#elixirscinema

“Well if you’re not interested, do you mind if I go for it? Pretty sure he’d be the best sex of my life.” Your heart drops through your stomach like an anvil. The thought of Bucky being intimate with anyone, let alone your best friend, is enough to send you into a spiral.

Nat’s much more the type he’d go for anyway, beautiful, skinny, quick witted. Everything you’re not. She’s always the one who gets attention from guys at places like this, whereas you’re the ‘approachable one’ who gets asked if Nat’s single.

No one’s ever interested in you, especially not when you’re sitting next to your much hotter, thinner best friend.

“C’mon, there’s lots of guys here you could take home. You really have to make things awkward by sleeping with my roommate?” You try to sound as calm and collected as possible, but the lump in your throat betrays you.

Nat gives you a knowing look, seeing straight through your weak facade. She is your best friend after all, and knows you better than practically anyone in the world. “Of course I wouldn't, darling - I’m just trying to get you to admit you like him.”

There’s something almost worse about Nat knowing you’re crushing on Bucky - she can be so incessant, honing in on something and making it her mission to see it come to fruition, even if it’s to a bitter end. Which is exactly how your one sided crush will play out if she tries pushing you together.

You have an understanding which she hasn’t grasped yet that Bucky would never be attracted to you like that, and you’d rather spare your poor heart from his rejection and find a way to be content with friendship than risk hearing you’re too big, too unattractive, too much not his type for anything to happen.

“Can we just drop it. We’re roommates, nothing more.” But you know Nat’s incapable of letting something go once she’s got her claws sunk into it. You mostly love her for it, but in this one instance, it’s a right pain in the ass.

“You know if you give it a chance, you might find he likes you too. He’s got a smitten little smile for you.”

This is what you’re afraid of. Hope.

The buoyant feeling in your chest which swells as you picture what dating Bucky might actually be like. How soft his lips would be against yours, how he’d mumble sweet devotions against your skin before tasting every inch of you, how in a room packed to the brim like the bar you’re in now, his eyes search for yours and everyone else in the periphery fades into nonexistence because you are the focal point of his entire world.

But it’s that blind belief which will tear your heart to tatters. Hope will be your cause of death in the end. The expectation of a happy outcome despite all available evidence which will be your ultimate downfall.

“Don’t be ridiculous, look at him, there’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.” But yet, despite how much you tell yourself you’re destined for heartbreak, you can’t quite snuff out that last ember of hope deep in your chest when Bucky turns around with your drink in his hand and smiles reflexively as his eyes set on you all the way across the room.

“I hate it when you put yourself down like that.” There’s a glint in Nat’s eye like she wants to say more, but she notices Bucky returning from the bar and the words die in the back of her throat.

“Here you go, Sunrise.” His nickname for you ignites a flame in both your cheeks, and you’re forced to look down at the table in attempts to hide your reaction. He started calling you that within the first week of moving in, realising your love for staying up to read all night, until the sun came up the following day.

You try not to read into it too much that you are the only person you know of that Bucky has a nickname for. He’s just being friendly. A nice roommate.

“That’s the last time I bet you anything to do with food. Clearly you can eat and drink me under the table any day.” You know he’s just teasing about your bet, who could eat more spicy Indian food without needing to take a drink to subdue the burning heat on your tongue, but any comment related to the amount of food you eat or your weight always hits a little too close to home.

“Thanks Bucky.” Taking your drink from him, your fingers brush, sending goosebumps shivering down your arm, and his dazzling blue eyes regard you with what your hopeful heart believes is warm adoration. “At least you’re not being a sore loser this time round.”

“Excuse you, I’ve never been a sore loser. You just like to bend the rules to suit yourself.” He retorts before taking a sip of his beer, and you find it impossible to look away from how his perfectly plump lips cover the opening and his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a sip.

You are so far gone for him.

“Sore loser.” You call in a sing-song voice that makes him chuckle in that way you can feel down to your bones. “Don’t blame me just because you can’t handle the heat, Barnes.”

His finger traces a light trail down your bare forearm which lights your skin on fire. You’re not even sure Bucky’s aware he’s doing it, it seems so casually intimate, such a soft touch as his eyes bore into yours, but it sends your brain into a meltdown.

“Oh Sunrise, you don’t know the kind of heat I can bring if I really tried.”

His face is so close to yours you can smell the beer on his breath and see how he wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. He’s got these freckles scattered along his high cheekbones which reach the tips of his ears, that you want to place delicate kisses to, learn the constellations of pigmentation over his body so you could point them out blindfolded.

And those fucking eyes, they’re impossible not to fall in love with. Those saxe eyes which hold so much wonder and tenderness, which seems to pool in the slightly darker flecks at the centre. You really would be perfectly content if those eyes were the last you ever see, being lured underneath the waves of blue to your doom, but like a siren's victim, you’d dive in with a smile on your face.

There’s a cough from your left which breaks the trance Bucky’s eyes have you in. You would never admit it aloud, but you’d forgotten, just for a brief moment, that your best friend was at the table with you.

Nat’s looking at you with a bold grin and you know before she even opens her mouth that she’s about to say something cheeky and probably completely against your wishes to keep your yearning devotion a secret.

“I’m gonna go up to the bar and see if I can flirt my way to scoring a shot.” She announces as she stands, a shameless look passing between you and Bucky. “Some of us don’t have sex personified living in the next room we can flirt with to buy us free alcohol. You kids have fun continuing whatever that was. Just make sure to use protection.”

Nat walks off without another word, but after her quip, you find you can’t look Bucky quite in the eye.

You’re positive in this moment he’ll laugh at the insinuation that anything remotely romantic or sexual exists between you two and you brace yourself for the puncture to your heart.

But instead, he just looks at you with those big blue eyes and smiles warmly, as if Nat had simply commented about needing to use the restroom to excuse her absence.

“Sex personified, huh? Is that what you two were whispering about behind my back before?” You might just burst into flames if you actually admit that to him, but the cocky smirk he shoots you suggests he is already fully aware how much sex appeal he has.

It feels like your heart is beating in your throat as you answer and you pray he can’t hear the difference in your voice.

“No, not that it’s any of your business, but don’t act like you don’t know how gorgeous you are Barnes.”

There’s a sparkle in his eye as he smiles and scrunches his nose in that way which makes your tummy somersault. You could be fooled into thinking you were back in your apartment alone with him, the only girl within a hundred miles with the way his pupils grow wide and fixate solely on you in this bar crowded with people much more alluring than yourself.

You shake your head, almost imperceptibly, trying to rid your mind of sanguine thoughts that are just setting you up to be greatly disappointed.

You can’t get your hopes up.

There’s a dartboard which becomes available beside your table and you stand with your drink. “C’mon, last weekend you told me you’d show me how to play this ridiculous game and I’m holding you to that.”

It’s not that you don’t already understand the principle of darts, but when Bucky promises to spend more time with you, you’re not about to turn him down.

There’s this gleam in his eye you can’t quite place as he stands and follows you to the dark corner of the bar. You want to believe it’s something of endearment at calling him ‘gorgeous’, a fondness he reserves only for you, but you try reminding yourself that’s the kind of false hope you’ve been desperately shoveling out of your chest and you have to be stronger to not allow such optimistic concepts to penetrate through your defences.

Bucky quickly goes through the rules you were vaguely familiar with already, then shows you how it’s done by throwing two darts into the single twenty score area and then hitting a bullseye. He looks proud of himself too, and it brings a smile to your face just how cute he looks. Is he trying so hard to impress you?

Pushing that thought from your mind, you step up to take your aim. Your first throw goes very astray, not even hitting the dartboard at all, but instead sticking into the wood panelling about a foot below it.

You feel horrified that you’ve just embarrassed yourself, not only in front of Bucky, but the entire bar. Looking around with a sheepish grimace, you find fortunately no one is paying any attention to you, and when your eyes land on Bucky, you can’t help but both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that lasts so long you’re cheeks start to hurt.

“It takes a special kind of talent to miss by that much Sunrise.” He snickers, but his eyes still softly gaze at you even as he teases.

“Shut up, it’s my first attempt.” You playfully rib back.

“C’mere, let me show you.” He stands at your back, so close you can smell his aftershave, a spicy cinnamon that reminds you of home, as his touch ghosts along your arms.

He fiddles with your fingers, delicately directing them where he wants them on the dart. You’re pliant to his every command, conforming to the stance he wants you in, you even tilt your head up when he uses two fingers under your chin to carefully guide your eye line to where he wants it.

Holding the small projectile in line with your eyes, you’re extremely aware that Bucky’s examining you, gazing at your profile, the curve of your nose, the undulations of your lips. You feel exposed, like he’s critiquing you, but when the outcome of that is him beaming a besotted smile in your direction, you feel like you must have done something right.

You let the dart fly, barely able to concentrate on where it’s going, too caught up in how close Bucky is, how his hand rests on your waist like he was made to hold you, how his broad chest behind you is as solid as a wall, yet would be the perfect place to rest your head as you fell to sleep every night.

It punctures into the board this time, scoring a measly four points, but it’s sufficient for Bucky to wrap his arms around your middle, rest his head on your shoulder and give you a squeeze as he lowers his husky voice in your ear. “There you go, great job Sunrise.”

You try not to think about how large your stomach is as he holds you, sucking in slightly, instead trying to savour the feeling of being in his arms. If he recognises how fast your heart is now beating against his chest, he doesn’t mention it.

The two of you continue to play your game, forgetting all about the hearty atmosphere of the bar, just enjoying each other's company, and your atrocious attempt at beating Bucky in a game he’s had far too much experience with.

You suspect he downplays his skill - you hope to spend more time alone with you, but more than likely just so you don’t feel completely embarrassed by your endeavours.

Once he’s beaten you for a second time, you find a free table to set yourselves, before you go up to the bar to order a second round. You can’t seem to shake the smile off your face as you give the bartender your order. A sense of light optimism builds in your chest, Bucky’s just given up his night to spend with you as you make a fool of yourself playing darts.

He could be out with anyone, giving them all his attention. But instead he’s with you. Eyes softening and an enchanting smile spreading on his features as if he’s already precisely where he wants to be.

You turn to look back at Bucky to find the one thing in the world that could dampen your high spirits.

He’s sitting at the table where you just left him, chatting up one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

It’s as if someone’s poured a bucket of ice cold water over you. This devastating, borderline nauseating, chasm cleaving your chest in two is exactly why hope is the most dangerous feeling to cultivate unchecked.

She’s absolutely stunning, with shoulder length blonde hair, a glittery, low plunging top that brings out the radiance in her light eyes and accentuates her fit figure. She’s everything you’re not, everything Bucky deserves, and everything that makes you so acutely aware of how much physical space you take up in the world.

How someone as beautiful as Bucky could never be attracted to the likes of you when women like her walk on this earth.

It feels like there’s a cyclone wreaking havoc in your stomach as you watch their interaction. It looks sort of casual, at least given how far they are seated apart in such a noisy room, but there’s an axe carving your heart into splinters at the mere thought of what flirty chat is bouncing between them, the smile curving on his lips, and you find yourself needing to turn away.

You know you can’t lose what was never yours in the first place, but then why does it feel like your soul is disintegrating and being sucked out of your body through a hole in your sternum?

Bucky’s single, the two of you aren’t even remotely dating, you are purely roommates. You just so happened to have a spare room available at the same time he broke up with his ex and needed somewhere to sleep. You were a convenient solution to the awkward situation he found himself in.

And you’ve never been anything more.

He has every right to flirt, fuck and date whomever he pleases. Which decidedly isn’t you.

You search out Nat who’s over by the other side of the room, your extremities almost feeling numb as you walk past so many groups of friends and handsy partners, knowing that the one person who consumes your entire world simply views you as just someone whom he shares a bathroom with and occasionally bets wagers of buying a round of drinks.

She’s flirting with some handsome, tall stranger who appears to have bought her a couple drinks. You don’t want to ruin her night either, but you know she’d be irate if you disappeared without telling her.

All you want is the comfort of your bed, snuggled underneath a mountain of blankets where you can escape into a world where Bucky isn’t flirting with someone who is both much prettier and much thinner than you.

Should you even go home if Bucky brings her back to the apartment where you’d be subjected to listening to the entire affair?

Probably not, but at this point you just need to get out of here, as far away as possible from the scene which is causing your throat to constrict and tears to sting behind your eyes.

You touch Nat on the upper arm to pull her attention. “Imma head home.”

Her line of sight specifically redirects to the table you were seated with Bucky at, to find the source of your crushing heartbreak.

“Alright, then I’m coming with you.”

“No, please stay, have fun, I’m fine it’s just getting a little loud in here.” You lie through your teeth, but after pretending all night you're not about to start admitting your feelings now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The look Nat gives you is a clear indication she doesn’t believe your fib, but you simply turn away from her piercing eyes and stalk towards the door, trying to avoid bumping into the crowd of people in your path.

What you don’t realise as you make your hasty exit, head down to avoid watching Bucky flirt with the beautiful blonde, is that he watches with an aching heart as you take every step without so much as saying goodbye - because he notices everything about you, in every scenario, hoping for any fraction of your attention in return.

He swiftly grabs his jacket to chase after you, muttering a quick apology to his coworker he really doesn’t mean. He sees enough of her Monday to Friday for her to consume his weekends as well, especially when it's taking time away which could instead be spent with you.

“Sunrise, wait up!” You hear a very familiar deep voice call from behind you just as you’re about to put on your headphones. You’d know that voice anywhere, even if he hadn’t used your nickname.

“Bucky? What’re you doing?”

“You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone this late at night?” He says with such an ease, as if it were the only possible outcome given the situation. Like he didn’t have a drop dead gorgeous woman in the bar waiting to take him home and do downright pornographic things to him.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your fun. It’s only a couple blocks, I can walk it myself.” You can’t find it in you to feel guilty about pulling him away from the woman inside, especially not when he looks so content having followed you out into the cold night air.

“Firstly, you're daft if you think I’m letting you walk that far by yourself. I’d be worried about you the whole time.” He tilts his head to the side and it reminds you of a sweet puppy gazing at their owner with fondness, willing to pursue them anywhere. “Secondly, you’re not ruining anything. It’s no fun without you there anyway.”

Warmth blooms in your chest that even though it’s just as roommates, you’re the one Bucky’s returning to the apartment with. He’s not going home with Nat, or any other stunning girl he could pull with a single flirty glance. Instead it’s you who he drapes his jacket around when he notices you shivering and slows his large strides to allow you to keep up as you walk casually back home. Taking your time to extend your conversation and absorb the scent of his coat as you pull it tighter around yourself.

Dammit, there’s that incessant hope again.

You really are too enamoured with him for your own good. Even if it wasn’t tonight, you're just setting yourself up for a more agonising downfall in the end.

Part 2 > >

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Last looks were trickier. Harder to predict and pin down. There were last looks you were grateful to get - ex-friends and boyfriends who’d long overstayed their welcome in your life. Others were more painful, and left you longing for a ‘what-if’ that was never meant to be. Some, much like firsts, went by totally unnoticed, with neither of you realising that this was the end.

It was a strange understanding, the knowledge shared between two people that they would never see the other again.

You hoped your last look with Bradley wouldn't come for decades.

It’s midnight when he gets the call. You’re curled into him, arm draped over his stomach, his nose nestled in your hair. Only in his late thirties has Bradley been able to admit that often he much prefers quiet nights in with wine and a book to bustling bars and crowds.

You're more than happy to oblige, finding yourself spending more nights than not in his arms. It felt right, and natural, even though you'd only been together for a few months. A couple of your friends were less convinced.

“You’re moving too fast-”

“You’ll be sick of him before the year’s out-”

But things were good. You didn't believe in following a set schedule just because other people thought they knew how your relationship should work. You were happy, and you assumed Bradley felt the same. He’d never given any indication otherwise, even being the one to initiate a lot of the evolution of the relationship.

You’re in that sweet spot of being near enough sleep to be totally and utterly relaxed, while also still being able to enjoy the feeling of Bradley pressed up against you.

The staying over had been a new development, within the last week, when he’d make the excellent point that if you stayed over instead of driving home, you’d be doing your part to save the planet. You'd lower your carbon emissions, his place was closer to your work, and he'd already cleared out some closet space for you. The logic was unflappable.

“Mav? What’s wrong?” His voice is raspy, and he sits up, duvet pooling at his waist. “No, you didn’t wake me, it’s okay.”

The voice on the other end of the line speaks for a couple of seconds, and Bradley’s shoulders tense. It’s bad news. The kind that often precedes last looks. Your heart sinks slightly.

“How is she now?” Bradley replies, glancing over at you.

“Yeah, I can come. No, it's okay, I'll come now - should be there in a couple of hours.” A second. “I will. See you soon.”

“What's wrong?” You sit up, hand resting on his forearm.

“My mom. The cancer's spread. She was in the hospital today, just got home. Dad didn't want to worry me… but Mav thinks I should go home. Be there. He thinks it'll be a few weeks now. If we're lucky.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, but does not break.

“Oh Bradley,” You whisper. “I'm so sorry.” You'd known his mom had cancer, but you hadn't realised how severe it was. How little time she had.

“I-I need to go to San Diego,” He says, getting to his feet unsteadily. His hands are shaking, and he’s three shades paler than usual. “I’ll leave a key for you. Stay as long as you want.”

“Baby, it’s a three hour drive. You can’t do that in this state,” You murmur softly, moving to your knees as you watch him start to throw clothes into a duffel bag. “Let me take you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that-” He begins, but you cut him off.

“You aren’t. I’m offering. Just focus on packing, I'll grab some food and get the car ready.”

You can tell he wants to protest, tell you to go back to bed, but the worry wins out, and he just nods. Wordlessly, you get dressed, and head out to the car. When Bradley emerges ten minutes later, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything to say, so you just reach out, hand cupping his cheek gently. He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leans into your touch.

He’d known this would come eventually. He just hadn’t thought it would be so sudden. At her last check-up the doctors had said she was doing as well as could be expected. They thought she might have a couple of years left, if she continued on like the way she was going.

A couple of years was good. Bradley could make that work. Maybe settle down, give her a grandchild, and show her that he was happy. That it was okay for her to go. That he’d be alright without her.

He couldn’t do any of that in a few weeks.

The drive is made in near silence. Bradley stares out the window, wringing his hands together nervously as he occasionally offers commentary on the places you pass. The roads are desolate, and you’re turning onto Bradley’s parent’s road just before three.

You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Pulling up to your boyfriend’s childhood home in the middle of the night to see his dying mom wasn’t exactly how you imagined the first meeting going. The last thing they need right now is to meet a new girlfriend, a total stranger. Bradley potentially hasn’t even told them about you yet.

“I-I should probably get going-”

“You’re not staying?” His head snaps to yours, deep brown eyes furrowed as he frowns. “It's 3am, you can't drive back on no sleep.”

“I don’t want to impose,” You reply, twisting a ring round your finger. The last thing you want to do is make this about you. “Or add any stress, or anything. Your parents probably only want family around.”

“Honey, if my mom knew I let you drive me all the way here, and then let you turn around and head straight back in the middle of the night, she’d murder me before I even got my coat off.” Despite your nerves, despite everything, you let out a small laugh. “I’d really like you to stay. Please.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Whatever’s waiting for him inside, he’d rather face it with you.

“I didn't bring anything.”

“We can make do. I’ll buy whatever you need. Are you okay for work?”

You wave him off. “I have time off I can use. Don't worry.”

He nods, and grabs his bag from the back as you get out. He laces his fingers through yours, and takes a look up at the house that had been his home for eighteen years. There’s a light on downstairs, someone’s still awake.

Squeezing your hand, he begins the walk up the path, knocking lightly. It takes a second before it swings open, before revealing who you assume is Bradley’s dad.

They look so alike it’s almost uncanny. The man standing before you is like looking at Bradley in twenty-five years. Hair slightly thinner, a few more wrinkles, they could almost be brothers.

“Bradley,” Nick murmurs, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You should’ve waited until the morning.”

“Wanted to be with you guys,” Bradley mumbles, before pulling back slightly. “How is she?”

“Alright, all things considered. It’s spread to her lymph nodes. There’s nothing more they can do, therapy-wise. She’s sleeping now. You can go up in the morning.” He finally registers your presence behind Bradley, and straightens up. “You must be the girlfriend.” His eyes are soft, and he reaches out to pull you in for your own hug.

You tell him your name, as Bradley ushers you both inside, shutting the door behind you. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr Bradshaw.”

“Please, call me Nick,” He insists. He leads you both inside to the living room, where another man sits.

“Mav,” Bradley greets, as he stands. He introduces you to his godfather, and the two of you take a seat.

“How was the drive?” Maverick asks you.

“It was fine - roads were quiet.” You fight off a yawn, turning your head to look out the window.

“You’re tired,” Bradley says, voice quiet. “We can go to bed.”

You shake your head. “I’m okay,” You insist. Seeing the unconvinced expression on his face, you smile. “Promise.”

Bradley returns to his conversation with Nick and Maverick, and you try your best to stay awake, offering comments occasionally. You learn that Maverick and his wife live next door, and that Carole’s family all live nearby. Bradley has two cousins, Grace and John, who he grew up with. Grace has a toddler named Sophia, while John is getting married next year. Soon, you find your head leaning against Bradley’s shoulder, and he just feels so warm, and your eyes are so heavy-

“Your girl’s exhausted, Bradley,” Nick says softly. “Get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” You mumble, but you know you’re not fooling anyone. It’s almost four now. You considered two a late night.

“It might be a little tight, but you can stay in your old room,” Nick says, and Bradley nods as he guides you to your feet. Maverick says his goodbyes, before heading next door.

“You’ll wake me when she’s up?”

Nick nods. “Yeah, of course. Now, go before she passes out.” You send him a tired smile, and follow Bradley down the hall.

Bradley’s childhood bedroom is exactly what you would’ve expected from him. Covered head to toe in plane posters, with sporting trophies lining every surface.

Football, baseball, basketball, track, he was apparently good at everything.

“My god, you were a try-hard,” You murmur, gesturing at the pile of medals hanging from the back of the door.

“I liked to win,” He shrugs, dropping his bag by the wardrobe. “You want a shirt to sleep in?”

You nod, and he tosses you an old Top Gun one. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and you both crawl into bed.

He insists the bed’s a double, but with the way you’re lying chest to chest just to stay on, you’re not convinced. It doesn’t really matter. You could be sleeping on the world’s largest bed, and would still find a way to be as close to Bradley as possible.

Don't stop // Trying to find me here amidst the chaos // Though I know it's blinding // There's a way out // Say out loud // We will not give up on love now

The next morning you meet Maverick's wife Penny, and his stepdaughter Amelia. Bradley and Nick are up in the master bedroom catching up - it had been a while since Bradley had been home.

They’re up for about an hour, while you get to know the Mitchells, before Bradley appears in the living room. “She wants to meet you.”

“Are you- are you sure?”

“Very sure. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” As if he can sense the nerves, he holds out a hand for you to take. He knows this must be weird for you. Going from meeting no one to his entire family in the span of twenty-four hours. But he’s glad you’re here. He has a feeling he’s going to be with you for a long time, and if now is the only time that he gets to be with you and his mom, he’ll take what he can get.

If you hadn’t known Carole Bradshaw was sick, you’re not sure you would’ve guessed. Yes, she looks tired, and yes, the bags under her eyes are probably bigger than usual, but her smile is wide and her eyes bright.

“You’re even prettier than he said you were.”

You’re positive this isn’t true. You’re wearing the jeans you had on yesterday, with one of Bradley’s shirts, and you must’ve gotten a maximum of five hours sleep last night. Pretty is not the word you’d use. Heat rises to your cheeks, as Bradley guides you to the chair beside her bed.

“It’s really lovely to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw-”

“Carole! Call me Carole, please.”

“Carole,” You repeat. You’re desperate for her to like you. The idea that you could be with Bradley for the rest of your life, and the only impression his mother has of you is when you’re running on little sleep with greasy hair is not appealing. “I really like your son.”

She laughs. “I really like him too. And he likes you. Wouldn’t shut up about you the last time he called.”

You glance at Bradley, who’s begun to look very embarrassed. “That’s an exaggeration-”

“It is not! He’s very enamoured with you, sweetheart.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, what do you do? He got so carried away on the phone, he didn’t tell me the basics. Just how pretty you were, and how he can't believe you'd go out with him-”

"Okay, mom, that's enough," Bradley interjects, as Carole grins.

"Just letting the girl know what she's in for!"

“I work in publishing.”

“You’re a reader?”

“As much as I can.”

“You’ll need to give me some recommendations then. I’ve been getting more reading done recently than the rest of my life combined.”

“I think I can do that.”

***

That afternoon, the extended family come round. You take it all in your stride, diligently answering questions and re-filling drinks. Sophia, his cousin’s daughter, takes a particular liking to you, opting to sit on your knee while the grownups chat.

“What do you think?” Bradley asks Nick, eyes trained on you as you crouch down to chat to little Sophia, smiling widely as she shows off her teddy bear.

“I like her more than you already,” Nick quips, throwing him a grin. Seeing Bradley’s obvious relief, he claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “She’s great. Really. Way out of your league.”

Bradley snorts. “Believe me, I know.”

“Your mom likes her too. Spent more time talking about her to Mary this afternoon than anything else.”

“Yeah?”

Nick drops his voice to a near-whisper. “I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you bringing her here has really made your mother so happy. All she’s ever wanted was for you to find someone - and she won’t get to meet her grandkids, but I think meeting their mother will let her go with a bit of clarity.”

Bradley almost chokes on his drink. Sure, these might have been three of the best months of his life. But it was still far too early to even consider marriage and kids. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off. Not when things had been going so well. “It’s only been three months-”

“So? Who cares if you met her yesterday, or ten years ago? She wouldn't have driven you a hundred and fifty miles in the middle of the night if she wasn't committed to this thing. Your mother and I were engaged by six months, married by eight.”

He looks back at you. In such a short space of time, you'd become his whole life. On the occasions you had to sleep at your own place, due to early meetings or that time you were dog-sitting, he felt your absence like a gaping hole in his chest. You were the last thing he thought about every night, and his first thought in the morning. “I really like her,” He admits finally.

Nick Bradshaw just smiles. “We can tell.”

Don't you turn like Orpheus // Just stay here // Hold me in the dark and when the day appears // We'll say // We did not give up on love today

You manage a couple of hours of downtime before trying to make yourself useful again. You weren’t the world’s best cook - you certainly weren’t better than Bradley, but you could make a mean lasagna. And you figure the last thing the Bradshaws needed to be thinking about right now was food. So, you enlist Penny, and send Maverick out to get the extra ingredients you need.

“We can just order in, it’s no big deal,” Bradley insists, watching as you and Penny bustle about the kitchen.

“That’ll cost an absolute fortune. We’ve got it covered, right Penny?”

Penny nods, and ushers Bradley towards the door. “We’ll be done in an hour. Set the table for us, will you?”

Spirits are cheerful, despite the overhang of dread. Cousins are playing, Bradley’s serving drinks, Carole and Penny are gossiping, and you’ve found yourself beside Nick. He’s easy to talk to, and is like Bradley in so many ways it’s almost scary. He’s already broken into the baby pictures, showing you various embarrassing Bradley phases over the years.

His cowboy phase at three. His emo phase at eleven. His surfer dude phase at sixteen.

“Later on, I may tell you about Bradley's many failings as a man and as a table tennis player. But, firstly I'd like to say the one big thing - that I've only loved three men in my life. My dad was a frosty prick so that only leaves dear Maverick, Elvis Presley- obviously - and that man there.”

Across the room, Bradley’s giving Sophia a piggy-back, while simultaneously juggling four empty glasses that need cleaned up.

“He’s a good guy,” You agree, eyes soft as you watch him. “I’m really lucky.”

“I’m glad you two found each other. He struggles to let people in sometimes.”

You’d never experienced that with Bradley. From the very first meeting, it felt like you both just understood each other, in a way you’d never felt before. You told him things at Bob’s wedding that it would take you months to work up to with other people. Upon seeing your confusion, Nick laughs softly.

“Good to see he isn’t like that with you.”

Eventually, Carole begins to get tired, and everyone starts to filter out, leaving just Nick, Bradley, and you. You try to start cleaning up, but Nick and Bradley manage to distract you with a game of Monopoly at Carole’s bedside. She dominates, getting hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair that bankrup the rest of you, before you and Bradley give her some peace to get some sleep.

When Bradley emerges from his shower, you aren’t in his room. Frowning, he combs the upstairs. Nothing. Then he hears humming from the kitchen. Inside, you’re tackling the mountain of plates from lunch earlier, having barely made a dent.

“Honey, you don’t have to do that,” Bradley says, and you jump at the disturbance.

“You scared me,” You breathe, before turning back to the dishes. “And it’s fine - I just want to help.”

“I can do it in the morning,” He insists, moving behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist. “You already made dinner. It’s too much.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about dishes, or washing, or cooking right now. Let me take care of you.”

“At least let me help.”

You think for a second, before conceding. “Fine. You can dry.”

It takes another hour, but the by the end, you’re giggling like children as you flick suds of soap at him, before trying to duck out of his arms as he tickles you mercilessly.

Upstairs, Carole and Nick smile to themselves when they hear the “Bradley don’t!” mere seconds before another fit of laughter erupts.

"He's going to be okay," Carole murmurs, resting her head on her husband's shoulder, eyes misty.

By the time you’re ready to go to bed, Bradley’s in need of another shower, hair sticking to his forehead as his shorts drip water onto the floor.

***

“I’ll be back tonight,” You promise, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “But I really need my laptop to work from home.”

Bradley understood. He did. You were already doing far too much, arranging your work so that you could stay in San Diego with him for the time being. And yet, the idea of you being gone for even a day created a pit at the very bottom of his stomach. “Drive safe, okay? And call me when you get home. And then call me again before you leave.”

“I will.” In normal circumstances you’d laugh at his over-protectiveness, but you know he’s just worried. It’s been a hard two weeks.

Carole has had a string of bad days - bad days that are slowly beginning to outnumber the good. It won’t be too long now. Carole knows this, you know it, Nick knows it. You’re not sure Bradley’s come to terms with it yet.

You’re sitting with her that night, while the guys make dinner. You’d been covering it, but Carole had insisted they stop letting you do all the work around the house. So you’re cross-legged on a chair beside her bed, looking at some more pictures from Bradley’s childhood.

“You know, he’s never brought a girl home before,” Carole tells you, as soon as the door clicks shut behind Bradley. He’d popped up with drinks. “Not even Taylor. They were together four years, and we met her once at a wedding.”

“It’s just because I drove him here,” You reason, but Carole shakes her head.

“It’s different with you.” She goes to speak again, before breaking off in a coughing fit. You grab the glass on her bedside, passing it over. “Thanks, sweetheart. And thank you for being here.”

“It’s no problem, really. I’d do anything for him.”

“I know. And I’m glad it’s you. I was so worried about leaving him. He’s always been sensitive. I think you’ll make it a little easier on him.”

You don't know what to say, voice catching in your throat. Instead, you reach out and take her hand.

***

“Please Nick, I'm not dead yet. Penny can come. It’ll be fine.” Carole rolls her eyes, and you know Nick isn't winning this one.

It was the latest argument. Nick and Carole had decided to renew their vows at the Hard Deck, just for closest friends and family. The guys had their suits, but you, Carole and Penny didn't have a dress. Carole wanted to go shopping, Nick thought it was a bad idea. The final compromise was going to one shop, and making Carole stay off her feet as much as possible.

You knew despite Carole's insistence that she was happy with whatever, that you didn’t want to make her walk far. So you set up shop in a local store, Carole and Penny each picking their own dress first.

You try a couple on, eventually landing on a pale yellow maxi dress, patterned with flowers. Just as you’re about to get changed back into your clothes, Carole appears in the dressing room.

“If this is weird and inappropriate, please tell me,” Carole insists, as she steps towards you with a dress bag. “But uh- I never got to have a daughter. Nick and I, we tried for a while to give Bradley a sibling, but it never worked out.” She clears her throat, voice thick as she continues. “And I always hoped that I’d be able to go dress-shopping with whoever Bradley chose to marry. I know that the two of you haven’t been together long, but-but…”

She trails off, and you nod, eyes shining. “I would really love to have you as a mother-in-law,” You whisper.

You step out of the dressing room, breath bated as you look in the mirror. The dress is gorgeous, hugging your curves in all the right places, the cut making you look taller than you are. You’ve never worn a wedding dress before. You're not sure if it's bad luck to wear one without being engaged, but this feels right. It's a moment you'll never get to share with Carole, even if you do marry Bradley one day.

She’s wiping her eyes before she even sees you. “Oh honey, you look stunning,” She breathes. "You'll make a beautiful bride someday."

The tears are streaming freely now, and you hug her tightly. "I wish I'd met him earlier."

"Me too," She whispers. "But it's okay. When it happens, it'll be wonderful. Because you both love each other, and that's all that matters."

I'll show you good // Restore your faith // I'll try and somehow make a meaning of the poison in this place // Convince you love, don't breathe it in // You were written in the stars that we are swimming in

The ceremony's beautiful. If you and Bradley can have half the relationship his parents share, you'll be doing a whole lot better than most people.

Maverick officiates, and Bradley is designated ring-bearer, despite his protests.

"Why can't Amelia do it? Or Sophia? The literal child?"

"It's funnier making you do it-"

“Time for pictures!” Penny announces, grabbing her camera from the counter. “Bradshaw family up first!”

You smile as Bradley fakes a dramatic sigh, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he passes. Nick and Bradley stand on either side of Carole, arms wrapped round her waist as they lean in. You zone out slightly, snapping back to reality when you hear Carole calling your name. “Wait! That’s not everyone!”

If you weren’t already close to tears, this'll do it. “Oh, no-” You begin, but she’s already cutting you off.

“You’ll be family soon enough, sweetheart,” She calls, gesturing forwards. You glance at Bradley, nod wanting to overstep, and get to your feet when he nods. You know the rule for partners - unless it’s serious, they don’t get in the family photos.

Bradley reaches out, looping his arm round you to pull you in tightly.

Penny takes pictures of every possible configuration of people. You and Bradley, Nick and Maverick, Carole and Sophia, before getting one of the bartenders to get a group shot.

Nick captures one single photo the whole night. You and Carole in the corner of one of the booths, eyes crinkled as you laugh together. He saves it for later. Figures it could make a good wedding present down the line.

***

“Listen, if what my mom said was too much, I totally get that,” Bradley murmurs into your ear as you sway gently in time to Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire wafting from the jukebox. “She gets ahead of herself at the best of times, nevermind… nevermind now.”

Carole Bradshaw will never get to meet her grandchildren. If you and Bradley get married, she won’t be at the wedding. If, god forbid, you aren’t it for him, she’ll never know his wife. She won’t get to see him turn forty, or celebrate her fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s an awful finality that he can’t allow himself to think about too much.

“It wasn’t too much,” You reply, voice soft. “I love your family.”

“I love you.”

It slips out before he can even register what he's saying. Truthfully, he's known he loved you since you dropped everything to be with him here. But thinking and saying are very different things.

Your reply is instantaneous. “I love you too.” You don't need to think about it. Because you do. You love Bradley Bradshaw in a big and scary way.

You love how he spends his Saturdays giving free lessons to people who can't afford it, simply because he thinks everyone should have a chance to learn.

You love that when the anniversary of your grandma's death had come round last month, he'd turned up on your doorstep with flowers and chocolates before his shift, even though his work was at the opposite end of the city from your house.

You love the fact that he talks in his sleep - mostly about aircrafts and flying, a language you don't understand at all. Mumbling about F-18s and Mach numbers as his arms tighten around you.

You love that underneath the tough exterior, he’s the softest man you've ever met. That even though the idea terrifies him, you know he'll be a wonderful father one day.

You love him. You think that maybe you've loved him since the moment you saw him.

“You don't have to say it just because my mom's dying.”

“I'm not. I'd say it even if your dad was hideous and your mom hated me, and they were all massive Republicans. I love you.”

***

“They look like you guys,” Maverick muses, as you and Bradley move round the dance floor, totally engrossed in each other.

“I hope you mean that as a compliment,” Nick replies, raising an eyebrow as he takes his wife's hand.

“Of course it's a compliment,” Maverick scoffs. “You guys found your person younger than most, and still managed to make it work. Took me fifty years to get my act together.”

“Bradley’s nearly forty, he wasn’t far behind you,” Nick snorts, and Carole swats at him.

“That wasn’t his fault! He was ready to settle down, and Taylor pulled the rug out from under him.”

“It worked out for the best. He looks happier now than he ever did with Taylor.”

"You both better get absolutely hammered at their wedding for me."

"I think we can handle that," Maverick assures her, grinning. "The boys can do Great Balls of Fire in your honour."

"She'll be heading straight for a divorce if you do that," Carole laughs.

That was the last good day. It was like she'd said her goodbyes, made her peace with leaving. She knew that everyone would be okay, eventually. She's admitted to the hospital on Monday with chest pain, and dies on Thursday.

She goes holding Bradley's hand, while Nick sits on her other side. For all intents and purposes, it is a peaceful death.

It has no name // No guarantee // It's just the promise of a day // I know that some may never see // But that's enough // If the bottom drops out // I hope my love was someone else's solid ground

Nick Bradshaw stands alone at the entrance to the church, greeting every single guest by name. Even when they get well into the hundreds, he treats their grief with a delicacy you'd never expect from a new widower.

You don’t think you’d be able to harness that amount of grace if you were in his position. You stand with Bradley, hand clutched tightly in his. His eyes are fixed firmly on the coffin, only pulling them away to acknowledge the mourners who approach him.

It feels like the entire city of San Diego has come out to mourn Carole Bradshaw. The church is filled to the brim, with people spilling onto the street outside. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen such an outpouring of love for one person.

You manage to hold it together until the opening chords of Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down ring out. Bradley’s arm snakes round your waist, and a choked sob escapes as he buries his face in your hair.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” You cry, pulling him in tighter.

Nick knew his wife better than anybody in the world - she wouldn't have wanted everyone to be miserable. She wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life, not death.

So his eulogy is full of their best moments - from embarrassing to heartfelt. When she went into labour with Bradley while Nick was in the air, and Maverick had to be sent to get him down. Nick arrived at the hospital as Bradley was crowning. It had taken him a while to make it up to her for that one.

When she almost got them all arrested in Italy by driving on the wrong side of the road.

Their first wedding - when she'd been an hour late to her own reception because she overslept.

Her love for really awful karaoke. Her love for her family, friends, husband, son.

Carole Bradshaw lived a good life. And that was nothing to be sad about.

“How are you handling this so well?” Bradley asks his dad, as the three of you walk towards the car to head to the reception.

“I'm not - not really. I’m fucking furious, and so uninterested in a life without your mother. But I also know she'd punch me for even thinking that.”

For the first time in a long time, Bradley laughs. “She’d tell you to grow up and get on with it.”

“And so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna mope for a couple of weeks, and then I’m getting a dog. And I’m gonna call it Goose.”

“You’re naming the dog after yourself?”

“Hey, your mother was the brains of the relationship, not me.”

***

“Can we- can we go for a drive?” Bradley asks the next day, and you nod.

“Of course.”

The drive doesn’t take long. A couple of miles up the coast, before he’s pulling into a lookout spot. It’s incredible, the view over the ocean. “My mom used to bring me here, to watch my dad fly,” Bradley murmurs, as he leads you over to the railing. He gestures out towards the island in the distance. “He was based there for a while. So was I, when I served.”

There aren’t any planes out today, but the sky is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen, not a cloud in sight. Bradley has to think that somehow, his mom is here, watching over you both.

“I think I've been asleep most of my life,” He admits.

“Me too.”

“I don't want that anymore. Being scared, of not taking any risks. I don't want to have any regrets."

"We've got time," You murmur. "We're still in our thirties. Basically teenagers. Your twenties are just a practice run, anyway. I've heard that being in your forties is where it's at."

"Yeah," He replies softly. "We've got time."

His mom's ring nearly burns a hole in his pocket.

“Not for today, not for tomorrow, but soon, okay?” She'd whispered, slipping it into his hand, smiling softly as her breathing grew laboured.

“Yeah, mom. Soon.”

⠀

Driving back to Delacroix was nothing short of a pleasant experience—just you, one hand on the wheel and the other idly hanging out the window with fingers slicing through the warm morning air. It was one of the few times you enjoyed driving, which is why you insisted on not having your chauffeur be the one to take you to your destination, preferring the solitude of watching the road stretch ahead like a ribbon of sun-bleached asphalt, flanked by swaying marsh grass and the slow-moving waters of the bayou. The old jazz station buzzing over the speakers only further enhanced the atmosphere, with the crooning trumpet blending effortlessly into the continuous murmur of cicadas in the background.

It was early enough that the mist still clung to the marshes, curling around the gnarled roots of cypress trees like ghostly fingers. The world shimmered gold in the pale dawn light, an untouched moment as the weight of the day settled in. You could also make out in your passing spanish moss draping lazily from the branches, swaying ever so slightly as if still waking from its slumber. 

You had always loved this route. It felt like a portal to another life, one that belonged solely to a place where your name wasn’t headlined in articles, where your every move wasn’t scrutinized by strangers looking for something to pick apart. Here, you weren’t the subject of speculation or the topic of gossip columns. You weren’t “the one from the titles” or “the name in the papers.” You were simply you.

The familiarity of it all only served to bring you back to those late-night drives after absurdly long college lectures, when the stress of exams and deadlines melted away over seafood and pleasant company, the briny scent of the ocean mixing with the fried goodness of whatever had been thrown together for dinner. It reminded you of sunburned afternoons spent on the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the wooden beams, of kids that you used to babysit laughing as they chased each other barefoot across the pier. Life was indeed much nicer in the olden days.

The docks finally came into view as you veered off onto the dirt road. You could see that the morning had already settled into its rhythm—fishermen hauling in their first catches, their voices rising and falling over the water while the low rumble of boat engines punctuated the exchanges in the salty air, mingling with the occasional bark of a stray dog nosing around for scraps. Seagulls routinely circled overhead and swept low whenever someone tossed a handful of bait into the sea. The scent of fresh fish, damp wood, and the ever-present Louisiana humidity all wrapped around you, strong-filled even at this hour.

And there was poor Sarah, up to her elbows in work as always.

She stood near a stubborn crate, her brows drawn together in frustration as she struggled to pry it open. The morning suns of July had already kissed her skin a shade darker and a streak of dirt ran across her forearms, evidence of a morning repeatedly spent wrangling supplies and fixing whatever had inevitably needed mending. She also had that look—the one she always got when something should have been done yesterday.

Pulling up alongside the dock, you stepped out of your fancy car, rolling your shoulders with a slow stretch. The thick and stifling heat settled around you instantly, encasing itself around your skin like a second layer along the faintest promise of an approaching summer storm.

“Didn’t know we were wrestling furniture today,” you called out while your expensive shoes thudded lightly against the weathered planks, the wood creaking ever so slightly beneath your steps.

Sarah huffed, blowing a loose curl from her forehead as the sheen of morning sweat glistened against her sun-warmed skin. “You show up just in time to save the day, as usual.”

You smirked, pushing up your sleeves. “That’s what I do best.”

Together, you pried open the crate with a loud crack, the wood groaning in protest before finally relenting, revealing neatly packed supplies of nets, ropes and a few spare tools, all stacked with military precision. 

“I swear, whoever sealed this thing had a personal vendetta against me,” she muttered, shaking her head.

You leaned against one of the weathered wooden posts, letting the briny breeze roll over you. The dock swayed ever so slightly beneath your weight, creaking in quiet protest. Out beyond the harbor, the bay stretched wide and glittering, rippling with the soft push and pull of the current. For a moment, there was nothing but the steady lull of the water, the occasional cry of seagulls, and the distant clang of metal against wood as fishermen worked their boats. A rare pocket of peace.

At least, that was the case until Sarah spoke.

“Sam’s coming home today.”

The words landed on you like how a stone would sink to the bottom of a river. 

You kept your expression carefully neutral, inhaling through your nose before exhaling slowly. “Fantastic,” you deadpanned, flicking a piece of splintered wood off your palm.

Sarah sighed, already bracing for the reaction she knew was coming. “I know you two don’t—”

“Like each other?” you finished for her. “Get along? Want to exist in the same hemisphere?”

She shot you a flat, unimpressed look. “I was going to say see eye to eye.”

You scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”

Sarah crossed her arms, leaning back against the wooden beam beside you. The steady rise and fall of the tide lapped at the pylons below, filling the brief silence between you. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?”

You hesitated. The problem wasn’t just Sam. It was everything that had happened because of him.

And worse—the things that had happened before. But how could you explain that to your best friend, who was also his sister, that before the cameras, before all of the unwanted attention, there had been a spark?

Befriending Sarah in college had meant stepping into her world, with frequent afternoons spent at the family’s restaurant but also evenings that bled into weekends. And with this eventually came Sam, who was at the time a cheeky guy too charming for his own good and with a tendency of getting under your skin in the most enjoyable way. The kind that your mama told you not to approach too much if you didn’t want to stray away from a good line of life.

You honestly wouldn’t have paid him much attention if not for the quick-witted banter, a push-and-pull that became something of a ritual every time you would come over. He would saunter into the restaurant under the pretense of bothering his sister, but his eyes would eventually find yours first, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just before he threw out some teasing remarks in hopes of riling you up. You would roll your eyes, fire something back, and somehow, without realizing it, you had begun to orbit each other.

It had slowly bloomed in the way where summer warmth shifts into the first breath of autumn—almost imperceptible until you’re standing in the midst of it. Eye contacts that lingered just a little too long. Making even the most absurd excuses simply to accompany you through your journey of going to college. A growing familiarity that turned into late-night conversations on the dock, where the world was nothing but the hush between you. There had been something easy about it, an understanding that neither of you ever had to say out loud.

And then, one fateful night—

A kiss was added to the list.

You could still precisely recall how it had unfolded. It had been one of those thick Louisianan nights where the land was quiet except for the gentle slosh of the tide against the pylons and the occasional chirp of cicadas hidden somewhere in the dark. You and Sam sat side by side on the wooden planks with your legs dangling over the edge.

He had shown up at the restaurant after closing, claiming he had nowhere better to be. You had scoffed, knowing damn well he could’ve gone to the arcades where he usually hung with his small band of friends, but instead, he’d lingered—elbow on the counter, tossing peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth while Sarah cleaned up. When she suspiciously shooed the both of you out under the pretense of wanting to finish tidying the place in peace, you both ended up in your favorite spot and falling into conversation with the same ease you always had.

Strangely enough, that night was different.

It was felt in the way your knees brushed when he shifted closer, in the way your laughter had simmered and turned quieter, softer. It was the night where plans for the future were spoken of, and how you learned that Sam would soon leave Delacroix behind to join the Air Force while you were still figuring everything out.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet.

You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “What, and give up all the fine dining of your family’s home cooking? I don’t know if I could handle that.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because there’s nothing more to do than eating fresh seafood and watching the sunset every day.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Hey, you’re the one talking about getting out of here, Wilson. What, the dock life not glamorous enough for you?”

His grin was easy, but there was something contemplative beneath it. “I always knew I’d leave. Not ‘cause I don’t love it here, but... I want more. I wanna see what else is out there.”

Your smile faltered, just a little. You weren’t sure why the thought of Sam leaving sat uncomfortably in your chest. "You make it sound like you’re never coming back."

He turned toward you then, one leg kicking idly at the water below. "I’ll come back." His voice got fainter this time, lacking its usual teasing edge. "It’s not like I’d just disappear on you."

You arched a skeptical brow. "Awh, don’t tell me you’re going soft on me. You saying that ‘cause you mean it, or ‘cause you think I’d cry if you didn’t?"

Sam smirked. "Maybe both."

You scoffed, pushing at his arm, but he barely budged. "Please, you’d be the one crying your eyes out first."

"Uh-huh," he vaguely affirmed, unconvinced. "You could write me letters, you know."

"You gonna write back?"

"Every time."

You regained your smile at the answer, and it was when you turned to glance at him that you noticed that he was closer than before. You weren’t sure if he had leaned in or if you had, but your shoulders touched and your knees pressed together. He was close enough that you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed and caught his eyes flickering from yours to your mouth and back again.

You had felt it coming before it happened—the moment slowed, stretched, and his tentative fingers had brushed yours where your hands rested between you on the dock. He was testing out the waters, and neither of you pulled away.

Without a word, he leaned in.

It felt like a kiss engaged between adolescents discovering intimacy for the first time. He was slow in his doing, as if waiting for you to stop him, but you didn’t. You tilted into him instead, your hand resting against his jaw upon the faint scratch of stubble he had grown. His lips were warm and coaxing, stealing the breath from your lungs as he deepened the kiss while his hand curled lightly around your wrist. The world beyond the two of you fell away, drowned out by the rush of your pulse.

It was the kind of kiss that felt like the beginning of a promise. But promises, as you had learned over time, were far too easy to break.

You thought that this kiss was supposed to mean something. Evidently, it didn’t to Sam.

Months passed without a sign, not a single mail in your box or a phone call. Then years came by, and silence continued to reign like a chasm.

The first time Sam Wilson came back to Delacroix after becoming the Falcon, it wasn’t for a homecoming or a celebration—it was for Sarah’s wedding. By then, he was no longer just the annoying little brother, the immature sod who used to throw shrimp shells at you when you weren’t looking. He was an Avenger. A hero. Someone whose face people recognized, whose name carried weight.

And you? You had built a life of your own. A business. A name that had nothing to do with anyone else but yourself. 

He had changed but so had you, and whatever had been between you had withered away a bittersweet memory, more sour than sugary.

The wedding had come and gone in a whirlwind of music and laughter, of his sister glowing in a way you had never seen before, of toasts and dancing under strings of warm lights. You had somehow ended up outside, trading the muffled sounds of celebration drifting through the open doors of the reception hall for the cold silence of the outside.

You hadn’t planned to talk to him. In fact, you had spent most of the days of his visit avoiding being alone with him, dodging him and whatever it was that lingered between you both like an unfinished chapter. But he still managed to find you anyway, stepping out into the night with that same infuriating ease as if nothing had ever changed.

“Did anybody ever tell you that you scurry away like a mouse?” he jokingly prompted, hands tucked into his pockets. “For someone who’s supposed to be the maid of honor, you disappeared pretty fast.”

You didn’t look at him, instead fixing your gaze on the rippling water. “Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone.”

“Never said you did.”

Stillness settled between you, cut by the cicadas humming in the trees and the warm breeze rolling in from the bay. He was watching you. You could feel it.

“You been good?” he asked eventually, almost hesitant.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Business still going strong?”

Another nod.

Sam exhaled a soft laugh. “Damn. You always this talkative?”

Finally, you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say, Sam? That it’s good to see you? That I missed you?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“You know what? I did,” you admitted, your jaw tightening. “I missed you when you left, when you didn’t write, when you didn’t call. But then you show up years later on TV with wings on your back and a whole new life, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “Listen, I never meant to—”

The sudden burst of camera flashes cut through the dark like lightning. Movements danced from the shadows beyond the dock. Figures. A handful of people, cameras raised, lenses trained on you both.

Your blood ran cold.

The pilot turned, his expression shifting in an instant. He stepped in front of you, partially blocking their view. “Hey! Back the hell up.”

The damage was already done. Your name was already in their mouths, in their cameras, and in their notes. And by morning, the world would be talking.

You knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely. The blame didn’t belong to him—not for the cameras, the prying eyes, or the intrusion. But the continuous letdown, the unresolved past, the hollow promises left unanswered—it all boiled over.

Maybe it was the years of unspoken resentment. How he had left and never looked back, only to come home like no time had passed—like you hadn’t once meant something. Or maybe it was the fact that for one fleeting instance, the world thought you belonged to him like you selfishly wanted to back then when he had never even fought to keep you.

The fight was inevitable. Hurtful words, raised voices. Raw anger tangled with accusations you didn’t mean spilling from your mouth before you could stop it, among the ones you did. And to his credit, he gave as good as he got. You weren’t the only one harboring old wounds. You weren’t the only one who felt burned by your shared past.

By the time the shouting stopped, the damage between you was just as permanent as the damage done by the eye-catching headlines. Some words couldn’t be taken back, just as ties, once broken, could never be pieced together the same way again.

The next morning, as you predicted, the internet had been set ablaze with speculation.

The press was relentless, churning through the story like a wildfire swallowing dry earth. The Falcon and his Mystery Woman—Who is She? New Romance or Old Flame? Falcon’s Secret Love Life—Exclusive Details Inside!

It was absurd. Laughable, even. You had snorted at the first few articles, rolling your eyes at the grainy photos that painted a story far more dramatic than the truth. You and Sam barely tolerated each other. If anything, your history was a testament to mutual irritation, not some clandestine love affair.

But the laughter didn’t last because the headlines didn’t fade. Because the story didn’t die.

Because soon enough, it wasn’t just some passing tabloid gossip. It was everywhere.

Paparazzi began to linger outside your workplace, their lenses snapping up every movement as if they could capture something scandalous in the mundane act of you stepping out for coffee. Your inbox flooded with emails—some from reporters fishing for a statement, others from people you hadn’t spoken to in years, suddenly eager to "reconnect." 

Social media became a nightmare all on its own. Strangers dug through your past with eager, prying hands, dissecting old photos, analyzing every public interaction you’d ever had, and spinning theories about a relationship that had never even existed.

The worst part of your predicament was certainly work-related. Every handshake, every business meeting, and every new acquaintance suddenly all came with a question mark. Were they here for you or for the association? Were they interested in your work, in you, or just in the proximity you offered to something greater, to a man whose name counted amongst Earth’s greatest heroes?

And through it all, Sam had remained frustratingly unbothered.

"It’ll pass," he had dismissed with a shrug accompanying his words. "People move on when it comes to these kinds of things."

At most, he made sure you were surrounded by constant security and had some sort of secret service he was apart from watching over you in case malevolent spectators deemed it a good idea to bother you. While you were grateful for the protection, you had wondered if his lack of intervention to correct the situation with both words and actions wasn’t motivated by underlying factors. 

Ultimately, you had been the one left dealing with the aftermath. The one picking up the pieces and untangling the mess, sifting through the wreckage of your privacy. And that was something you could never forgive.

You slowly exhaled, massaging your temple at the exasperating memory. “Let’s just say your brother has had a knack for making my life difficult and I got tired of it.”

Sarah hummed, skeptical but wise enough not to press too hard. “He’s really not as bad as you think.”

You shot her a dry look. “Sarah.”

She held up her hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Alright, alright. I won’t push.”

Before you could say more, the sound of a door swinging open interrupted you. Then came the hurried patter of feet and the excited shout of your name before two small bodies crashed into you, all limbs and boundless energy.

You caught them both with a grin, stumbling slightly under their weight as they clung to you.

“You taking us to school today?” Cass asked, beaming up at you.

You ruffled his curls, feigning deep thought. “I don’t know... you guys gonna behave?”

AJ gasped, scandalized. “We always behave!”

Their mother snorted at the blatant lie while you laughed, nudging AJ’s shoulder. “Alright then, let’s go.”

Sarah shook her head, a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “They listen to you better than they listen to me.”

“That’s because I’m the cool auntie. Right, boys?” 

Both of them cheered in agreement, to which she rolled her eyes and shooed you toward your car. “Go before I change my mind about letting you take them.”

You steered her children toward the vehicle, their voices rising in an animated debate over which of them would get to call shotgun and put their playlist to play for the drive. But even as you settled into the driver’s seat, their excited chatter filling the space around you, your mind remained elsewhere.

Sam was coming back.

And whether you liked it or not, you were going to have to deal with him.

⠀

⠀

The restaurant was already alive with the late afternoon rush by the time you strolled in with the boys coming back from school. Orders flew in, plates stacked high and the scent of fried seafood and rich gumbo diffused in the place. The kitchen bustled with movement—Sarah barking orders, cooks shuffling between stations, the sizzle of oil, the clang of metal on metal. Fortunately, you had worked enough shifts here during college to comfortably throw yourself into the chaos and fall into the rhythm with ease, balancing trays and dodging wayward elbows like second nature.

You had expected a busy night.

What you weren’t prepared for—what you could have gone your entire life without dealing with—was walking out of the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with the one person you had been dreading.

The door swung shut behind you, the sudden quiet of the dining area making the moment feel even heavier. Sam Wilson stood near the counter, arms crossed, an easy smirk already in place as if he hadn’t just been gone for years. The sight of his tall, broad and annoyingly self-assured stature made something stubborn coil in your chest. The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the restaurant’s windows, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight curl of his lips, settling into the warm brown of his eyes with an infuriating sort of ease.

It had been years. But of course, of course, the first thing he did when he saw you was smirk and look at you the way he always did—like he was expecting a fight.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with the kind of scrutiny that made you itch to throw the nearest dish towel at his head. “They’re really letting just anyone work here now, huh?”

You scoffed, stepping behind the counter. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

“Hey, I actually own part of this place,” he shot back, leaning against the wooden bar. “What’s your excuse?”

“Sarah asked me to help,” you replied smoothly, grabbing a clean set of glasses from the shelf. “What’s yours?”

“Thought I’d check in, be a good brother and say hi,” he sassily answered. “Didn’t realize I’d be graced with your presence too.”

“Lucky you,” you deadpanned with a tight-lipped smile, brushing past him.

And to your luck, he followed you to the back, offering unhelpful commentary while you restocked supplies, then bickered with you while you both helped—or at least attempted to—his sister with the dinner rush. Arguing over everything with the soldier felt like muscle memory at this point, and it showed in the way he reached for the same things you did, your movements accidentally falling into sync. 

By the time things slowed down enough for dinner, you were already nursing a headache. It wasn’t until the pace had slowed and Sarah finally sat down with a plate of food after her kids were put to bed that the conversation turned against you.

“So,” Sarah stabbed a piece of calamari with her fork, looking at you with a glint of something announcing nothing good. “You seeing anyone yet?”

You nearly choked on your drink. Across from you, Sam let out a low chuckle.

“Oh, this should be good,” he mused, propping his chin on his hand and settling in like he was about to watch a show.

You shot him a glare before turning back to Sarah. “Not really.”

“Not really, or not at all?”

“Not. At. All.”

Sam let out a whistle, shaking his head in mock pity. “Damn. That’s rough.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “Well, it’s kind of your fault.”

The smirk fell right off his face. “My fault?”

You didn’t waver, locking eyes with him. “I don’t know if you remember, but you kind of put me on the map. You know, with that whole ‘mystery woman spotted with the Falcon’ thing?” You waved a hand vaguely. “Hard to trust people when they might secretly be fans. Or worse, spies.”

The hostess hummed in interest, taking a slow sip of her drink. “That does sound inconvenient.”

Sam scoffed. "Oh, be real, miss fancy pants. You can’t be serious.”

“But I am,” you shot back. “Because of you, I have to second-guess every new person I meet. Even for business.”

Sam shrugged, looking way too entertained. “Could be worse.”

You raised a brow. “Would you trust random people throwing themselves at you if the roles were reversed?”

He let out a sharp laugh, cocky and dismissive. “Sure, after a small background check.”

You leaned forward, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, totally. It’s so much fun when I get approached because people think I’m some tragic ex or long-lost lover of yours. Or getting bombarded with people asking if I ever hooked up with the Falcon, or if I have ‘tea’ to spill on our ‘relationship’, or if I’m ‘jealous’ that you’re off saving the world and not wasting time.” You tilted your head. “That’s just peak entertainment.”

For once, the Avenger had nothing to say.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget the weirdos who DM me saying they’d be happy to ‘fill the hole’ you supposedly left in my life.”

Sam choked on his drink, coughing violently. “What?”

“Oh yeah.” You pulled out your phone, tapped a few times, then held it out to him. “Here. Go ahead. Take a look at your legacy.”

He grabbed it hesitantly, scrolling through your inbox, his expression shifting from amused to horrified. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

Sarah smirked. “Damn, Sam. Ruined her dating life and left her with internet weirdos. That’s cold.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, fine, that’s bad.” He handed your phone back. “But still, you could’ve just—I don’t know—ignored it? De-activate your socials?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just ignore the fact that I have to Google every guy I talk to just to make sure they’re not running a secret fan account for you.”

He burst out laughing, to which you childishly responded by throwing a fry at his head.

Sarah, watching all this like it was prime-time TV, suddenly perked up. “I might have a solution.”

You groaned. “I don’t like that tone.”

“No, no, hear me out,” she insisted, grinning. “I saw this thing the other day—apparently, there’s a place in town that does blind dates in escape rooms.”

You blinked. “You saw what now?”

“It’s a fun concept,” she continued breezily. “Two people, locked in a room, working together to get out. You don’t know who you’re paired with beforehand, and it forces you to communicate.” She took another bite of her food, then added, “I think you two should try it.”

You both turned to her at the same time. “No—” “Hell no.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic. It’s literally an escape room—”

“With a blind date,” you interrupted with frantic gestures. “As in, being forced into a confined space with a random stranger and trusting them enough to help me get out.” You shook your head. “Not happening.”

Sarah gave you a pointed look. “You do realize that’s exactly what dating is, right?”

You glared. “Don’t make points right now.”

She turned her attention to Sam, who was still muttering under his breath. “And what’s your problem?”

Her brother shot her a disbelieving look. “You seriously don’t see the issue?”

“Nope.”

He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s way too risky for me to go in public and have my info given out to some company and get paired up with someone potentially crazy like her right here. Yeah, no way in hell I’m signing up for that.”

You turned back to Sarah. “Do you hear the way he talks to me? And you think I should be dating?”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m setting you up with other people. You both need a reality check.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Okay, ignoring the audacity of that statement—why an escape room? If I wanted to be locked in a room with a stranger, I’d call my internet provider.”

Sarah once again ignored your rebuttals. “It forces you to work together. Communication, problem-solving, a little trust—”

Sam let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather skydive without a parachute.”

“You literally have a parachute,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Sam said. “Which is why I don’t need to go on some experimental dating hostage situation.”

Sarah huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Let me put it this way—if you don’t go, I’ll tell Bucky you’re both too scared to put yourselves out there.”

You wanted to put up a bigger fight, if not for the very real threat of James Buchanan Barnes getting wind of this.

You had met him once, years ago, during one of Sam’s very unwelcome, very impromptu visits. You hadn’t even been expecting company that day, let alone a literal ex-assassin sitting at Sarah’s dining table like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to make matters worse, Sam had introduced you in the most obnoxious way possible.

“This is my sister’s best friend. She talks a big game but couldn’t win an argument if her life depended on it.”

And Bucky, with all the smugness of someone who absolutely enjoyed making your life difficult, had just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and smugly commented—

“Huh. Sounds familiar.”

You hadn’t even known him for five minutes, and he had already sided with Sam. Ever since, the latter had made sure to weaponize their friendship against you at every opportunity, regardless of the fast-growing amicability between his former partner and you.

And you knew that if Bucky found out about this, you would never hear the end of it. He’d be relentless. Casually dropping mentions of your lack of a partner into every conversation, even if the irony lied in him being in the same situation—though he’d probably argue that unlike him, there was a lack of trying on your part as well as the absence of an excuse as astronomical as being a well-known mass murderer with an insane past. And also probably betting money on how fast you’d walk out of the damn escape room.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

His sister’s grin only widened. “Oh, I absolutely would.”

You could already picture it—Bucky, smirking like he had all the dirt in the world on you and bringing it up at the most inopportune moments. Teasing you mercilessly every time you so much as glanced at your phone. Probably making some dumb comment like, “So, can’t find anyone to put up with you?”

Nope. Absolutely not.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “I so hate you right now.”

Sarah just smiled. “So that’s a yes?”

The Falcon groaned in desperation. “This is blackmail.”

She simply shrugged at the accusation. “I like to think of it as strong encouragement.”

"How long is it?” you finally asked, defeated.

“One hour.”

Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Sixty minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”

The restaurant’s owner shrugged, too pleased with herself to care. “Think of it this way—worst-case scenario, you get out and never see the person again.”

The pilot grumbled under his breath before sharply exhaling after a long pause. “Whatever. But when this goes horribly, I want it on record that I called it.”

“Duly noted.”

⠀

⠀

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as you gripped the wheel of your car with the force of someone actively trying not to commit murder. The drive to the escape room was supposed to be uneventful. Key words: supposed to. But Sam Wilson had never once encountered an opportunity for peace without promptly deciding to mischievously ruin it.

It started small. A shift in his seat, a glance at the dashboard, an exhale so faint you almost didn’t catch it. Then, before you knew it, his fingers were wandering, prodding at the glossy screen in the center console with an exaggerated curiosity that made your temple throb.

You gritted your teeth. "Stop touching things."

“Relax,” he drawled, ever the picture of unbothered arrogance. "I’m just exploring my environment."

“It’s not an environment, it’s my car.”

Sam clicked his tongue, grinning in a way that meant nothing good. “You got all these fancy-ass features, and you don’t even use ‘em? Shame. Really makes me question your judgment.”

“You’re about to question your life choices when I push you out onto the freeway.”

With all of your previous spouts, you should have known that issuing such a warning would only serve to encourage his childish behavior.

It started with him cranking the seat warmers up to their highest setting, slowly enough that you didn’t notice until your lower back was mysteriously drenched in sweat. He followed by playing with the ambient lighting, flipping through every color at an alarming rate until the inside of your car looked like a malfunctioning disco ball. But the worst, the absolute worst, came when he discovered your Bluetooth. 

A horrendous mix of static and Sam’s laughter blasted through your speakers as the system synced.

You gawked at him. “If you so much as—”

Before you could finish your sentence, the familiar bright and bouncy opening chords of Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus blared from the speakers, the bubbly pop song catering a stark contrast to the slow-building horror creeping up your spine.

Sam, entirely unbothered by your stricken expression, immodestly threw his feet up onto the dashboard with the air of a man settling in for a long, leisurely road trip rather than someone actively testing the limits of your patience. With the unrestrained passion of a performer standing before a sold-out stadium crowd, he threw his head back and belted at the top of his lungs, “And a Jay-Z song was on!”

You recoiled, grimacing as his voice cracked mid-note. But before responding, you reached over and smacked his legs off the dashboard, sending his sneakers thudding back to the floor. “Get your dirty feet off my dash,” you snapped.

Sam clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Oh, live a bit, woman. Damn, you really have no appreciation for the arts or my comfort?”

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you ignored his jab, leveling him instead with a flat, unimpressed stare. “This,” you slowly voiced with incredulity, “is the choice you made?”

“Hell yeah.” He nodded in affirmation, not even pausing in his off-key, wholly committed performance. “This is a certified anthem.”

“This is a cry for help.”

Sam gasped, scandalized. “You don’t like Party in the USA?”

“I do. I just don’t like you singing Party in the USA.” Without breaking your focus on the road, you lunged for his phone, yanking it from his grip with the precision of someone who had endured one too many of his antics. A dramatic click later, and blissful silence fell over the cabin.

Your passenger, however, was anything but deterred. He cackled, shoulders shaking, entirely too smug.

You inhaled deeply, willing the tension in your fingers to ease before you left permanent indentations on the wheel. “I swear to God, Wilson—”

“Hey,” he cut in, still grinning like a man with no fear of consequences. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve switched it to romance audiobooks.”

“I will crash this car.”

The silence was short-lived. Like a cocky thief in the night, Sam moved with the precision of a soldier and the recklessness of a man who knew exactly how to test your limits. One second, the phone was in your grasp, victory assured. The next, it was snatched away with infuriating ease.

You barely had time to register the offense before the speakers flared back to life, the cabin suddenly swelling with the smooth, honeyed tones of a song that hit far too close to home.

"I see the crystal raindrops fall…"

Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing in slow, dawning realization. The Falcon, unbothered and wholly self-satisfied, leaned back against the seat with his arms folded behind his head as if he hadn't just detonated a nostalgia bomb between you. The smooth timbre of Grover Wshington Jr.’s voice accompagnied the melodious instrumental of Just the Two of Us, the saxophone bringing more than just nostalgia of a classic.

You knew exactly what he was doing. You remembered the easy rhythm of laughter between verses as you'd vaguely engage in a clumsy waltz, tripping over both feet and lyrics and pretending it was intentional. You remembered Sam’s off-key falsetto and your equally disastrous harmonies, along with the unshakable euphoria and certainty that no matter where life took you, you’d always end up in the same place.

But life had a way of rewriting certainties—the choices that wedged themselves between you was certainly proof of it. And yet, despite everything that happened, that song still had its hooks in you.

Sam, ever the instigator, drummed his fingers against the dashboard, slow and patient, like a fisherman waiting for the line to tug. When you didn’t react, he turned his head and elbowed you in your arm. “C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I do remember.”

“Then sing.”

You scoffed, pretending it didn’t get to you. “Pass.”

His grin sharpened. “Boo, loser. What, so you can’t sing anymore? That’s crazy. Didn’t know losing your ability to sing was part of getting old and bitter—”

Your glare should have scorched him and wiped that insufferable smirk right off his face, but he only leaned in, fully basking in his role as an unrepentant menace.

"We can make it if we try…" He sang it pointedly, nudging you again with his elbow like an annoying kid brother. You swatted him away without sparing a glance. He did it again. And again. Until finally—

You exhaled sharply, grip slackening. “I hate you.”

But as the chorus approached, the words left your lips before you could stop them.

"Just the two of us…"

It was barely a whisper at first, something fragile and unintentional. But Sam caught it immediately and grinned just as quickly, victorious, before singing louder.

You rolled your eyes, but the fight was already lost.

“That’s my girl,” he cheered on, and before you could roll your eyes, he threw his head back and belted out the next line with all the fanciness of a Broadway performer.

By the next verse, you were both loudly singing off-key. He purposely overstated his notes, while you botched entire lines just to tease him. Laughter flowed freely between lines, busting through the barricades you'd both painstakingly established.  Sam, ever the dramatist, went full concert mode, wiggling his shoulders like an overenthusiastic backup dancer and pretending to hold a microphone as he crooned into his fist.

“No,” you moaned in exasperation between bursts of laughter as he hit an ungodly note. “That was—oh my God, Sam, stop—that is a crime against music.”

He only doubled down, adding unnecessary falsetto flourishes and pointing dramatically out the window as if serenading the passing trees. The harmonies were an absolute disaster. The timing was questionable at best. But for those few minutes, it didn’t matter. It was just you and Sam, the car, and the open road, voices colliding in the space between you.

It shouldn't have felt so natural, to slip into something that had been tearing around the edges for years. But for a brief while, it did—which was perilous, like plunging into still waters.

No matter how lighthearted it appeared, you were smart enough to understand that the political choice in this song was not only to reminisce about one of your favorite memories, but also to convey a hidden message, as the song still had meaning in its lines. “We can make it if we try”. It was a promise, one you had scarcely believed in with your whole heart before you had to learn to live without him. 

By the time the final note of the song was hit, the magic was broken. You cleared your throat and adjusted your grip on the wheel. You mumbled, "Still sing like a damn goat," since it was easier than admitting anything else.

Sam snorted. "You still talk big for someone who sounds like a dying cat."

Quietness regained its rightful place, this time more charged than before with the shadow of something lost between you. He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts—or just avoid whatever was about to spill out.

“Look, about everything that happened...” He hesitated, voice trailing off, before he tried again. “I didn’t mean—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “It’s fine,” you muttered, trying to keep the ache from spilling over. “Honestly, I should’ve expected it. You’re always going to be tied up in something bigger than us. I get it now. I should’ve known better.”

The pilot didn’t respond right away but you still made out the sound of him breathing down his nose, betraying the turmoil that was spiralling in his mind. “I just—I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring what happened. I—”

“No.” The word came out before you could stop it, hard and final. Your lips twisted into a smile, but it was bitter, hollow. “You don’t need to apologize anymore. It’s not necessary. I mean, the Air Force is a big thing. And now with the whole Avengers thing…” Your breath hitched slightly. “You had big priorities. It’s understandable.”

The words left a bitter taste on your tongue, every syllable a shard of resentment you had tried for so long to swallow. “It’s okay. You don’t need to make up some excuse.”

Sam’s expression flickered, his features shifting subtly as he processed your words, but he didn’t respond. His silence felt like another slap in the face, the unspoken weight of his guilt settling over the car.

"It just hurt," you continued, the words uncontrollably tumbling out of your mouth, as if you couldn’t hold them back any longer. "You said you’d make time. That we could figure it out." Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on, your chest tight with the pressure of everything you’d been carrying. "But then... it was like I was just some side story to your life. I had to deal with everything on my own. You didn’t just leave me, Sam. You left me hanging in front of the entire world, like I was an afterthought."

You could see him flinching and opening his mouth to speak, but the reply stayed stuck somewhere behind his teeth for awhile. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” he finally admitted, his voice tight with frustration, lips pressed into a thin line. “You have to know that.” 

You let out a dry laugh, bitter and edged with years of pent-up anger. "No," you spat, shaking your head. "I don’t know that. I really don’t. And now you want to apologize? You think a few words will make it go away?" You turned to him then with glaring eyes, the dam inside you breaking wide open. “But I guess I should’ve known better, right? You’ve always got more important things on your plate than me. And I was just dumb enough to think I could be part of it." You let out a shaky breath. "That’s on me, not you.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenched so tightly against his knees that you could see the tendons in his hands strain. "That’s not fair," he rasped.

“No,” you bit out with the bitter burn of years of disappointment. “What’s not fair is pretending everything’s okay now, like you didn’t leave me in the dust. You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to forget how much it hurt when you left me behind.”

Sam growled, his gaze snapping to yours with an intensity that could’ve burned brighter than the sunlight reflecting on the windshield. “I didn’t mean to do that. It wasn’t like that. If you’d just let me explain—”

But you were already shaking your head, a bitter laugh slipping out as you cut him off. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this again."

The rest of the drive stretched on in silence, bouncing on the precarious mix of unsaid words and the sharp sting of old wounds reopening. By the time you pulled into the parking lot of the escape room, your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, your body wound tight with the tension of everything you’d let out during the ride.

You almost yanked the car into park with more force than necessary, the engine’s rumbling metaphorically serving as a harsh reminder of how you were both still reeling from your slight altercation.

The door slammed shut behind you, but neither of you made a move to walk toward the entrance. The space between you felt wider than the parking lot itself. You weren’t sure what else to say, if there was even anything left to say. 

“You should go inside first,” you finally said, your eyes staying firmly on the building in front of you. “I still need to arrange a few things in the car.” You were making a conscious decision to create some distance, to not go beyond what you could navigate through the dangerous waves of this confrontation. “Good luck with your date… or, uh, escape game.” You gave a small, tight smile, though it felt more like a bitter farewell than any kind of encouragement.

Sam silently hesitated, his eyes searching yours, like he was about to say something—but the words never formed. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave a short nod. "You too. Good luck with... whatever it is you're gonna do, too."

Without another word, he turned his back to you and walked toward the entrance with stiff shoulders. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he left you alone, marking said distance you were so adamant on implementing once and for all.

You didn’t watch him go. You couldn’t. Instead, you opened your door with a soft creak, the cool night air rushing in as you slid back into the driver’s seat. It felt like a strange kind of closure, the door clicking shut behind you as if you were signing the definite end of a chapter, even if nothing really felt settled. With a shaky hand, you wiped the stray tears that had fallen down your cheeks, quickly brushing them away like they never happened, like you could pretend they weren’t there.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. There was still the night ahead, the escape game to focus on, even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it.

⠀

⠀

The artificial chill of the air conditioning wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, abruptly differing from the lingering warmth of dusk. The area smelled somewhat floral, though not in a pleasant way—more like a half-hearted attempt to conceal the antiseptic, even clinical ambiance. The welcome space looked sleek and modern, with clean lines and soft, ambient lighting, but something seemed odd.

A trio of employees stood behind the clean counter, their demeanor courteous but impersonal. Their uniforms were clean, their smiles practiced, and their eyes assessing—not in a way that made you feel welcome, but rather processed.

"Just need you to sign a few things," one of them said, sliding a clipboard toward you with the kind of ease that suggested they had done this a hundred times before. Maybe a thousand.

You picked up the pen and skimmed the pages, your brows knitting together. Waiver. Consent form. Limited liability in the case of mild distress.

Everything screamed shady.

Even though you knew they conducted a comprehensive background check on their clients' criminal records—you knew because you boldly inquired beforehand—your gut twisted with disquiet, a silent warning you had long since learned not to ignore. But you forced yourself to exhale, suppressing the mounting doubt. Sarah planned this, and she wouldn't throw you into an underground horror movie scenario, right?

Still, the blindfold part? That was peculiar, to say the least.

“Standard procedure,” the staff member assured you in a smooth and clearly rehearsed tone. That didn’t make you feel any better.

But you weren’t about to back out now. Soundly sighing, you allowed them to tie the fabric securely over your eyes, and in an instant, the world went black.

A friendly but firm hand took you down what appeared to be a long corridor. Each step heightened the sense of disorientation, the absence of sight accentuating everything else—hushed murmurs in the distance, the continuous flaps of an air vent above, the dull pressure of the floor under you. Then a pause. The air became colder. A door opened, and you were gently guided inside.

The door shut behind you, and the person beside you vanished.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at the sides. The lack of vision made everything feel too much—the faint shuffle of your own feet as you shifted nervously, the way your breathing seemed louder than it should, the slight press of your pulse on your temples. How long were they going to leave you here?

The weight of the silence stretched, and so did the edges of your nerves. Finally, the door creaked open again. Your spine became rigid. Footsteps, slow and measured. The door clicked closed once more.

Someone was here.

You exhaled, forcing an easy tone into your voice despite the unease creeping up your spine. "So, uh… I guess this is the part where we introduce ourselves? Hi, I’m—"

A strange, loaded silence tightened around you like a noose, twisting in your stomach. Were they simply joking with you? Or was there something else going on here?

Your patience, already thin after the day's events, had fully frayed. Screw this. Against your better judgment, you reached up and ripped the blindfold off, blinking rapidly as your eyes acclimated to the room's dull, amber hue.

And there, across from you, stood Sam. A solitary rose danced between his fingers, whirling aimlessly, as if he had all the time in the world. His attitude was unreadable—calm and poised, but his eyes held something you couldn't quite identify.

"Oh, hell no."

Sam let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing his temple like the sheer force of his fingers could press back the headache forming there. “Unbelievable,” he sneered, shaking his head. “I should’ve known Sarah was up to something when she kept dodging my questions.”

You let out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face as the reality of the situation settled over you like an unbearable weight. “This is what I get for trusting Sarah with this. Honestly, I’d rather deal with Bucky’s endless teasing right now than… this.”

The veteran arched a brow, folding his arms. “To be fair, you did let her set you up on a blind date with a stranger.”

You leveled him with a look. “Yeah, and so did you!” You threw up your hands. “And we came here together. Did she seriously think we wouldn’t notice?”

He exhaled sharply, his expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Guess she figured we’d be too busy arguing to put the pieces together.”

You scoffed. “Well, congrats to her, then. She got exactly what she wanted.”

Determined to put an end to this ridiculous setup, you turned toward the door, grasped the handle, and gave it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. Your pulse ticked higher. You tried again, more forcefully this time, but the door remained stubbornly locked.

Behind you, Sam sighed, the sound far too entertained for your liking. “Still locked?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Obviously.”

Before he could toss out another quip, the overhead speakers crackled to life, the static buzzing through the dimly lit room before a saccharine, overly cheerful voice filled the space.

"Welcome, lovebirds, to the Valentine’s Day Escape Challenge!"

Your entire body went rigid. Sam, standing just a few feet away, had stilled completely, his eyes narrowing like he was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

"Over the next hour, you and your partner will work together to solve puzzles, uncover secrets, and—most importantly—ignite a spark between you!"

Your eye twitched. "The what?"

The Falcon was still staring up at the speaker, but you could feel the sheer amount of unspoken profanity radiating off of him.

"You have sixty minutes! And remember... teamwork makes the dream work!"

A mechanical clunk sounded somewhere in the room, and a timer flickered to life on the far wall, its neon numbers casting an ominous glow.

59:59. 59:58. 59:57.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, forcing down the overwhelming urge to scream, then turned to Sam. He met your stare, equally exasperated, equally resigned.

The room was an assault of saccharine love-themed aesthetics, as if Eros himself had suffered a violent, glitter-drenched demise. Heart-shaped garlands draped along the walls in looping chains, glowing pink fairy lights casting a hazy, dreamlike blush over every velvet-draped surface. A gilded vanity stood against one wall, its mirror smeared with cryptic riddles in waxy, crimson lipstick. The simulated fireplace screen let out crackled sounds, its flames flickering just a little too artificially, a cheap illusion of warmth in a space meant to seduce.

At the center of it all sat a small, round table, dressed in pristine white linen, set for two. A single wax-sealed envelope rested atop the china, like the final invitation to some grand, elaborate joke.

Sam let out a low whistle, slow and unimpressed as he took in the spectacle. “It’s like Cupid threw up in here.”

You crossed your arms, exhaling through your nose. “More like a discount wedding venue.”

“Either way, I already hate it.”

“Great. Common ground.” You stepped forward, plucking the envelope off the table, breaking the seal with a sharp tear. “Means we’ll get through this faster.”

Inside, a delicate pink card gleamed under the low lighting, its cursive gold lettering gliding across the surface like a whispered dare:

"To escape, one must first unlock the heart. Find the key, answer truthfully, and embrace the game."

You flipped the card over, your frown deepening. Blank.

“Well, that’s unhelpful.”

Sam leaned in over your shoulder, the warmth of his unwelcome presence creeping at your back. “Sounds like a load of nonsense.”

“Sounds like we need to find a key.” You tossed the card aside and swept your gaze across the room. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He followed at an infuriatingly lazy pace, hands tucked in his pockets. “You always this impatient on dates?”

You shot him a glare. “You always this obnoxious?”

“‘That a rhetorical question?”

You huffed, stepping toward the vanity. Its antique gold frame was chipped, and its once-opulent beauty weathered down to something just shy of decadent. Trinkets littered the surface—heart-shaped perfume bottles, a pearl necklace draped over a porcelain hand sculpture, and a plush teddy bear wearing a satin bow tie.

You picked up the bear, giving it a shake. Something rattled inside. Without hesitation, you grabbed the bow and pulled at it, to which the Avenger let out a sharp breath. “At least pretend to have some finesse. Poor guy.”

You turned, leveling him with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I politely ask the stuffed animal for the key?”

His smirk was all teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

With an exaggerated tug, the bow finally tore away, revealing a tiny brass key stitched into the lining. Triumphant, you held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the candlelight. “Hah. Suck it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded toward the oversized keyhole carved into the farthest door. “Moment of truth.”

The lock clicked smoothly, the door groaning as it swung inward to reveal the next part of your prison—a room bathed in deep red velvet, dimly lit by flickering candle sconces. A loveseat sat at its heart, a small pedestal beside it, where a single glass dome encased a perfect red rose.

You exhaled sharply. “Great. More romantic fuckery.”

Sam rolled his shoulders, his stance widening. “Starting to think this whole thing is just an excuse for people to make out in a locked room.”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh, trust me, you’re really killing the mood.”

Your attention shifted to the plaque beneath the rose. The words, engraved in curling script, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine: "A promise once spoken, never fulfilled, lingers in the heart forever." You took a step back, exhaling a little too precipitously. “Alright. Where’s the next clue?”

Sam didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the plaque before flickering back to you. “That bother you?”

“Nope,” you said too quickly. “Just wanna get out of here.”

He studied you, and for once, he wasn’t all for the laughs. “You’re lying straight to my face.”

You stiffened. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” His voice was laced with the same exasperation you remembered from years ago—when things were different. When things were good. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see it?”

You pivoted angrily towards him. “See what, Sam? I told you everything already. You want to talk about how years later, when you came back, I was the one whose name got dragged through the dirt because some paparazzi decided I made a convenient headline?”

His jaw ticked. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“Well you barely did a damn thing to stop it, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, so that was my fault?” His voice rose, heat sparking in his eyes. “I was trying to keep you out of that mess! You think I had any control over what the media did?”

“Maybe not.” Your breath came hard now, uneven. “But you had control over what you did. And you chose to stay silent.”

The room’s candlelight flickered violently, shadows dancing along the walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on you, encaging you in this intolerable and toxic chasm of tug-of-war fight. Sam’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked like he wanted to grab something—grab you, maybe, or stop himself from doing exactly that.

“Say it,” he finally murmured, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since I walked back here.” His gaze burned into yours. “Go ahead. Get it out.”

The pathetic words escaped before you could stop them.

“You lied to me and I hate you for it.”

Sam flinched, but you pressed on, voice breaking on the edges. “You promised I wouldn’t just be some forgotten thing in your past. And you never even tried.”

His nostrils flared. “You think I didn’t want to?”

“Oh, please.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You were fine. You left, became a hero, and forgot all about me until you came back wearing a fucking jetpack.”

“You were never something I could forget.”

You felt something crack in your chest. “You don’t get to say that now, Sam,” you whispered.

He stepped closer. Then again. You barely realized you were moving too, until the air between you collapsed, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the tension a live wire sparking between your ribs. 

"Then look me in the eye," Sam rasped, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. "Look at me and tell me I’m lying and this doesn’t mean anything anymore. Tell me you don’t feel it—say the words, and I’ll walk away. But say them like you mean them." 

Your throat worked, but no words came. Because as much as you wanted to deny the allegations, you did feel it. The frustration, the anger. And beneath it all—the wanting, the aching. The bone-deep longing for something neither of you had the courage to claim when it mattered.

In an unfurling of sudden movement, his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but before he could react, you were on him, fisting the front of his shirt and crashing your mouth against his, engaging in a battle more than a kiss. It was akin to a wildfire—scorching, desperate, all teeth and heat, the culmination of every regret and every second wasted.

The pilot groaned into it, his hands flying to your waist, strong and sure as he hauled you against him. A sharp gasp left you at the feeling of his body flush with yours, but he didn’t give you room to think or to breathe. He spun you, pressing you back against the wall, his mouth relentless against yours, moving with a punishing, consuming intent—like he wanted to devour you whole.

Your fingers twisted further into his meticulous white shirt, attempting to pull him impossibly closer than you already were. He swallowed the sound that escaped you, deepening the kiss like a starved man, like he needed this, needed you, needed to make up for all the time lost.

His lips dragged over your jaw, hot breath ghosting against your skin.

"Still mad?" he murmured against your lips, voice thick with want, teasing even now, even like this.

Your teeth sank into his bottom lip, seizing it and savoring how his breath hitched at your doing, the way his fingers flexed against your waist. "Furious."

Sam’s breath stuttered against your lips, a ragged sound caught between a groan and something dangerously close to surrender. His fingers curled into your waist, holding you like he needed to anchor himself, like if he let go, you’d slip through his grasp and take the last shred of his self-control with you.

The kiss burned, devouring, each second unraveling the years of restraint neither of you wanted to acknowledge anymore. You felt the tension in the way he pressed against you, in the way his hands slid beneath your shirt, palms searing against your skin. Your nails raked down his back, dragging over hard covered muscle, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fists as if you could pull him deeper into you, as if there was any space left between you to close.

"Tell me to stop," Sam gasped through the clashing of your mouths, the words nearly lost to the breathlessness between you. His request went ignored as his lips traced a slow, punishing path down your jaw, his breath hot against your throat as his hands wandered, gripping, relearning, claiming back what was once his for a brief instance. 

You tilted your head, granting him more access, shivering as he took it without hesitation, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Your fingers roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the solid weight of him beneath your touch. It wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed skin, heat, the press of him without barriers.

Your hands found the first button of his shirt, fumbling in your urgency. One button slipped free, then another, the fabric parting under your fingers.

Until the door slammed open.

You barely had time to gasp before Sam reacted on instinct. In a blur of movement, he thrusted you behind him, body braced like a shield between you and whoever had just interrupted.

A pair of employees stood in the doorway, frozen like deer in headlights. One clutched a clipboard, the other a maintenance checklist, both staring like they had just walked in on a crime scene.

A heavy silence stretched between all of you.

"Uh…" The clipboard guy cleared his throat, his voice weak, almost apologetic. "This… isn't a private room."

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly dangling by a thread. His chest still heaved with unspent frustration and the lingering burn of what had been seconds away from happening. He ran a slow hand down his face before fixing them with a dark, pointed look.

"Clearly," he said flatly.

The maintenance guy swallowed hard. "We—we knocked. Three times."

Clipboard guy shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting everywhere but at you and Sam. "Look, we know you signed up for it and all, but this is too much—you can’t stay here. We have to ask you to leave. Immediately."

The Avenger stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he looked them up and down. The movement was subtle, but the effect was instant. Clipboard guy flinched. Maintenance guy tensed, suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"You saw nothing," he declared lowly. "And whatever you think you saw? No you didn’t." His gaze flicked downward, locking onto the phone peeking out of the employee’s pocket.

The guy scrambled to pull it out, hands shaking as he unlocked the screen. "N-Nothing there! See?" He turned it around in a panic.

Sam barely glanced at it before nodding, satisfied. "Good. Smart choice."

You bit your lip, caught between laughter and mortification as Sam slid an arm around your waist, steering you toward the exit with purposeful ease.

"Now," he continued, voice laced with something smug as he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, "if you’ll excuse us, we have somewhere else to be."

His grip on your hip tightened as he led you outside, your pulse hammering in response, the rest of the world fading as the need he had ignited moments ago roared back to life with a vengeance.

⠀

⠀

The ride back to the restaurant was enveloped in a heavy silence—not the brittle awkwardness of unspoken apologies nor the tenseness of imminent confrontation, but a solemn, almost sacred quietude laden with things neither of you yet dared to name.

You kept your eyes fixed on the road, though the lingering warmth of Sam’s hand on your waist remained—a memory of intimacy that had evaporated the instant you stepped out of that room. The echo of what had nearly transpired clung to your skin like a phantom caress, simmering just beneath the surface, an unacknowledged secret shared between you.

When you finally reached the restaurant, the usual mix of clamors of conversation and the tinkling of glasses felt jarringly discordant against the subdued cadence of your thoughts. You both hesitated at the entrance, lingering in the threshold. After a long pause, Sam sighed deeply, his hand drifting to his jaw as if to smooth away the remnants of the night’s turbulence. “Go wait for me,” he ordered you, “at our spot.”

That command stopped you in your tracks.

Our spot.

It had been years since either of you had dared to approach it, much less mention it aloud. The old corner by the water hidden from the prying lights of the city, where you had once spent long, languid nights nursing cheap beer, debating everything and nothing, and watching the world settle into quiet dreams. Back when neither of you had been bold enough to risk shattering that fragile haven.

You searched his face, but his eyes were fixed beyond you, as if he were still uncertain whether the words should have been spoken at all. Still, you nodded.

The dock greeted you like a cherished relic from a bygone era. Weathered wooden planks stretched over dark, rippling water, the faint, distant glow of the city shimmering in its reflection. The air was crisp and invigorating, hinting at the encroaching chill of night and making you wish you had remembered to bring a jacket.

You sank onto the edge of the dock, letting your feet dangle freely above the water, your fingers twisting together in quiet contemplation. Time slipped by in muted anticipation until, at last, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind you. Then, as if conjured by the very night, a presence settled beside you.

Without a word, Sam pressed a cold bottle on your forehead that burned as it met your skin, making you almost jump out of your place before you took the flask of whiskey—and set another beside him. He then unfurled a thick, timeworn blanket, draping it over both of you with a fluid, almost reverent motion.

The warmth of the blanket combined with the closeness of his body seeped into you instantly, chasing away the chill of the night. For a long moment, you simply sat there, the dock creaking softly beneath your weight, the gentle lapping of water against old wood composing a quiet symphony for your shared solitude.

You sighed, rolling the bottle between your palms. “So..”

One simple word laden with the totality of everything left unsaid, a distillation of years of longing, regret and the raw, unspoken truth of your intertwined past.

You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on the blanket as though holding it could tether you both to this moment. This was it—the precipice upon which you both now stood. There was no turning away, no hiding behind silence any longer. 

“So,” Sam repeated, his voice tinged with playful mischief as he copied your idle toying with the cold bottle in his hand, “that was… something, wasn’t it?” 

“Ugh, don’t say something cliché like that. But yeah, that was definitely something for the books, I guess.” You managed a shaky smile, your words emerging in a hesitant cadence. There was a lightness in your tone—a mirth that felt like a delicate mask over the swirling emotions that both terrified and enthralled you.

The Falcon grinned, arching an eyebrow. “You know, if it weren’t for how noisy Sarah is, we might have savored it in peace.”

You chuckled softly, the sound both amused and rueful. “She practically narrated our every move. You know she loves her piece of drama.”

“Exactly,” he agreed in a playful tone yet laced with something deeper—a hint of regret, perhaps. “I think she made sure we were loud enough for at least the entire escape room to hear.”

You shook your head, still smiling despite the vulnerability threading through your laughter. “I guess sometimes a little noise is inevitable. I mean, if everything were hushed, we’d never have the chance to remember just how messy and magnificent it all was.”

Sam’s eyes softened as he took a slow sip from the bottle, the amber liquid catching the light. “Sounds like the perfect way to put it,” he murmured absent-mindedly. Your fingers moved on to fidget with the edge of the blanket draped around you, and Sam’s gaze frequently wandered to your flushed face, as if silently pleading for some unspoken reassurance.

“Ask me,” he suddenly requested, his voice both gentle and edged with a trace of desperation, as though he believed that the right question might finally untangle the knots of regret and longing that had haunted you both for so long. “Ask me the question you’ve been holding back.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat echoing with years of missed chances and unspoken words. In a trembling rush of emotion, you blurted out, “What—uh, did you like it?” Your voice quavered, carrying the weight of the moment like a fragile plea.

Sam’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of relief and sorrow as he slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied, his tone soft yet resolute. “I mean—yes, but that’s not what I meant.” He paused, carefully choosing his words as if every syllable carried the gravity of the past. “Ask me the one you’ve wanted to ask for so long.”

A delicate tremor passed through you, and your breath caught in your throat. After a long, painful silence, you whispered, “Why didn’t you write me?” 

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the dock, as if the night itself awaited his answer. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly extracted a tightly knotted bundle of papers. Unraveling the thread with careful fingers, he revealed a stack of letters, yellowed with time and crinkled at the edges.

“I did write you letters,” he softly admitted, his gaze fixed on the fragile pages as if they contained his very soul. “That’s what I wanted to tell you for so long. Three hundred and sixty-five of them… one for every day.” His voice trembled with both pride and regret. “But you have to understand—the Air Force policy was tight as fuck. I couldn’t send them, and once I realized that, I… I knew you’d resent me for not keeping in touch.”

He paused, running a hand over the neatly stacked pages. “This whole thing took a toll on me—physically, mentally. I was drowning in obligations and fear, and eventually, I stopped writing because I thought maybe it was the only way to spare you from more pain.” His eyes darkened as he continued, voice barely a murmur now. “And as for the paparazzi… I thought that by not speaking, by keeping my distance, I’d protect you. If I wasn’t seen with you, they’d assume there was no connection—no real relationship worth prying into.”

A single tear glinted in the corner of your eye as you absorbed his words, each one a quiet confession, a secret revealed in the darkness. The letters lay between you like relics of a lost time—a testament to love, duty, and the unbearable cost of silence.

Your fingers trembled as they hovered above the fragile stack of letters, each page heavy with the weight of stolen years and unspoken regrets. The unsent words pressed against your chest as though they carried every moment lost between you, every silent apology and longing unfulfilled. You swallowed hard, the night air thick with an unspoken tremor that danced at the edge of every exhale.

“Tell me about them,” you professed, your voice scarcely more than a whisper carried on the breeze.

The pilot exhaled sharply, his thumb absently caressing the frayed edges of one of the letters as if it were a relic of his former self. “You really want to know?” he asked, his tone tentative, laced with both caution and the burden of truth.

You nodded, your silence affirming that, despite your uncertainty, you needed to hear every word.

For a long moment, Sam’s eyes remained fixed on the ink-smudged pages, the ghostly script of his past gazing back at him in silent testimony. “One of the first letters was angry,” he began, a wry, self-deprecating chuckle trembling at the edge of his words. “Not angry at you. Never at you. I was furious at the situation. I remember that first night in my bunk, where all I could think was how I’d have to let you down. I thought I should’ve fought harder, found a way to make it work. So I wrote it all down and thought that I would probably be out soon enough to give you them in person.”

His fingers tightened around the bundle, as if the letters themselves could anchor him to a past he both cherished and loathed. “I started writing about the small, absurd things—like how the coffee on base was godawful, the jibes from the guys when I apparently mumbled your name in my sleep—which I did not, to make things clear. I even wrote about an old couple I saw on television one day and how it reminded me of when you joked that we’d be arguing over directions even when we were eighty.” His tone faltered, growing quieter, more solemn. “And then there were the letters where I just… missed you. God, I missed you so much.”

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his grip on the letters slackened, as though holding them was too painful. “And it got harder. Days turned into months, and I convinced myself that you’d moved on—that I had no right to cling onto us. But even then, I never stopped wanting you.”

He turned his gaze to you then, the glow of unsent confessions and quiet grief shining in his eyes. “And it shouldn’t matter anymore because it’s over. Or at least, that’s what I should believe. But it does. It always has.”

The wind whispered softly around you, stirring the fragile pages in his hand and carrying away echoes of moments lost to time. Your heart clenched, caught between the relief of knowing and the heartbreak of what might have been.

In one sudden, desperate motion, he reached for you. His fingers brushed your jaw lightly at first, then cradled your face with a tenderness that belied the cool night air. His thumbs, warm and steady, traced gentle arcs over your cheekbones—anchoring you both to this moment, to the years lost and the yearning that had bridged every mile of distance between you.

His eyes, dark and unwavering, burned into yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. “Hear me out, please,” he murmured, his voice low and insistent, as though the very thought of you slipping away again was unbearable. “I was a coward. I should’ve done better than that but I let fear, and everything else, win. I told myself I was protecting you, that I was doing what was best. But all I did was make it worse. I made you think I didn’t care when the truth is... I never stopped.”

Your lips parted in a silent gasp, but Sam did not wait for you to speak. His grip on your face tightened, firm enough to keep you tethered to him without causing pain.

“I love you.”

The words fell between you like fragile glass shards, the shatter of the barriers of years resonating with their fall. “Yeah, fuck this corny shit. I have loved you every single damn day since the moment I let you go. I know it’s selfish to say it now, after everything, but I just need you to know that I love you. And I’m so goddamn sorry that I ever made you doubt that.”

A shudder ran through you, and your hands clutched his wrists as if they were the only lifeline in your storm of emotions. Every syllable struck like a slow-burning flame, peeling back layers of anger, heartbreak, and longing until all that remained was the undeniable truth—him, you, and a love that refused to fade.

“Sam—” you began, but your voice cracked, the word lost to the tumult of your feelings.

It didn’t matter anyway, because before you could speak another word, he kissed you with the same fervor from earlier, as if he were a man finally allowed to feast upon the love that had sustained him in torturous silence. His lips met yours with a desperate ardour that sent shivers racing down your spine, his hands roaming to trace the soft curve of your neck and leading you to melt into the perfect fit of his embrace.

The world around you—the creaking dock, the ghostly remnants of past regrets—faded into insignificance. All that remained was the kiss, deepening with every heartbeat, as if he were trying to reclaim every lost day, every stolen hour of absence. And you, with equal fervor and need, returned his kiss. Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, as if in that embrace you could mend the ruptures of time itself.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads pressed together in the cool night air. “Please, tell me that wasn’t a mistake.”

Your fingers trailed slowly down his chest, grasping the fabric as if to hold onto the fragile promise of the moment. “No,” you whispered back, your voice tender and resolute. “This time it wasn’t.”

A slow grin spread across Sam’s face, and relief flooded his features like the first rays of the morning sun after a long, storm-ridden night. He swept you into his arms, lifting you clear off the ground to bring you closer, almost sitting on his lap. The world tilted delightfully as a rich, unburdened laughter bubbled from his chest in a way you hadn’t heard in a while, full of joy and the promise of new beginnings.

“You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind,” he crooned against your hair in a husky blend of disbelief and something infinitely tender, a softness that belied the wildness of the moment.

A breathy laugh escaped you as your hands instinctively clinging to his broad shoulders as if anchoring you both to the present. “You’re acting like I just solved every world crisis,” you teased, even as your heart pounded in its rhythmic cadence.

“Nah,” he replied, his thumb traced reverently along your jaw, as though memorizing every curve and line of your face. “Just mine.” 

A quiet ache formed in your chest at the way he looked at you, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, as if he were etching every detail of you into memory in case the universe ever dared be cruel again.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and with a voice steadier than you felt, you whispered, “I love you too, Sam.”

For a heartbeat, his lips parted as if to utter more, but before the words could spill, a familiar voice shattered the reverie.

“Hey, lovebirds! Dinner’s ready!” Sarah called from the restaurant’s back porch, her tone playful as she leaned against the doorway with crossed arms and a knowing smirk that practically screamed, took you long enough.

Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Jesus, can I have one moment—just one?” he protested.

Laughing, you grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the warm glow of the restaurant. “Come on, loverboy, before she comes out here and drags us inside herself.”

The golden light of the restaurant melted away the coolness of the night, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. As you walked back to the shack, a spark of mischief danced at the edges of your lips. You shot Sam a sidelong glance, the playful glimmer in your eyes challenging him.

“Wait a second…” you drawled, narrowing your eyes and tilting your head. “Did you—did you quote The Notebook in your big, dramatic profession of love?”

For a moment, his grip on your hand tightened, and he faltered, pigment further coloring his cheeks. “What?” he managed, his tone caught between indignation and bashful amusement.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, pressing a hand to your mouth as barely contained laughter bubbled forth. “You did! That ‘it wasn’t over’ thing—straight out of The Notebook!”

His arm looped around your shoulders, drawing you closer with a quiet, playful threat. His large palm briefly covered the back of your head as he guided you forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Say one more word about that, and I swear I will stuff you so full of oysters you won’t be able to utter a single syllable for a week.”

You snorted. “Really? That’s your big intimidation tactic?”

“Ever tried eating twenty oysters in one sitting?” he shot back, arching a brow and letting his lips twitch in a smirk. “I don’t think so. Now, go sit down and eat before I make it happen.”

Grinning, you leaned into his side, feeling the easy warmth of his arm as it draped around you. After all the lost time and shattered dreams, everything felt achingly, irrevocably right. Perhaps the years apart had only deepened the truth: the time you thought was lost might, in fact, still be yours to reclaim, as you were fated to be stuck together no matter what.

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dividers ©️ @angelremnants + @cafekitsune .

Bucky's lips twitched into a slow and sleepy smile before he even opened his eyes. He hummed quietly, shifting under the blankets. His voice was still raspy from a full night’s sleep.

“S’too early early for this kinda sweetness. What’s going on with you, doll?”

You chuckled softly, running your nose along the slope of his neck until you hit his jaw, leaving a soft kiss every couple of millimeters. You whispered in his ear.

“It’s never too early to remind you that you’re the most handsome man I know.”

He finally cracked open one eye, his smile turning into a lazy smirk.

“Flattery this early? You can’t even function before 8am. What are you up to?”

He narrowed his eyes at your grin, watching as you propped yourself up on an elbow and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“What if I just wanted to wake up my favorite guy with kisses on his birthday? Is that too much too ask?”

Bucky turned his face into his pillow, trying to hide his face under his arm.

“You remembered.”

He could feel pressure on his shoulder as you attempted to get him to turn back to you, so you could see his face.

“Of course I remembered. And I know birthdays aren’t really your thing, but… I just want today to be good for you.”

Gingerly, he peeked at you from under his arm. His expression softened as he caught sight of your shining eyes. Birthdays were something that he had lost to time. Buried under the weight of wars, mind control and chemically induced sleep. The more recent ones had been spent alone, years of surviving rather than living.

Now there was you. Curling into his side like he was something worth waking up to. Pressing kisses to his body like it was something to be worshipped. And for the first time… in a really long time… he didn’t feel like this day was a curse. Bucky rolled over pulling you into his arms, burying his face into your hair.

“You being here is already making it a good day. Stay here a little longer?”

“Of course, baby. But… only if you let me give you your gift later.”

He loved the way you absentmindedly traced shapes on his bare chest as you spoke. He couldn’t see your face, but he could hear the smile in your voice. You always made him laugh. The action somehow seemed involuntary. It burst from his lips when he was least expecting it. It was only a soft release of pleasure, against your hair and he squeezed you just a little tighter.

“You’re kinda stubborn, have I ever told you that?”

The way you teased him always brought a smile to his lips and it was always followed up by a gentle confirmation of your affection. You pressed another kiss to his collarbone before laying a cheek against his chest and sighing happily.

“You love me for it.”

“I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

And yeah. He really, really did.

The two of you spent the day in his apartment. Quiet. Comfortable. Happy. No surprises. No crowds. It was just how Bucky liked it. The day started out slow with morning coffee. Followed by a walk with Alpine, who suddenly decided that she wanted to spend the whole time curled around Bucky’s neck.

You make his favorite meal for lunch. He tried to help. He wanted to, but you insisted that he shouldn’t lift a finger today. That today, you would take care of him. You took care of him everyday. That’s what he wanted to tell you. But you seemed so insistent that he let you have your way. Anything to keep that smile on your face. It didn’t stop him from hovering in the kitchen, watching the way your hips swished from side to side as you danced, moving to the music playing softly in the background.

The simplicity. The domesticity. This… this is what he wanted. You were what he wanted.

The day passed in a haze of comforting and warm touches. Simple moments of affection. Loving words of affirmation. Until you brought up your gift.

The evening was coming to an end, it was almost time for bed. The two of you were curled up on the couch under a blanket. He loved having you wrapped in his arms. He didn’t want to let go, but you insisted. Wiggling until he loosened his grip. You reached under the couch and pulled out a small box. Your hiding places made him laugh. He had no idea when you had hidden it there and he was in awe of your skills.

“You already gave me a good day, doll. That’s more than enough.”

He accepted the box as you nudged it into his hands, then pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I know. But I still got you something.”

He knew better to argue when you had that glint in your eye. Not when he knew how much you cared. How much love you put into the gift… into everything you did for him. Even if he didn’t think he deserved it. Slowly, he peeled back the wrapping paper, watching your every reaction. He was certain that you were more excited than he was.

Bucky lifted the lid, his expression shifting as he took in the contents:

A custom-made dog tag— he had once told you that he had lost his and he wondered if he still had them, he would have had something of his past to hold on to.

A tiny compass— you pointed at it and said “because no matter what, you can always find your way home now.”

A key— “that’s for my place, so you can let yourself in at any time.” Bucky’s eyes had practically fallen out of their sockets. Immediately he clipped it onto his keychain. 

A wooden carving of a wolf which had been painted white— “Sorry, I’m not very good at that.”

An old, slightly worn photograph of him from the 40s— one where he was smiling, young and carefree, before the world had taken so much from him.

His fingers hovered over the items, reverent and overwhelmed. Suddenly he noticed an envelope at the bottom of the box.

It was old— worn with time, the edges slightly yellowed. He took out the smaller items and trinkets and placed them carefully on the coffee table. He looked down at the envelope, eyes going wide.

His name was scrawled across the front in Steve’s characteristic cursive handwriting.

Bucky’s hands shook as he picked it up, his heart thudding against his ribs. He glanced up at you, searching.

“What—?”

“Open it.”

Bucky’s fingers skated over the writing before he turned the envelope over, staring at it like it might disappear… or just crumble under his touch. His thumb brushed over the seal before finally… carefully… he opened it.

His eyes moved over the words, slow at first, then desperate, drinking in every single letter.

Buck, If you’re reading this, then it worked. I don’t know where you are when you find this, but I know one thing— you made it. You’re still here. And I am so proud of you. I always knew you were a good man, Buck. No matter what happened, no matter what they made you do, that never changed. I’m sorry I’m not there to tell you that myself, to stand beside you like I should have. I regret that more than you know. I hear you’re running for Congress. Now I wish I could be there to see that. To see you making a difference. I’d have been your loudest supporter. You know that, right? You would’ve hated all the campaign posters with your face on them, but I’d have saved one just to annoy you. And… I hear you have someone now— someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved. I’m glad, Buck. You deserve happiness. You deserve someone who sees the best in you, even when you don’t. I’ve worried about you being alone, but I realize I don’t have to anymore. Makes things a little easier, knowing that I left. But I’m with you, always. You never have to doubt that. And if you ever forget, just read this again. Happy birthday, pal. Steve

Bucky’s grip on the paper trembled so hard that he feared that it might tear. His breath came out sharp and uneven. His chest rose and fell as the emotions hit him all at once. Steve’s words, his best friend’s voice reached across time and wrapped around his heart. Squeezing so tight it fucking hurt.

He shut his eyes. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. But it was no use. A broken sound slipped past his lips. But you were there. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close as he finally let go of all the things he had been holding inside for so long. His shoulders shook with the weight of everything; the grief, the love, the years that had separated them, the trauma he had suffered. It all came crashing down at once. The dam he had built had been taken apart within moments, with a simple sheet of paper and a few strokes of a pen.

He clutched the letter like it was a lifeline. Like it was a piece of Steve himself. You held him through it. You ran your fingers through his hair, whispering how much you loved him, how he wasn’t alone. 

When the tears finally slowed, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours. His hand cradled your face, fingers caressing your jaw. His voice was hoarse. Thick with emotion. But the word that came out wasn’t what you expected.

“How?”

You shrugged. Like what you had done was the simplest thing in the world. Like the effort you had gone through was an everyday occurrence. Not a miracle you had pulled off.

“I wrote to Steve.” 

“You wrote to Steve?”

He watched as your expression became a little sheepish.

“I had some help… from someone with magic.”

Bucky frowned. He didn’t want you putting yourself in danger because of him. But you continued with your explanation.

“I sent him a message, telling him about you. About us. About everything.”

Bucky swallowed hard, unable to speak. He let you finish, whispering 

“He wrote back. And he left it somewhere safe for me to find now.”

Bucky thought he knew you. He thought he had wrapped his head around how you thought. The things you would do for him. The care you showed him. But this, this was something else. There were no words that could truly express his gratitude.

“Thank you. For this. For everything.”

You only smiled and brushed a tear from his cheek and pointed back at the box in his lap.

“There’s another one in there.”

Bucky looked down at the box, noticing another envelope. One much whiter and crisper than the one in his hand. He immediately recognized Sam’s chicken scratch writing. He tore it open, knowing that he didn’t need to use as much tenderness with the newly sealed stationary.

Yo, Tin Man, Before you get all emotional, let’s just get this out of the way— yes, I remembered your birthday. And no, I did not get you a gift. Because I know for a fact that you’ll just grumble about it and act like you don’t care. (Don’t even try to deny it.) But I will say this— Happy Birthday, man! So, I know you’re not big on birthdays. Hell, you’ve skipped more than most people have lived through. But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter. It doesn’t mean you don’t matter. You’re still here, Barnes. After everything, after all the shit life has thrown at you, you’re still standing. And that? That’s worth celebrating. I also know about the other letter you got. Yeah, that letter. Don’t look so shocked—your girl told me what she did. And man… you are so damn lucky to have someone like her. Someone who loves you enough to move mountains (or, in this case, mess with the time-space continuum) just to remind you that you’re not alone. So anytime you get lost in that giant head of yours, know you’ve got people in your corner. Steve, me, and especially her. You might be a pain in the ass, but you’re also one of the best people I know. And if I have to be the one to keep reminding you of that, well… guess you’re stuck with me. Take the day. Enjoy it. Maybe even smile a little. Happy birthday, Buck. Sam P.S. If you haven’t hugged her yet, do it. Right now. I’ll know if you didn’t.

Bucky felt a small laugh escape his lips disguised as a breath. The sound was still shaky but lighter than before. His fingers stayed curled around the two letters, not quite wanting to let go. His chest ached. But the pain was something new. It ran deeper than anything else he had ever felt before. He’d felt it for a while now. Every time he looked at you.

He did that now. A quiet patience shone in your eyes as you waited for him. Waited for him to come back to you. He always would.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He just looked at you. Then, his voice came, quiet but certain.

“You did this for me.”

You nodded, your fingers brushing lightly over his arm.

“Of course I did.”

He exhaled another small laugh and shook his head.

“You really are somethin’ else, doll.”

“Is that a good thing?”

You tilted your head to the side, a flicker of uncertainty that he knew he should squash immediately. He huffed, setting the letters down carefully beside him before tugging you into his arms. His embrace was solid, grounding. He needed to feel you, to remind himself of what was real.

“It’s the best thing.”

He loved when you melted against him. He let the steady sound of your heart and breath soothe him. Neither of you spoke for a while. Both of you wrapped up in the warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, you tilted your head to look up at him.

“You okay?”

Bucky searched your face for a moment before nodding. He didn’t say how he felt, didn’t try to put it into words. He knew he didn’t have to. You always understood. You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, just like you had that morning.

“Come on, birthday boy. Let’s go to bed.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. His hold on you tightened slightly before he finally let you go. Letting you lead him to bed. As he curled up beside you, your body pressed against his, he let his eyes drift closed. His heart was a lot fuller and his soul a little lighter. He felt safe.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes fell asleep knowing he wasn’t alone.

The Hard Deck is buzzing with the usual chatter, but there’s an edge to it tonight. The music is a little too loud, and the pool tables are too noisy, but no one is really having fun. Not tonight.

The squad has gathered, everyone gathered around the bar, half-heartedly pretending to be relaxed. The pitchers of beer on every table are the only thing that seems to lighten the mood, but it’s forced. 

Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow evening Coyote, Hangman, Rooster, Payback, Fanboy, Phoenix, and Bob head out for a mission they’ve been preparing for for weeks. There’s a lingering sense that no one knows exactly what’s waiting for them on that aircraft carrier.

Coyote and Rooster are at the pool table, the clack of cues against balls filling the space. Payback, Fanboy, Phoenix, and Bob are crowded around one of the tables laughing at some half-hearted joke. But even they can’t ignore the quiet weight of what’s coming. The deployment is looming, the jet engines roaring in their minds even as they try to unwind, and everyone knows that tonight could be the last time they are all together.

But you? You’re on the outside looking in. You had been on the shortlist. Had been the key phrase. Your name was in the mix for this mission, and for a moment it felt like you would finally get your shot. Then the final call came, and you weren’t picked. The rejection stings more than it should, but you push it down. You try to drown it in a gulp of your drink.

You shouldn’t be bitter. They chose who they thought was right for the mission, but that doesn’t stop the resentment from bubbling up in your chest.

Then of course there’s Jake. He's sitting at the bar, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. Even as the weight of tomorrow presses on him too. His eyes flicker toward you once in a while, the usual game between you two never stopping. There’s always a silent challenge in the air when the two of you are in the same room.

Even now, with everything so tense, you can feel his gaze like a weight on your back.

“Stop staring, Hangman,” you mutter to yourself, but you know he’s already aware.

You shift on your stool, and a sudden urge to leave this place sweeps over you. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this. You should be out there with them preparing for the mission. Not stuck watching them go off and do it while you sit on the sidelines.

And yet, every time you turn your head, you catch his eye again. That infuriating, self-assured smirk.

He tipped his beer toward you. "Gonna miss me when I’m gone, sweetheart?"

You scoffed, reaching for your own drink. "I don’t even like you when you’re here, Hangman."

A chorus of groans erupted from the group.

"For the love of God," Phoenix muttered, rubbing her temples like she was developing a headache. "Just fuck already and put us out of our misery."

Bob sipped his drink and shook his head. "I’d rather not have to witness that, actually."

You rolled your eyes. "As if."

Hangman, the smug bastard, winked at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You gasped, feigning outrage, which only made his grin widen. "You are unbelievable."

"And you," he countered, voice dipping just enough to make your pulse skip, "love it."

Your lips parted, ready to fire back, but the weight of everyone’s eyes on you made you hesitate. It wasn’t the first time the team had accused you two of having some kind of unresolved tension, but the last thing you wanted to do was give them more fuel for the fire.

So, instead of acknowledging the warmth creeping up your neck, you simply took another sip of your drink and turned away. Hangman let out a quiet chuckle, low and knowing, and you knew this wasn’t over.

A few hours passed, The Hard Deck was nearly empty now, and the warm hum of conversation long faded. Penny wiped down the bar, occasionally glancing your way, but she knew better than to interfere. Everyone else had trickled out, heading back to base or wherever else they were spending their last night before deployment. 

But you were still here. And so was Hangman.

He leaned against the wall near the back pool tables, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you like he had all the time in the world. That infuriating smirk of his hadn’t wavered, even as exhaustion tugged at the edges of the night.

"You worried about me, darlin’?" he drawled, voice low, lazy like he already knew the answer.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as something inside you twisted tight. "I don’t have the energy to waste worrying about you."

That should have been the end of it. But of course, it never was.

Hangman pushed off the wall and took a slow step toward you. His eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. 

"That’s a lie."

Your jaw clenched. His confidence was insufferable, unbearable even. Because it wasn’t just arrogance. It was accuracy. It was him knowing you better than he should, seeing things you weren’t ready to admit.

The pressure building in your chest needed somewhere to go, so you shoved at him. Hard. Your palms met the solid plane of his chest, and even though he barely budged, it made you feel like you had some kind of control over the situation.

You turned on your heel, needing distance, needing air. Footsteps followed, steady and unhurried. 

"You know what your problem is?"

You didn’t stop walking, didn’t answer. But when you heard him getting closer, and felt the heat of his presence just behind you, you couldn’t stop yourself from turning back around, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Oh, please, enlighten me," you snapped.

He was right there. Close enough that the scent of his cologne curled around you. Close enough that his breath, slow and even, ghosted against your skin. The space between you had evaporated, leaving nothing but heat and the heavy weight of everything unspoken.

"You talk a big game," he murmured, voice low and edged with something that made your stomach tighten. "But you don’t know what to do when someone calls your bluff."

The words hit like a challenge. And for the first time all night, you didn’t have a comeback.

Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling faster than you wanted to admit. He always did this. Pushed you right to the edge, just to see if you’d jump. And God help you, but you always did.

"Fuck you, Seresin."

He grinned, but this time, there was something sharper behind it, something more dangerous. "Yeah? Say that again."

Your teeth clenched as you shoved him, both hands flat against his chest. He barely moved, but the warmth of his body beneath your palms sent a jolt through you, one you refused to acknowledge.

"I swear to God if you don’t back off—"

"Or what?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it, something dark and crackling in the air between you.

You were breathing hard now, but so was he.

"You drive me fucking crazy," you gritted out.

Jake huffed a short laugh, tilting his head. "Likewise, sweetheart."

Silence. Charged. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, and without thinking, you wet them. It was the smallest movement, but he caught it. Of course, he did.

And then he moved.

His hands were on your face, fingers pressing into your jaw as his lips crashed into yours, hard and desperate, like he’d been holding back for way too long. There was nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It was fire and fury, an explosion of everything you’d been choking down for months.

You didn’t hesitate. Your hands found his hair, twisting and pulling, nails scratching just to get a reaction. And God, did you get one.

Jake groaned into your mouth, deep and raw, before spinning you, pushing you back against the wooden wall of the bar. The impact sent a shockwave through your body, but you barely noticed. Not when his knee slipped between your thighs, pressing just enough to make you gasp.

"I hate you," you breathed, head tipping back as his mouth dragged along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

He grinned against your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. "You love this, though."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because the way you pulled him closer, nails digging into his shoulders, said everything.

His teeth scraped against your throat, and your grip on his shirt tightened like you were trying to ground yourself, trying to remember why this was a terrible idea. But then his hands slid down your sides, rough and unrelenting, and suddenly, thinking wasn’t an option anymore.

Jake pulled back just enough to catch your gaze, green eyes dark and wicked under the dim light of the bar’s exterior. His lips were swollen, his breath coming just as fast as yours. 

"We should get out of here," he murmured, voice rough with something you refused to name.

You scoffed, even as your body betrayed you, already aching to follow him wherever he was about to lead. "Oh, and I suppose you just happen to have a place in mind?"

His smirk was immediate, cocky as ever. "Darlin’, I always have a plan."

The arrogance sent a fresh spark of irritation through you, tamping down the heat pooling low in your stomach. You pushed against his chest, though it wasn’t nearly as forceful as it should have been. 

"Jesus, Hangman, do you ever turn it off?"

"Not when I’m winning," he shot back, and that stupidly cocky grin widening.

Your eyes narrowed. "This isn’t a game."

Jake tilted his head, taking his sweet time looking you up and down, his hands still resting on your hips like he had every right to touch you. 

"Then why," he murmured, voice low and smooth as honey, "does it feel like you’re losing?"

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. He was insufferable. Absolutely unbearable.

And you were going home with him.

God help you.

The drive to Jake’s place was tense, thick with something neither of you was willing to name. You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, arms crossed tight over your chest, gaze fixed on the road ahead as if you weren’t acutely aware of him beside you. As if every nerve in your body wasn’t tuned to him. The way his fingers tapped against the steering wheel, the way he shifted gears with that effortless, cocky ease, the way his tongue flicked over his bottom lip like he was savoring the anticipation.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was loaded.

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your seat. "Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep glancing at me like a damn creep?"

Jake huffed a laugh, glancing at you sideways. "Oh, sweetheart, I was gonna let you sit there and stew, but since you’re practically begging me to talk…"

Your head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. "I am not—"

"Admit it," he cut in smoothly, lips curving into a smirk. "You like this. You like me."

You let out a bark of laughter, turning back toward the windshield. "You’re delusional."

Jake clicked his tongue, shifting gears again. "That so?"

"Yes," you snapped, but it lacked bite. 

Maybe because his hand had just settled on your thigh, warm and heavy, his thumb brushing idly against your jeans.

It was infuriating how casual he was about it, like he did this all the time like he knew you wouldn’t push him away. And the worst part? He was right.

You glared down at his hand but didn’t move it. 

"I hate you," you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Jake chuckled, squeezing your thigh just slightly, sending a slow wave of heat curling up your spine. 

"Sure, sweetheart," he drawled. "Keep tellin’ yourself that."

You clenched your jaw, staring straight ahead, determined not to react. You could not let him win this round.

But then he leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur, right against your ear. 

"I bet," he said, his breath fanning warm over your skin, "that by the time we get to my place, you’re gonna be begging me to ruin you."

Your stomach clenched. Your breath caught.

You turned sharply toward him, ready to rip into him, to tell him exactly where he could shove his ego. But one look at his smug, knowing expression, and suddenly, the only thing you wanted more than to slap him was to kiss him.

Jake barely had the truck in park before you were unbuckling your seatbelt, ready to throw the door open and escape the suffocating tension between you. But before you could make your move, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, voice like silk and sin. "Not so fast, sweetheart."

You turned, mouth already open to argue, but whatever insult you had locked and loaded died in your throat when you saw his face.

Jake looked at you like he was savoring every second of your frustration, drinking in the flush creeping up your neck, the way your lips parted just slightly as you struggled for a retort. His grip on your wrist was firm but not tight, thumb ghosting over your pulse, which, much to your horror, was racing.

You swallowed hard, yanking your arm free. "Are we going inside, or are you just gonna sit here looking smug all night?"

Jake grinned, slow and cocky, before pushing open his door. 

"Oh, we’re goin’ inside," he said, stepping out like he had all the time in the world.

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to get a grip, then followed suit, slamming the truck door a little harder than necessary. You stomped up the walkway behind him, practically vibrating with the need to do something. You didn’t even care what. Punch him, kiss him, you just needed something.

Jake reached the door first, unlocking it with ease, but instead of stepping aside to let you in, he turned, leaning against the doorframe.

"Last chance to back out, darlin’," he murmured, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as your body screamed at you to get closer. "Like you would let me live that down."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I’d never let you live it down," he agreed, then tilted his head, eyes dark and burning with something that made your stomach twist. "But we both know you don’t want to back out."

And just like that, you snapped.

Grabbing the front of his shirt, you yanked him down, crashing your mouth against his.

Jake groaned, deep and satisfied, as if he’d known this was coming. He let you take control for a split second before flipping the script, crowding you into the door, hands gripping your hips like he was staking a claim.

The kiss was fire and fury, all teeth and tongue. His hands roamed, rough and sure, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had.

You pulled back just enough to gasp, "God, I hate you."

Jake grinned against your lips, fingers curling into your waistband. "Yeah?" His voice was pure arrogance. "Show me, then."

The door had barely clicked shut before Jake had you backed against it, his body flush against yours, heat radiating off him in waves. His lips found yours again, just as greedy, just as needy as before, like he’d been starving for this and now that he had a taste, he wasn’t letting go.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and he groaned against your mouth, low and rough, before yanking the fabric over his head and tossing it aside like it was offending him.

"Jesus, Hangman," you muttered, taking in the broad planes of his chest, the way his muscles flexed as he ran a hand through his already tousled hair.

He smirked, stepping back into your space, hands finding your waist again. "Was wonderin’ when you’d finally admit you liked lookin’ at me, sweetheart."

You scoffed, shoving at his chest. "I don’t."

Jake caught your wrist mid-shove, his grip firm, the heat of his palm branding against your skin. "Liar," he murmured, and then he spun you, pressing you against the door, his chest flush against your back.

Your breath hitched.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. "You know what I think?"

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Jake chuckled, feeling your stubborn silence. "I think you like it when I get under your skin," he continued, voice thick as honey, hand sliding along your arm before settling at your hip. "I think you like fightin’ me ‘cause it makes this—" he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, biting down just enough to make your fingers twitch—"so much better."

You shivered.

"Tell me I’m wrong," he murmured, lips trailing lower.

You hated him. You hated how right he was. How much you wanted this, wanted him.

So instead of answering, you turned, grabbing his face and pulling him into another kiss, swallowing his smug little chuckle as you pushed him backward.

Jake let you lead—at least for a few steps—until the backs of his knees hit the couch, and he took advantage of your forward momentum, twisting you both so you tumbled down with him.

You gasped as you landed in his lap, his hands immediately finding your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make you ache.

"Well, would you look at that," he drawled, looking up at you with pure, unfiltered arrogance. "Right where you wanna be."

Your glare was instant, but whatever insult you were about to hurl at him got lost in the way his hands slid up, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin at your hips, his gaze dark and knowing.

"Say it," he murmured, voice softer this time. "Say you want this."

You exhaled sharply, fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him grunt.

"Jake—"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

You clenched your jaw, breath coming short and fast.

"I hate you," you whispered, leaning down, lips brushing against his.

Jake grinned. "That so?"

You nodded, eyes locked on his.

"Good," he murmured, tilting his head up to kiss you again, all teeth and heat. "Hate me all you want." His fingers dug into your hips, his voice dropping to a growl. "Just don’t stop."

His hands, hot and steady against your hips, didn’t push—didn’t take the way you half-expected him to. Instead, he just looked at you, gaze flickering over your face like he was memorizing the way you looked right then—cheeks flushed, lips kiss bruised, breathing heavy.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of the weight of his hands, the heat of his body beneath you. "What?" you muttered, shifting slightly in his lap.

Jake’s fingers flexed at your waist, his jaw tightening like he was holding something back. Then his eyes lifted to meet yours.

"Want me to take this off, sweetheart?" he murmured, toying with the hem of your shirt, voice softer than before. More careful.

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure what surprised you more. The fact that he asked or the fact that it sent a different kind of heat through you. Something deeper. Something that settled low in your stomach, curling tight.

"You don’t have to ask," you muttered, trying to ignore the way your pulse was suddenly hammering against your ribs.

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, one hand leaving your waist to push a strand of hair from your face, thumb grazing your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. "Yeah, I do."

And that? That threw you. Because it wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t teasing. It was real. For a split second, it wasn’t about the fight, the tension, or the way you constantly tried to push each other’s buttons.

It was just him.

Your throat felt tight, and you hated it. Hated that something so simple made your stomach flip.

But you still lifted your arms.

Jake didn’t hesitate after that, peeling your shirt off in one smooth motion and tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. But then he stopped again, and Jesus Christ, the way his eyes raked over you, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the way his breath shuddered just slightly. It made your skin prickle and made heat lick up your spine.

For the first time that night, you didn’t have some sharp remark ready.

And Jake noticed.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as his hands skimmed up your sides, settling just beneath the band of your bra. 

"Well, would you look at that," he murmured, eyes dragging back up to yours. "Speechless."

Your glare was instant, but before you could snap at him, his grip tightened, pulling you closer, lips brushing against your jaw as he murmured, "And beautiful."

And just like that, he shattered every thought in your head.

Jake's fingers trailed up your spine, slow and deliberate, making you shiver before they settled on the clasp of your bra. He didn’t rush. There was no quick practiced flick like you might have expected. Instead, he lingered, thumbs tracing idle circles against your skin, his breath warm against the hollow of your throat.

"You good?" He murmured, lips brushing against your collarbone, his voice lower now, less teasing, almost gentle.

You swallowed hard. You weren’t used to this side of him, the part that asked, the part that wasn’t all sharp-edged arrogance and cocky smirks.

"Yeah," you muttered, but your voice was quieter now, and that was enough for him to notice.

Jake hummed like he wasn’t quite convinced, but he popped the clasp anyway, dragging the straps down your arms with an almost painful slowness before finally tossing it aside.

Heat bloomed across your chest, your arms twitching with the instinct to cover yourself, but before you could even think about being shy, Jake’s hands were there, skimming up your ribs, curling around your wrists to stop you.

"Nuh uh," he murmured, his grip firm but warm, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, dragged over every inch of you, taking his damn time like he was committing every detail to memory.

"Jake," you started, but your voice wavered, and you hated how small it sounded.

His gaze flicked back to yours immediately, something sharp flashing behind all that heat. "Don’t," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Don’t get shy on me now."

You huffed, shifting slightly in his lap trying to grasp at something. Control, defiance…anything. But then his hands were back tracing up your sides, his thumbs skimming just beneath your breasts. His eyes were locked on yours.

Your stomach flipped, and God you wanted to look away. You wanted to fight the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. But then his hands slid higher, fingers splaying wide across your ribcage holding you there.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, and it was so genuine and unguarded that it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Jake Seresin. Cocky, arrogant, never shuts the hell up Jake was looking at you like you like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.  Like he’d imagined this a hundred times over but now that you were here, in his lap, chest rising and falling under his hands, he was afraid to blink in case he woke up and it was all gone.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with a hunger that wasn’t just lust, it was something more, something you didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Fuck,” he muttered almost to himself, his head tipping back against the couch for just a second before he looked at you again. 

His pupils were blown wide, his breath uneven and God you’d never seen him like this. It was like you had him completely undone without even trying.

His hands moved then, fingertips tracing the delicate curve of your waist before sliding up, fingers brushing the undersides of your breasts.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice rough. “How long I’ve wanted you like this.”

A slow, satisfied smirk curled at the corner of your lips as you took him in. You slid your hands into his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers as you gave a firm tug. His breath hitched, his grip tightening instinctively, but he let you guide him, tilting his head back until his chin rested against your sternum.

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath you, the sharp angles of his jaw and throat bathed in the warm glow of the lamp beside the couch. He was completely at your mercy, and fuck, you liked the way that felt.

You leaned down, slow and deliberate, until your breath ghosted over his parted lips, your nose barely brushing his. His hands twitched on your waist, but he didn’t move. He was waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A smug little hum left your lips, and you let your fingers tighten just slightly in his hair as you murmured, “Well, Hangman… you finally got what you wanted.” You dragged your lips down, grazing along the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the way his pulse jumped beneath your mouth. Then you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, voice turning to a whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”

His hands flexed against you, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes locked onto yours as if you’d just lit a match and dropped it into a trail of gasoline.

Then he grinned, lazy and sharp, green eyes dark with intent.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with promise as his fingers skimmed higher, teasing along your spine. “You have no idea.”

One second you were in control, straddling his lap with hands in his hair. The next his hands slid down gripping the backs of your thighs as he stood, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

A startled gasp left your lips, hands flying to his shoulders as he adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing firmly into the curve of your ass to keep you steady. His smirk was downright insufferable as he took a few steps toward the hallway, completely unfazed by your sudden shift in position.

“Jesus, Hangman—” you started, but he only chuckled, the sound vibrating against your chest as he carried you with ease.

“What?” he drawled, like this wasn’t affecting him in the slightest. “You wanted to know what I was going to do.”

Your stomach fluttered at the effortless strength in his hold, but you rolled your eyes, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead, you crossed your arms loosely around his neck, leaning in just enough to murmur, “You know, you don’t have to carry me.”

Jake slowed just slightly, glancing down at you with something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “You sayin’ you don’t like it?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening against the nape of his neck.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like it. If anything, you liked it too much. But there was something about being held like this—about the way he handled you so effortlessly, so casually—that poked at an old insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind.

Guys like Jake Seresin always went for the kind of girls who looked effortless in their arms, who didn’t overthink the way they were being held, who didn’t worry about whether or not they were too heavy or too much.

Your silence must have said more than you intended, because Jake’s hold on you tightened just slightly, his smirk fading into something softer.

His voice dropped, quieter than before. “Darlin’.”

You swallowed, avoiding his gaze. “I just—” You huffed a short breath, shaking your head like you could physically dismiss the thought. “I’m not some dainty little thing, okay? You don’t have to—”

“Stop.” His tone left no room for argument, and before you could protest, he adjusted his grip, bouncing you slightly in his arms as if to prove a point. “You really think I’d be doin’ this if I couldn’t handle it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head before dipping down just enough to catch your gaze. His eyes were serious now, all teasing gone. “I like carrying you,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “And not just ‘cause I can, but because I want to.”

Your breath caught, a different kind of warmth blooming in your chest, one that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the way he was looking at you.

He tightened his hold, tilting his head with a smirk that was softer than before, but still undeniably him. “Now, you gonna let me take you to my bed, or you wanna keep pretendin’ you don’t like this?”

Your heart stuttered, fingers gripping the back of his neck as you huffed, finally letting your head drop against his shoulder.

“Fine,” you muttered, and you could feel his smirk against your temple.

“That’s my girl.”

And with that, he carried you the rest of the way, leaving no room for argument.

Jake nudged the door open with his foot, the hinges creaking slightly as he carried you inside. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the space. His bed which was big, unmade, and ridiculously inviting was only a few steps away, but he didn’t rush. If anything, he seemed to savor the moment, taking his time as he moved toward it.

You felt the muscles in his arms flex as he shifted his grip, lowering you onto the mattress with deliberate care. His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, fingertips trailing lightly along your sides before he straightened to stand over you.

The air between you was thick, charged with something that was no longer just heated banter and reckless tension. This was something else. Something weightier.

Jake’s green eyes raked over you, dark and unreadable, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “You look good like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.

Your stomach clenched, your breath coming a little quicker as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “You just gonna stand there and stare, Seresin?” you teased, but the slight hitch in your voice gave you away.

His lips curled, but there was something softer behind the smirk this time. “You in a hurry?”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “I—”

Before you could finish, Jake was moving. He crawled onto the bed, hands bracing on either side of your hips as he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours.

“You got nowhere to be,” he murmured, the words a slow drawl against your lips. “So why don’t you let me take my time?”

A shiver rolled through you, but you forced yourself to keep your expression even. “You always this much of a tease?”

Jake chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “Only when I got something worth taking my time with.”

Your breath caught, but you refused to let him see how easily he unraveled you. Instead, you reached up, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to earn a soft grunt from him. “Stop talking and do something about it, Hangman.”

Jake’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his hands roaming slowly and deliberately as his lips ghosted over your collarbone. Every touch sent heat curling through your stomach, every kiss stoking the fire that had been burning between you since the second he’d crowded into your space outside The Hard Deck.

His hands drifted lower, skimming the line of your jeans, fingers toying with the button as he watched your face.

He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You gonna let me take these off, or you wanna fight me on it?”

You huffed a breath, fingers still buried in his hair. “What do you think?”

Jake grinned like he already knew the answer, but he still waited. Waited for the tiny nod you gave him, the permission you offered without hesitation. Only then did he move.

The sound of your zipper being undone was deafening in the quiet of the room, your breath catching as he dragged the denim down, slow enough to make you squirm.

He chuckled, low and knowing. “You always this impatient?”

You lifted your hips, helping him rid you of the last piece of clothing between you, and shot him a look. “You always this slow?”

Jake’s eyes darkened. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you want me rushing this.”

His hands traced up the length of your legs, teasing, exploring, his touch sending little sparks dancing along your skin. And then his fingers dug into your thighs, parting them just enough for him to settle between them.

That cocky smirk never wavered as he leaned in, his breath hot against your jaw. “Told you,” he murmured. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

Jake’s lips found the inside of your knee first. His lips were soft and teasing as they brushed your skin. His hands ran up your thighs, squeezing, but his mouth followed at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Your breath hitched as he kissed higher, his lips trailing a warm path along your skin. Every inch of you was tense with anticipation, waiting, bracing, needing.

He was right there. Right. There.

And then he exhaled a laugh against your skin, his breath warm and taunting, before shifting away to press his mouth to your other thigh instead.

Your hands fisted in the sheets. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Jake looked up at you through his lashes, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

Your head fell back against the pillows with an exasperated groan. “You’re insufferable.”

He hummed in agreement, his mouth continuing its slow, torturous exploration. His hands slid under your thighs, gripping tight, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“You love it,” he murmured against your skin, voice dripping with amusement.

You wanted to argue, but then his teeth grazed the soft skin of your inner thigh, just enough to make you gasp, and suddenly, words weren’t coming so easily anymore.

Jake's teasing had you teetering on the edge of frustration and something far more desperate. He knew exactly what he was doing. Drawing it out, making you squirm, feeding off every sharp breath and roll of your hips. But just when you were about to snap at him again, his lips finally ghosted over where you needed him most.

A strangled sound caught in your throat as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against you, his tongue flicking out just enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling harder than necessary, but if anything, it only spurred him on.

For once, you were grateful Jake Seresin never shut the hell up because he really knew how to use that mouth.

His tongue worked in slow, devastating strokes, a perfect rhythm that had your back arching off the bed in seconds. He groaned against you, the vibrations sinking deep into your bones, and it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

“Jake—” His name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, breathless and wrecked.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, his voice smug and husky. His grip on your thighs tightened. “Say my name, sweetheart.”

Jake was relentless.

Every time you thought he was going to give you what you needed—really give it to you—he’d slow down, change rhythm, pull back just enough to keep you on the edge but never quite over it.

It was maddening.

Your legs trembled beneath his hands, every nerve in your body burning with frustration. He was drawing it out on purpose, keeping you right where he wanted, his mouth and tongue working you into a fever pitch only to ease up the second your muscles tensed, the moment you got too close.

You let out a frustrated groan, fingers tugging at his hair in a warning. “Jake.”

A hum vibrated against you—satisfied, entertained—but he didn’t relent. He kept up his slow torture, his tongue pressing in firm, deliberate strokes, his lips ghosting over you with just enough pressure to make you crazy.

“Fuck, I swear to—”

But just when you were ready to snap, just when the tension in your stomach coiled tight enough to break, he pulled away.

You gasped, blinking down at him in disbelief, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “Are you—”

He grinned, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he settled between your legs, looking so damn smug it made you want to throttle him. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

Your glare could’ve burned a hole straight through him. “I hate you.”

His hands smoothed up your thighs, fingers kneading into your skin as he leaned up, his lips hovering just over yours. His breath was warm when he spoke. “No, you don’t.”

And then, just to drive the point home, he slid two fingers between your legs, pressing into you with the same slow, torturous precision.

Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the pillows. He chuckled against your jaw, lips brushing your pulse. “See? You love me.”

Your body betrayed you before you even had time to think of a comeback. Your hips rolled instinctively, seeking out more friction, chasing what he’d been cruelly holding just out of reach.

Jake groaned, low and rough, his fingers still deep inside you as he watched, transfixed. His free hand splayed across your hip, feeling the way you moved against him, the way your body took what it wanted.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with something dangerously close to awe. “So goddamn greedy for it.”

Heat flooded your face, but embarrassment never stood a chance against the need coursing through you. You didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—even as his eyes dragged over every inch of you, taking in the way you worked yourself against his hand, the soft whimpers slipping past your lips.

Jake fucking loved it.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his fingers curling just right, pressing exactly where you needed. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping against sensitive skin before soothing it with his tongue. “Use me. Get yourself there.”

Your stomach clenched, muscles tightening as that coil in your core wound impossibly tighter. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and the way he watched you like he’d never seen anything more stunning only drove you higher.

You were close. Too close.

And Jake knew it.

His lips brushed your ear, his voice a rasped promise.

"That’s it, baby. Come for me."

There was no question in his tone just certainty, confidence, command. Like he already knew you would, like you had no choice but to obey.

His fingers never faltered, his pace steady, relentless, pushing you closer and closer until there was no stopping it. Your body tensed, every nerve lighting up as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach, ready to snap.

"Jake—" His name tore from your lips, a desperate, breathless cry as the release hit you, hard and all-consuming.

He groaned, low and satisfied like your pleasure was his own personal victory. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, working you through it, dragging out every last wave, every aftershock, until you were trembling beneath him.

His hands never stopped moving, slow and teasing now, like he was savoring the way you came undone for him. His lips ghosted over your hip, smug but reverent. "Damn, baby," he drawled, watching you with something almost like admiration. "That was real pretty."

Jake made quick work of his jeans and boxers, shedding the last of his clothing without a second thought. His confidence was effortless like he had no doubt in his mind that you'd want him just as much as he wanted you.

Crawling back onto the bed, he took you in, his hands smoothing over your skin, possessive and reverent all at once. Then, in one fluid motion, he flipped you over. You barely had time to react before he was guiding you forward. Instinctively, you pushed up onto your forearms, shifting to all fours, but Jake had other plans.

He let out a low chuckle, running his hands down your spine before gripping your hips and pulling you back against him. 

"Not like that, sweetheart." His voice was rough, heavy with want.

Before you could question him, he slid a firm hand between your shoulder blades and pressed down, guiding you back down to the mattress. Your cheek met the sheets, your back arching instinctively under the pressure of his touch.

"There you go," he murmured, his voice all smug satisfaction. "Much better."

Jake’s grip on your hips tightened as he aligned himself with you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath was shallow, and you could feel the heat of him so close, yet not enough to satisfy the aching tension between you both.

With a slight shift of his weight, he brought his hand down on your ass with a sharp, satisfying slap. The sound of it echoed in the quiet room, making your body jump forward at the contact. You let out a small yelp, the sting sending a rush of heat through your veins, mixing with the desire that had been building all night.

You glanced over your shoulder, your chest rising and falling quickly. "What was that for?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though your voice gave away the sudden, surprised pleasure.

He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered in your ear, "Because I can."

You opened your mouth to snap back, to say something, anything to regain some control in this situation, but before you could get a word out, Jake shifted his weight and pushed forward, the feeling of him filling you completely. The words you’d been about to say caught in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he stretched you in ways that sent your body reeling.

Your back arched, and your grip on the sheets tightened as you fought to stay composed, but the pleasure of him inside you was too overwhelming. The cocky grin on Jake’s face was evident, even as he moved slowly, savoring the moment just as much as you were.

Jake’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he began to increase his pace. The sounds of his breath, sharp and steady, mixed with the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin, filling the air between you. Each thrust had you gasping, your body rocked forward with every press, his rhythm pushing you further toward the edge.

With every stroke, you felt him deeper, filling you completely. The intensity of it had you gasping for air, your heart racing in time with the beat of your pulse. And for a split second, amidst the rush of sensation, a thought flashed through your mind—Why the hell hadn’t you done this before?

The idea lingered for a heartbeat, but Jake’s hand moved to your back, pressing you down into the sheets, and that fleeting thought was gone as quickly as it had come. All that was left was the heat, the pressure building inside you, and the undeniable pull of him—his rhythm, his touch, the way he moved inside you, the way his breath caught when he pulled you closer, driving deeper.

Jake could feel the way your body clenched around him, the tightening of your muscles making him groan, his rhythm faltering for just a second. He had been watching you, noticing the way your moans had shifted from his name into breathless nonsense, and he could tell you were on the verge of losing it.

With a smirk curling at the corner of his lips, he leaned down, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “You’re about to come, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, low, and cocky, but there was a softness to it that sent a shiver down your spine. “Damn, baby. You sound so fucking good. I’m gonna make sure you remember this.”

His hand slid down your body, fingers pressing into your lower stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed and quivered, and that only made him press harder, driving deeper with each thrust.

Jake could feel the way you were unraveling beneath him, and he couldn’t help but let out a low laugh, knowing he was the one pulling these sounds from you. He was the one making you lose control. There was nothing like this—the power, the rush of it—and hell, he fucking loved it.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, “I’m not letting you go until I’ve got every last sound out of you.”

Your breath hitched at his words, a soft whimper escaping your lips without meaning to. It was just enough to fuel Jake further, his grip on your hips tightening, his thrusts becoming harder, more determined. He heard the sound you made, felt the way it vibrated in your chest, and that drove him wild.

“God, you like that, don’t you?” Jake murmured the cocky edge to his voice sharper now. He moved faster, his rhythm relentless, as if he was determined to make you fall apart in front of him.

The sound of his name left your lips again, a whimpering gasp this time, and Jake couldn’t help but smile against your back.

“I knew you’d be this responsive,” he said with a breathless chuckle, “Just let go for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

The way your body responded to him, so soft and needy, only made him push harder. Each sound you made, every tremor that ran through you, sent a wave of satisfaction crashing over him. He couldn’t get enough, his need for you only growing as he felt you getting closer, his hands tightening on your hips as he set the pace.

You were almost there, and he knew it. And that, more than anything, was what had him pushing to give you exactly what you needed.

Jake’s movements were growing more erratic, his control slipping as the pressure inside him built. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, every muscle in his body tense and straining with the need to finish. But he wasn’t going to let go just yet. Not without one more from you.

You were a mess beneath him, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, your body trembling as you met each of his thrusts. The way you felt, the sounds you were making…everything about you was driving him wild. 

He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him as he pushed harder, faster. “One more, baby,” he growled. “Give it to me.”

He didn’t ask; he commanded, his voice rough and demanding, as if there was no room for hesitation. His breath was coming in hot, heavy bursts against your skin as he drove you both closer to the edge. 

He needed to hear you. Needed to see you fall apart again.

“Don’t hold back. Let go for me,” he growled, his voice almost a low, possessive growl as he felt the last thread of his restraint snap.

Your body finally gave way, the tension that had been building between you two snapping as you let go. A sharp cry tore from your throat, your body shuddering under him as your release hit. The pressure and pleasure of it all flooded your senses, and you collapsed onto the bed, breathless and spent. Your legs shook, your mind hazy with the aftermath of what he had just pulled from you.

Jake’s movements faltered for a moment, his rhythm becoming more desperate and sloppy as he chased his own release. His grip on your hips tightened, but his breath was heavier, ragged now, his body trembling against you.

“Where do you want it?” He muttered.

It was then that the weight of it all clicked for you.

Your chest heaved with exertion as you finally managed to get your thoughts together, eyes widening slightly. You gasped, the realization dawning. You hadn’t even thought about the condom. You hadn’t talked about it.

“Jake,” you murmured, still breathless, trying to collect yourself enough to speak clearly. “I’m on birth control.”

The words had barely left your mouth before he groaned low and deep, and in the next moment, he surged forward, driving himself all the way into you, his pace finally faltering as he pushed to the brink. His fingers dug into your skin as he stilled, and then he let go with a final, possessive grunt. He filled you, the intensity of his release flooding you both, leaving you both trembling in the aftermath.

His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he slowly came back to himself. He stayed there, resting against you for a moment, his forehead resting against your back as the two of you tried to catch your breath. It felt almost like a release for him too. Not just physically but in the tension between you both that had been building for so long.

“Damn,” he muttered against your skin, his voice hoarse. “That was...”

He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. You both knew exactly what it was.

Still, the weight of the moment hung in the air between you two. Neither of you moved immediately, just feeling each other’s presence, the exhaustion slowly taking over.

You sighed as you sat up, feeling the cool air against your skin as the heat of Jake’s body left you. Your limbs felt heavy, your body spent, but you forced yourself to move, slipping off the bed and padding toward the bathroom.

Jake didn’t say anything as you went, just watched you go, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the room.

Inside the bathroom, you turned on the sink, splashing cool water on your face. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, lips were swollen, the lingering evidence of Jake’s touch still visible on your skin. You exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter for a moment before straightening up.

This was…something. Whatever it was. And now, in the quiet of Jake’s bedroom, the weight of what came next started to settle over you.

By the time you emerged, Jake was pulling on a pair of sweats, his movements slower, more languid now. You grabbed your underwear and the oversized shirt he had tossed your way earlier, slipping them on before crawling back into bed beside him.

It was quiet now. The charged energy from before had settled into something softer, something heavier. You lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your mind drifting as the reality of tomorrow pressed in.

Beside you, Jake shifted. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze settling on you. You felt it before you saw it. The weight of his stare, studying you, tracing over your features like he was trying to memorize them.

“What?” you asked, your voice softer than before.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he kept looking at you, his expression unreadable but intent. Finally, after a beat, he murmured, “You’re worried about tomorrow. About me..”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t respond. You just swallowed, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Jake exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound in the stillness of the room. “You’re gonna tell me to be safe, aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Just…” you swallowed again, voice barely above a whisper. “Just come back alive, Jake.”

The teasing smirk he had worn all night. Hell, the one he wore all the damn time faded. Something more real passed over his face, something softer, something unspoken.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You finally turned your head to look at him, and for the first time, neither of you had anything smart to say.

You just held each other’s gaze, both thinking the same thing.

Jake’s fingers lingered against yours, his touch warm but tentative. You weren’t sure how long the two of you just lay there like that staring at each other in the dim light of his bedroom, words unspoken but understood.

Then, slowly, he shifted.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his lips barely ghosting over yours in a way that wasn’t cocky or teasing or demanding. It was softer. Almost hesitant.

You could feel the way he exhaled against your lips like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how. Like maybe this, whatever this was, was throwing him off just as much as it was throwing you off.

His lips pressed to yours, just for a second. Just enough to make your breath hitch. And then he pulled back, hovering so close you could still feel him.

The quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. You stared at the ceiling, your mind drifting, already trying to brace for the morning.

You turned your head, glancing at him in the dim light. He looked so at ease, so different from the cocky, sharp-tongued pilot you had spent so much time arguing with. His expression was softer now, the teasing smirk gone, replaced by something quieter.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your body unraveling as you shifted closer, tucking yourself into his side. His arm draped over you, and you let your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

His free hand rested on his stomach, and without thinking, yours followed, finding it easily in the dark. Your fingers brushed his, tentative at first like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to reach for him. Like you weren’t sure if this was something you were even supposed to want.

But Jake didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled around yours, lacing them together like it was second nature. Like holding your hand was as easy as breathing.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to.

The weight of the morning still lingered in the air, but for now, just for this moment, you let yourself have this.

Let yourself have him for just a little longer.

Jake’s breathing evened out long before yours did. His arm was still draped over you, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something that almost felt like peace. Almost. But no matter how hard you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his skin, in the weight of his hand still tangled with yours, your mind kept drifting.

You stared up at the ceiling, the quiet pressing in.

And I'll ask the stars at night, how I can slow the time…

The words echoed in your head, unspoken but heavy in your chest. The night felt too short, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold onto it.

Your grip on Jake’s hand tightened just slightly like that alone could keep him here. Keep him safe.

But you knew it wouldn’t.

God, I’m so terrified that I’m gonna lose you.

You turned your head, your gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep. His brows weren’t furrowed for once. His mouth, the same mouth that had spent the night pressing cocky remarks against your skin, was relaxed.

He looked peaceful. Like he didn’t have to wake up in just a few hours and walk into the unknown. Like he wasn’t about to get into a jet and disappear into the sky, leaving you behind to wonder if you’d ever see him again.

And I’ll die if I do.

Your throat tightened, your chest aching under the weight of everything you weren’t saying. Everything you wouldn’t say.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. Weren’t supposed to want him to stay. Weren’t supposed to feel like the world was tilting beneath you at the thought of him not coming back.

But you did.

And that scared you more than anything else.

So you did the only thing you could. You curled further into him, pressed your face against his shoulder, and let your fingers stay laced with his. Holding onto him for just a little longer.

who you can write for: all marvel characters are welcome / any fictional sebastian stan or chris evans characters are welcome too (any characters they’ve portrayed based on real life people will not be accepted though!!) I will be expanding this from my last challenge and accepting submissions for characters from Top Gun Maverick & Twisters 2024. (please keep it to x reader fics only!!)

some general guidelines: Below I’ve provided a number of different scenes, quotes, and songs for inspiration ♡ Anyone can use as many as they'd like and even mix and match however you’d like!! If you use any please let me know somewhere in the post! If nothing below inspires you, you can always submit something with inspiration from a scene/dialogue exchange from another movie or tv show, just please let us know where the inspiration came from!! :) here's the catch though -> the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from the one the character is originally from. For example, if you write for Bucky Barnes, the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from Marvel. 18+ fics are welcome, just please add warnings! Entries are not limited, you are welcome to submit as many entries as you'd like! Any length of fics are welcome, but if it’s over 500 words please add the “keep reading” option. If you write something as part of a bigger series, please write your submission as a standalone ♡

what is not accepted: no dark fics, anything involving minors, incest, rape, noncon/dubcon... (You can always message/inbox me to ask questions.)

how to enter: please tag me and use #elixirscinema when you post ♡ i’ll leave a like (from my main blog @saturnsflowers) to let you know I saw it and reblog it to this blog once I read it :) I love reading and leaving comments on all submissions, so please be patient with me if I don't get to yours right away! also, let me know if I haven’t interacted with your post after a few days in case I missed it! You can send me a reminder through my inbox or dm, thank you! ♡♡♡

Happy writing! My inbox is always open for any questions or comments!! ♡ 

These trailers are all so exciting! Did any of them pique your interest?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ For scenes, you can use any of the ones below or use one or more from any movie/tv show you'd like! You can use the dialogue, the themes, the moments, the dynamic, etc of the scene to inspire your writing. It doesn't necessarily have to be word for word or match the scene exactly nor entirely, it just has to inspire you in some way! Below I have different scenes linked for inspiration, but again you are free to use any scene(s) from anywhere else to inspire you!! ♡

📖 ...✩ Why didn't you write me? — The Notebook

🦊 ...✩ "I love you." / "It'll pass." — Fleabag S2

⛲️ ...✩ I loathe you... — The Princess Diaries 2

🩺 ...✩ Are you telling me you love me? — The Artful Dodger

🐎 ...✩ You're the bane of my existence... — Bridgerton S2

🗡 ...✩ That's not how you hold a dagger. — My Lady Jane

🗞 ...✩ You can’t lose something you never had. — How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

🪶 ...✩ I burn for you... - Bridgerton S1

🖊 ...✩ You are my exception. — He’s Just Not That Into You

👒 ...✩ Don't marry him. — Little Women

🏹 ...✩ I do... I need you. — The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

🌊 ...✩ I thought that we loved each other... — The Summer I Turned Pretty S2

🪵 ...✩ There is no one like you... — To All The Boys I've Loved Before

🚢 ...✩ You jump I jump, remember? — Titanic

🪩 ...✩ Doesn't what I said mean anything to you? — When Harry Met Sally

🎸 ...✩ You were paid to take me out? — 10 Things I Hate About You

🫧 ...✩ You're looking way too hot right now... — Love, Rosie

🐚 ...✩ Are you engaged to that beautiful woman? — Mamma Mia Here We Go Again

💌 ...✩ Break my heart into a thousand pieces... — To All The Boys: P.S. I Still Love You

🏛...✩ I am never going to be over you. — Scandal

🥂...✩ Oh, now I remember why I had such a crush on you… — Something Borrowed

🚑 ...✩ I'll tell you what you are to me... Criminal Minds S4

💋 ...✩ Do you really hate me? — The Hating Game

🌀 ...✩ It's okay, I've got you now... — Maxton Hall

I’m going to get some snacks before the marathon starts. Do you want anything? Here’s the menu:

🍫 ✩｡⋆⸜ "They warned me about you, I should have listened."

🥨 ✩｡⋆⸜ "No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You're going to be fine."

🍪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Of course I came for you. It would take far much more than that to stop me."

🍟 ✩｡⋆⸜ Realizing they're in love.

🍭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "It was just a kiss. It changed nothing between us."

🧋✩｡⋆⸜ "We're not just friends and you fucking know it."

🥤✩｡⋆⸜ "I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you."

🍬 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Are you flirting with me?" — "You finally noticed?"

🍿 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Just stay. We can figure everything else out later. Right now, just stay."

🍦✩｡⋆⸜ "If there's really nothing going on between the two of you, you don't mind if I ask ___ out on a date, do you?"

🍕✩｡⋆⸜ "I cannot stand you, and yet, I also cannot stand to be away from you."

🍗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

🥪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?"

🍩 ✩｡⋆⸜ "If you don't love me, prove it then. Prove to me you've never felt something towards me. Look at me."

🌭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "You kissed me last night." — "And you didn't stop me."

🍔 ✩｡⋆⸜ "What if I told you I've been in love with you since we were kids?"

🥗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Is this what you wanted, huh? Making me fall in love with you just—just to fucking leave? Do you really expect me to be okay with that?"

🌯 ✩｡⋆⸜ "I love you." — "You shouldn't."

🧁✩｡⋆⸜ "If you leave now, you lose everything. You lose me."

🧃✩｡⋆⸜ "I think we need to talk."

🍧 ✩｡⋆⸜ “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

🍰 ✩｡⋆⸜ “Kiss me.”

🍨 ✩｡⋆⸜ “It's storming, why are you here?"

Let's check out the songs on these soundtracks. Do you like any of them?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ Feel free to use the lyrics below, the entire feel of the song, or any other lyrics in the song! The playlist is below in case you want to go through and listen to the songs while you write ♡

Black and White "Now, we're sittin' here in your livin' room. Tellin' stories while we share a drink or two, and there's a vision I've been holdin' in my mind. We're 65 and you ask when did I first know? I always knew." — Niall Horan

Cinema "Do you think I'm cool too? Or am I too into you? Tell me what you want and you got it, love. I want all of you, gimme all you got." — Harry Styles

Death Wish Love "And I'll ask the stars at night, how I can slow the time. God, I'm so terrified that I'm gonna lose you. And I'll die if I do." — Benson Boone

Exile "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending. You're not my homeland anymore, so what am I defending now? You were my town. Now I'm in exile, seein' you out." — Taylor Swift

Happier Than Ever "And I don't talk shit about you on the internet. Never told anyone anything bad. 'Cause that shit's embarrassing, you were my everything, and all that you did was make me fucking sad. So don't waste the time I don't have, and don't try to make me feel bad." — Billie Eilish

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

I Like Me Better "I like me better when I'm with you. I don't know what it is, but I got that feeling. Wakin' up in this bed next to you. Swear the room, yeah, got no ceiling. If we lay, let the day just pass us by. I might get to too much talking. I might have to tell you somethin'" — Lauv

Iris "And I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't wanna go home right now." — The Goo Goo Dolls

John Hughes Movie "Maybe if I'd reined it in, you wouldn't wanna kiss somebody else. And you don't owe me anything, so I'm just gonna walk home by myself. And it's not like I've been crying, no. There's just smoke in my eyes." — Maisie Peters

Love Again "Show me that heaven's right here, baby. Touch me so I know I'm not crazy. Never have I ever met somebody like you. Used to be afraid of love and what it might do, but goddamn, you got me in love again." — Dua Lipa

Love The Hell Out Of You "I'm gonna love the hell out of you. Take all the pain that you're going through. I'll bring you heaven if that's what you need. 'Cause you've always loved the hell out of me." — Lewis Capaldi

McKay & Cassie "Console me, don't let me go, baby. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, so feed me with those pretty lies. 'Cause there ain't no escaping those ocean eyes. Oh, baby, I'll kill anybody that hurt you." — Labrinth

Movies "In my head, we're dancing in the dark. In my head, we kiss under the stars, but we know that's not what we're doing. 'Cause, baby, this ain't like the movies... I want a love like the movies." — Conan Gray

My Tears Ricochet "I didn't have it in myself to go with grace. And you're the hero flying around, saving face. And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed. Look at how my tears ricochet." — Taylor Swift

Slow Motion "Dreaming 'bout you sinkin' into my bed. Dizzy, I see stars all around my head. Liftin' me up to the moon and back again. You're my lucky penny, yeah, you just make sense. I like to keep my cool, but you're divine. Mother Nature must've taken her time. Come on, take me away, I'll let you drive." — Alessia Cara

So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings "And I'm out at a party, they're playin' our song. I cry on the dance floor, it's so embarrassing. Don't send me photos, you're makin' it worse. 'Cause you're so hot, it's hurtin' my feelings. I get a little lonely. Get a little more close to me. You're the only one who knows me, babe." — Caroline Polachek

The Way I Loved You "I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain. It's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name. I'm so in love that I acted insane and that's the way I loved you. Breaking down and coming undone, it's a roller coaster kind of rush. And I never knew I could feel that much and that's the way I loved you." — Taylor Swift

Unsaid Emily "If I could take us back, if I could just do that. And write in every empty space the words "I love you" in replace. Then maybe time would not erase me. If you could only know, I never let you go. And the words I most regret are the ones I never meant to leave unsaid..." — Julie and the Phantoms

You Could Start A Cult "Lately, what I know of reality. I let go of it happily when I look in your eyes. Mm, swear it's true. No mountain that I wouldn't move or sea I wouldn't part in two. To wake up by your side is all I wanna do." — Niall Horan & Lizzy McAlpine

1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back "It's one step forward and three steps back. I'm the love of your life until I make you mad. It's always one step forward and three steps back. Do you love me, want me, hate me? Boy, I don't understand." — Olivia Rodrigo

playlist for the songs above can be found here: 🎞️✮⋆˙

to my lovely mutuals, please don’t feel pressured to participate or share, just thought I’d share this with you all ♡  

@elvenrin @marvelstoriesepic @humanwip @flowersforbucky @whatever-lmaoo @nickfowlerrr @buck-star @navybrat817 @mercurial-chuckles @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @neverthatsirius-jo @perdidosbucky-yyo @nicoline1998enilocin @mostly-marvel-musings @vintagebuckybarnes @barnesafterglow @nekoannie-chan @stellar-solar-flare @fvckingavengers @thevillainswhore @drabblesandsnippets @amathslutsguidetofandom @multiversefanfics @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @malum-forev @nameless-ken @writing-for-marvel

I am new to the Top Gun Maverick & Twisters fanfic communities, (I've only just recently started writing for some characters), so I will be tagging some writers whose work I have in my to be read 🥺♡♡ To those who I've tagged, please feel free to ignore and don't feel pressured at all to share!! I just thought I'd reach out to a few writers in those communities, since I mainly have only marvel mutuals/followers ♡♡

"You don't understand..." You look at him, incredulous and hurt, and can't help but scoff. You've been by his side, through the bad and the ugly. You've seen Matthew Murdock, the righteous church boy turned attorney. You've held him when his world was crashing down, you've been together through loss, grief, happiness, pleasure... but you'd also seen the devil of Hell's Kitchen. You'd seen the anger come out, the hatred, the desire to hurt and make people pay. Retribution, revenge, payback... and even then, when the world shrieked in fear, you had stood by his side and loved every part of him.

"You're right." You step back needing to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, knowing damn well it'd take every bit of strength you had to walk away from him. "I don't understand." You quickly grab your phone and coat and make your way to the door.

Before you can register it, he's in your way, hands hesitantly reaching out to you. "Wait, please... I can't... I can't do this without you"

"And I can't do this with you. I won't sit here and wait for you to become the same monster you've been fighting." You push past him and he doesn't resist.

As you're making your way through the door, you hear his voice for the last time, and it takes everything in you to not turn around. His voice is soft and cracking with the effort to keep his pain at bay - it's all Matthew and no Devil. "I love you"

"It will pass" You say resolutely as the door closes behind you, trying more to convince yourself than him, even though it feels like you clawed your heart out of your chest and left it in the hands of the man you loved.

You walk aimlessly through the streets of a damned city praying to a God you weren't even sure you believed in to keep him safe, to let him come back home safe and with his soul intact.

It's only once you're blocks away and you're sure he can't hear you that you allow the tears to slip out. It's pretty much impossible to keep the panic at bay when all you can think is that Matt might not comeback from this fight and you didn't say it back.

_

Months passed, somehow both too quickly and tortuously slowly. You hadn't seen Matt again and did everything you could to keep yourself from hearing about him too - even though every cell of your body missed him, you had to remain away from him or you knew you'd fold.

Karen had helped you get your things out of the apartment so you wouldn't have to go back. Foggy had also offered to help you with... well, everything, but you couldn't ask him to choose a side in this.

In order to keep yourself sane you had an agreement with the both of them, no talks of Matt or Daredevil when you met -  usually at Josie's where the so called drinks would help you forget for at least a few hours just how fucked the past months had been.

They'd make sure your get togethers would happen when Matt was too busy with work or with his side gig to go out so you wouldn't have to worry about awkward soul crushing encounters.

The second agreement was unspoken but it was clear as day - if Matt was hurt or in serious danger you'd be the first to call. No details were ever given, unless you asked, and the calls usually lasted only a few seconds in which a crying Foggy would try to sound tough but would end up only whispering a ''He's safe, you can rest.''

But turns out maybe you should have had an agreement about you as well.

_

It was a stupid move, you were well aware, but when it happened you really didn't think before you acted.

You were on your way back home from work when you heard a woman scream and saw man running down the street in your direction. A brown haired woman ran out of a building, several bruises covered her face and she struggled to shout a plea for someone to stop the man.

You acted on instinct and became an obstacle on the man's path. He collided with you full on, throwing both of you to the floor with extraordinary force, your whole body aching on impact.

''You fucking bitch!'' He shouted scrambling to get up as you grabbed his arm, trying to keep him down as long as possible as the sound of sirens kept getting closer.

Suddenly, as the streets got illuminated by red and blue lights, the man grabbed a fistful of your hair, his other hand coming down to strike your face. 

It hurt like bitch and destabilised you long enough for the man to get away, only to be tackled down by police a few feet away.

_

It was definitely going to bruise, you thought to yourself as you examined your face on the mirror, but other than that and a few cuts and scrapes you were okay - physically at least.

After the day you had, being alone in your apartment and having to take care of yourself, was incredibly hard. You couldn't help but imagine that this must be a fraction of what Matt felt when he would get home after a hard night and just wanted to be held.

There's a faint knock on your window when you go back to the living room, and you turn around to find Matthew pearched on the fire escape. You don't know if your heart is beating uncontrollably because of the jumpscare he manged to give you or because he's actually in front of you after all this time - if you had to guess, probably both.

Hesitantly you make your way to the window and let him in. He's not wearing his usual red getup, rather his older black attire. You know he wears it when he needs to do something he doesn't want the media to associate with Daredevil but you can't help how it tugs at your heart - this was the Matt you first met and fell in love with.

Matt keeps shifting where he stands, clearly uncomfortable and not knowing how to proceed. It's only when you talk that his body relaxes a bit and he reaches up to lift the cloth hiding his face. "Hi, Matthew." Against all the conflicting feelings and hurt, your voice is soft around his name, making it sound heavy and sweet - like an indulgent bite of your favourite treat. He takes a long, deep breath, savouring the way his name sounds coming from your lips. ''How did you know?'' This time, your voice is harsher, pointed at him with sharp edges.

''Police radio'' Of course he did. You take a deep breath but don't respond. There's a part of you that wishes he'd known because he was keeping tabs on you not because of some random police message, but you're not willing to listen to it, so you justify your annoyance with having your privacy violated, with knowing that even after all this time he still knew things about yourself without you having to say a word while you could not be certain of anything when it came to him even when he'd talk to you.

After a while he moves, hands reaching out with so much hesitation, torn between being afraid you'll step away from him and being afraid you'll open up again and he might hurt you. Seeing the man that had touched you so freely and adoringly before hesitating so much broke your heart.

You met him half way, gently guiding his warm hand to your face. The almost featherlight touch sent shivers down your body and you had to fight against leaning onto it, for the sake of your bruised face and your sanity.

''Are you okay?'' His voice was sweet but there was something else lingering beneath it as his fingers examined your face, lightly touching the feaverish skin of your bruised cheek and trailing down to the small cut on your lips. His jaw tightened with anger.

''I'm okay, just got a few bruises and scratches, nothing I can't handle.'' You try to reassure both him and yourself, clinging to the words you had repeated like a mantra for the past months - I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay...

''You know that's not what I'm asking.'' There's a faint smile on his lips, one burdened with sadness and acknowledgement. He always knew you too well for your own sake. ''How are you?''

You know he can assess how you are physically, probably better than any doctor, and though he knows you well enough to know how you might feel, he can't read your mind. So, with the mess of thoughts running through your head you settle with being as honest as you can. ''I don't know.''

And you really don't. The past months have been an amalgamation of intense and opposing feelings. There's the part of you that is hurt, tired and that wants to scream at him for everything that happened. But there's also the part of you that loves him, that has longed for him and that just wants to be in his arms. Trying to fall out of love with him is like trying to breath underwater, having your lungs fill with water day after day while telling yourself that everything was okay.

Before the tears turn into sobs, Matt pulls you into his arms. You stay like that for god knows how long, he just let's you cry while he holds you. His hand moves through your hair in an attempt to soothe you and when you finally stop crying he doesn't let you go, pressing a kiss to the top of your head but only tightening his arms around you. Now that you're calmer, you can feel how much his hands are shaking.

"I know I'm in no position to ask you this but please never do anything like that again." Now that he speaks again you realize he's been crying as well, his voice heavy and hoarse. All you can do is nod against his chest.

More time goes by until you finally muster up the courage to speak again. "What are we now, Matt?"

He takes a while to speak, and just as you think he's not going to, he sighs. "I don't know." There's a pause as he let's go of you. He brushes away the hair sticking to your wet cheeks and cups your face, forcing you to look at him. "But I need you to know that everything you said to me that night was true, and I was too much of an idiot to see it." He sighs again, and you can see the hesitation on his features. "Everything was true but one thing... it didn't pass, and I don't think it ever will. I love you, and I don't care about what we are, I would burn the world to bring some heat to you. That won't change if we're friends, acquaintances, friends of friends... I just can't be a stranger. I wanna be a part of your life, anyway you'll have me."

He's the man without fear, yet the only thing you can see on him is how afraid he is as he waits for you to say anything.

"I fought against it with everything I had, and it almost broke me, Matt." It's your turn to touch his face and he does not show the same control you had before. He leans  his face against the palm of your hand and all but moans with the feeling. "It's impossible to fall out of love with you." Carefully and slowly, you move to press your lips against his.

God knows the problems are not solved between the two of you, there will still be battles to be fought and arguments to be had. But as you lay on the couch listening to his heartbeat and talking honestly about everything that you hadn't had the courage to talk about before, you realize this is how the world is meant to be. For the first time in months you feel like you're no longer drowning.

If you're here, hi!!! Thank you so so so much for reading and I really hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is very much appreciated.

If you liked this fic, I'm trying to get back to writing so I'm accepting requests and I'm also planning on rewriting some fics I wrote in the past, if any of these catch your eye let me know cause I have no idea with which one to start:

Bucky Barnes X Maximoff!Reader - the story is based on the movie Practical Magic and the reader was raised alongside Pietro and Wanda. The siblings ended up growing apart in recent years, that is until the day Bucky Barnes showed up at your door with Wanda passed out in his arms. Now you're confronted not only with your family but it's curse.

Bucky Barnes X Reader - the story is based on the movie While You Were Sleeping. You work at a café and have a secret crush on Steve Rogers, the super soldier who has been coming to the shop every week to grab a coffee and sketch. One day, he is attacked right in front of the café and, even though you manage to save his life, he falls into a deep coma. All it takes is one misplaced comment and now the whole hospital and the Avengers think you're Steve's secret fiancée. What's worst is that now you find yourself falling for his best friend.

Your interview subject, however, seems quite relaxed save for the slight wrinkle between his dark brows as he very deliberately lays out several objects on a table in the middle of the room. He’s switched out his usual sharp business attire for a green pullover that looks soft to the touch, dark cargo pants, and a pair of combat boots. 

It takes you a few seconds to find your voice, because does he have to recline against the damn thing like that? He looks tall and lean, but damn it when he’s like this, showing off the corded muscles in his arms and shoulders, you cannot doubt that he’s an ex-Marine. 

“Russo?” 

“Hm?” He hums distractedly. 

“Are those knives?” 

Well, that gets his attention. He lifts his head and finally makes direct eye contact, and a shiver shoots down your spine. 

“Yeah, they are,” he confirms casually, as if you’ve just asked him if the sky is blue. He leans his hands on the table, shamelessly giving you a slow and careful once over before he frowns a little. “You’re gonna have to change.” 

“I feel compelled to tell you Karen knows I’m here,” you say quickly, raising an inquisitive eyebrow when he just chuckles like you’ve said something adorably funny. “Also, I thought we were doing an interview?” 

Billy Russo stares expectantly at you for a few seconds, lips slowly turning upward into a mysterious smile that you know has captured hearts all over the city. 

But you won’t fall for that, will you? 

Nope. Not in the slightest. 

“Nah, not yet anyway. Sorry, darlin’.” 

Ignore that! You scream mentally, but your brain does not cooperate. “Then what am I doing here, Lieutenant?” 

Whoops. His head snaps up again, his already sunless eyes getting darker by the second. Without breaking the intense eye contact, he just gestures around the room as though it’s oh so obvious. 

“Self-defence training.” 

“And why would I need—ugh, I don’t have time for this, Billy.” You heave a sigh, dropping all pretenses now, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. 

You’ve always known that Billy marches to the beat of his own drum, ever since the two of you met when Karen introduced you a few months ago while you were researching for a story about army veterans—a friend of a friend’s, she’d said, but never elaborated—but this seems excessive. 

“You wouldn’t have come if I were honest,” he says, his smile falling away in an instant, the glint of amusement in his eyes disappearing like smoke in the wind. “I don’t need to remind you of the… unpleasantness that happened last week.” 

“And yet here we are,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m fine.” 

“You were attacked,” Billy corrects, walking around the table to perch himself on the edge closest to you. You roll your eyes; as if you’ve forgotten. Getting ambushed in front of your apartment by two masked assailants isn’t exactly an easy thing to forget. 

“Everything worked out, didn’t it?” You uncross your arms and saunter over to the table, ignoring the heavy weight of his gaze on you. And it really had! 

Just as one of your would-be kidnappers, whatever it was they wanted, hit you in the face in retaliation for you kicking him in the shins and biting the other on the arm, your neighbour had come out of the apartment building just in time and began screaming bloody murder. They had no choice but to drop you and run, leaving you dishevelled and bruised, but otherwise fine, on the sidewalk. 

“They could come back,” Billy points out, since they obviously didn’t get what they’d come for, the same thing the police had said when they arrived just minutes later. You didn’t think much of it, though. Karen had had her fair share of run-ins with such undesirables, and she assured that this just meant you were pushing precisely the right buttons as a reporter. 

Even so, she still urged you to call Billy for protection.

You wonder if he gets all of his clients to undergo this self-defence training, or if he always personally offers to instruct them.

“Can’t guarantee it won’t happen again,” Billy doesn’t seem to want to take no for an answer. The two of you stare for a moment, engaging in a silent battle of wits that you, of course, end up losing when you’re the first to look away. He nods at the various knives and daggers strewn across the table. “C’mon, pick one and we’ll start small.” 

“Small?” You squeak as you eye the particularly ornate handle on one of the knives that honestly looks more like a short sword. 

“Aw, don’t be scared,” Billy chuckles and pats you on the shoulder, watching with those hawkish eyes of his as you consider your options. “This is a safe space.” 

Is it though? You wonder as you pick up a small dagger closest to you. “Wouldn’t guns make more sense since I’m not exactly trained in hand to hand combat?” 

“I am training you. And you’re not ready for guns yet,” Billy grins when you unsheathe the dagger, eyes widening just a fraction at the way the blade glints in the light. “‘Sides, picturin’ you with a knife is way hotter. You gonna wear a thigh holster?” 

You flick the tip of the blade in his direction, “Watch it, Russo. I’m armed.” 

But he just laughs, a sound that comes with a dangerous surge of pride in your chest, “That’s not how you hold a dagger.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you bristle, cheeks warming and trying not to watch, enraptured, as he stands up to his full height, his boots thumping heavily on the concrete. 

“Careful,” he warns, but he sounds more amused than offended as he closes the distance between you in just a few small strides. “You’d better play nice if you still want that interview.” 

But there’s nothing professional about the way he steps behind you, the way his arms pull you back against his chest, or the way his hand lands on yours to adjust your grip on the dagger’s handle. 

“Not all of us can be badass ex-Marines, can we?” It takes everything you have not to stammer, not to gulp nervously when you feel the calloused ridge of his trigger finger caressing the same spot on your own hand. 

“Yeah, well, I believe in you,” you can hear the smirk in his voice as his free hand comes down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy as it guides you slowly into a proper stance. “Bend your knees a little.” 

“Pretty sure I hired you so I wouldn’t have to take matters into my own hands like this,” you huff in annoyance, grumbling but following his instructions anyway, feeling a bit silly doing this in your work clothes. He never did give you a chance to change. 

“Please, you couldn’t afford me,” Billy murmurs so low against your ear that it sends a shiver down the side of your neck, all the way to a certain part of your anatomy you refuse to acknowledge at the moment, his beard slightly rough against your cheek. Is he doing this on purpose? “Also, did you technically hire me if I’m doing this pro bono?”

“Yeah, and on that note,” you grow bold when he squeezes your hip in encouragement, leaning back against him with your arm extended, your hands joined together, the tip of the dagger’s blade angled upward at an imaginary assailant. “Why are you? The Billy Russo I know never works for free.” 

You see, you know precisely the kind of man Billy is. He would never invest this kind of time and energy into something like this, not unless he had something to gain from it—

Even without looking back, you feel his dark obsidian gaze on the still healing bruise that’s formed on the side of your face. His fingers tighten around yours, there’s a slight hitch in his breath you can feel with his chest pressed to your back, and the hand on your hip slides forward and around to your other side in an almost embrace. Protective, possessive, and maybe even a little petrified.

—or unless he had some type of skin in the game. 

And suddenly, despite the way you’re dressed and your hilarious lack of experience, you start to feel pretty invincible. You allow yourself a proud grin, squaring your shoulders so you stand a little taller in his arms.

They fall instantly, however, when Billy steps away and moves to stand directly in front of you. You feel immensely colder at the loss of proximity. 

“Alright, let’s see what you got,” he’s smirking again, all that vulnerability and whatever warmth you sensed in his body language once again hidden away behind a layer of arrogance and swagger. He beckons you with a come here gesture of his hand. 

“What?” You blink. 

“I’ve just broken into your apartment,” he states matter-of factly, “what do you do?” He coaxes you again with another wave.

“But wait!” You almost shriek, your bout of confidence once again faltering. “You didn’t even teach me anything yet!” 

“I need to see where you’re at first before I can teach you, darlin’,” he’s still smirking, half condescending and half amused, and your hands twitch to fling the knife at his stupid head.

“I’m at nowhere! I’ve got nothing! And you don’t even have a weapon, I could slice your damn face off!” Or worse, scar it. 

Billy laughs again, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. “Oh, sweetheart, you can certainly try.” 

to be continued…

PART 2 »

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