lick, the damp fabric of your panties creating a gratifying abrasion against your flesh. He eats at your cunt, panting as he hooks a finger under the gusset to pull it aside. His tongue is on you again, this time without any barriers, swiping up from hole to clit.

His movements are not gentle, or slow. They're hasty, like in the bathroom a while ago. He's taking off your panties in a hurry, sliding them down your legs and not even bothering to take them off fully, it dangles from your left ankle when he fumbles with his zipper. Hooking your knees over his elbows, he spits again, and you feel it, him pressing in, thrusting in one go. He leaves you no time to adjust, starts to pull your bottom off the bed, shoving his cock deep. You're not ready enough, it hurts, and you don't care. The breathless laugh he lets out when he sinks in makes you dig your nails to his meaty shoulders, it's like he can't believe his eyes that you actually like this side of him, rough and callous, having you at his mercy. You're pulling him in, trying to cross your ankles around his large form, to lock him down on you, you want it harder, faster, and it needs to hurt more, so you can be sure of the existence of the body that's on top of you.

There's a feral shadow over his eyes, telling you this is exactly what you need. You arch your hips to take him in deeper, the flesh of your bottom overflowing his firm grip, the moan you give into his mouth pleading and obscene. He's fucking hard and fast into your tight heat.

“Fuck, this is not gonna be long. Sor—”

As he's about to say sorry, you take his mouth, not letting him finish apologizing, sucking and licking his lips, teeth clashing, nipping at the corners of his mouth. He snakes a hand down to give the most sensitive part of your body a swirl, thumb feather-light on your clit. Pulling the hood slightly, he watches how his cock splits you open, and he can tell that it's too much, but there's no fear or loss or hurt in your eyes. Your warm insides swallow him like it's all going to be alright. “You're okay, yeah, you're okay,” he chants.

You think you saw him break before, when he was telling you goodbye, but this is it, this is Leon breaking.

Changing up the position, he gathers your legs on one shoulder and hugs them tight to his chest, cheek pressed to the patch of skin just above your ankles, and keeps fucking you with an unforgiving, ceaseless pace. You're close, you can feel he is too, you give him a soft wail, fingers reaching down to run along the hairs on his thighs, his heavy balls repeatedly slamming down on your ass.

Darkened eyes never leaving yours, he rips your legs open again to watch how his cock disappears in your cunt. He can tell you're coming with the way you're squirming and spasming, squeezing his cock and slamming your hands down on the mattress. He's right behind too, not leaving you alone. His balls tighten, and he's buried to the hilt so it's impossible to tell where you end and he begins, he lets out a strained moan as he comes down from his high.

“Is this the ring?”

His head is burrowed in your chest, he's sprawled over you. It's his favorite thing to do after sex.

He grabs your hand with the one that carries the ring and guides it to his lips, brushing the back of your palm with so much tenderness. “Yeah.”

“It doesn't work. Did you know that?”

“It does work.” He's playing with your fingers, squeezing them one by one. “I stopped wearing it for a while.” As if he can hear your frown, he continues. “I know you're mad, you have every reason to resent me and they're all valid. I just didn't want to worry you more than you already were. I was sick and wasn't getting any better, I couldn't find any excuse. I didn't want you seeing me like that. Thought I infected you with the same thing, hence the ambulance at your door. Turns out I didn't. You're as tough as leather.”

“I thought you died, Leon. I couldn't ask anyone anything. You weren't calling me or texting me.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“You know you're forgiven. Just… never make me experience this again. Or I'll bring you back from the dead and kill you myself.”

“It's not gonna happen again.”

He's kissing the inside of your wrist and you think everything's going to be alright again. He's back and he's in your arms, looking younger than you remember somehow. In the morning, he'll still be here, you'll count his grays and wrinkles, find some new scars, smother him in kisses when he opens his eyes. In the morning, everything will be alright.

“So did you call the coffee guy when I was—”

“Fuck you, Leon.”

a/n: heyyy so i know i posted the teaser very early but on my account i didn't expect to get my period and be sick as fuck at the same time this week. thanks for waiting and let me know what you think!