#evans variants

It had quickly become a running joke around SHIELD Headquarters that you were Captain America’s favorite analyst. Usually you shut the comments down by pointing out that you could not help it if Steve Rogers appreciated competence. It did not exactly make you any friends, but who was counting?

Steve always came to you first after missions. Debriefs. Updates. Tactical review. Sometimes he needed clarification. Sometimes, you were fairly certain, he just liked lingering around your desk.

Tonight was no exception. By now the tower had mostly emptied out, leaving only you, the captain, and the cleaning crew drifting through the halls. The overhead lights had dimmed automatically an hour ago, washing the office floor in low fluorescent light. Your monitor was the only one still displaying something other than the SHIELD logo.

You were typing steadily as you sorted through the information gathered from Steve’s latest mission. Somewhere behind you came the familiar sound of the break room door swinging shut.

A moment later a coffee appeared beside your keyboard. Two creams. No sugar. Exactly how you liked it.

You glanced up long enough to smile at Steve in thanks before taking it carefully from his hand.

“Thought analysts ran on caffeine and spite,” Steve said as he dragged a folding chair over beside your desk.

“We do,” you replied easily. “This is preventative maintenance.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh and settled beside you with the mission report you had already reviewed. There was exactly one green sticky note attached to the top page.

Next time you decide to jump out of a quinjet without waiting for backup, at least have the decency to stop alarming me personally.

— Your increasingly hostile analyst

Steve looked up instinctively, but you were already focused back on your screen, typing like you had not just casually admitted concern for his well-being on official SHIELD paperwork. A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth.

Shaking his head to himself — and already knowing Sam was going to give him hell for it later — Steve peeled the sticky note free and folded it carefully before slipping it into his pocket with all the others.

Whenever anyone asked why the inside of his locker was covered in your sticky notes, Steve claimed they were mission corrections. No one believed him.

“Rogers, c’mere. HYDRA writes better mission reports than you.” You still were not looking at him, your attention fixed on the screen as you typed. Steve pushed himself out of the folding chair automatically and moved behind you to look over your shoulder, his arm settling across the back of your office chair without thought.

It was not the first time he had stood this close. Something about tonight felt different anyway.

You kept talking, pointing something out on the screen while Steve’s attention drifted almost immediately away from the report entirely.

As usual, you sat cross-legged in your office chair — something that drove SHIELD HR insane, though you had never seemed particularly concerned about that. There was a faint ink smudge near your wrist, probably from writing before the pen had fully dried. Your eyes looked tired from staring at monitors all day and your voice had gone slightly rough around the edges from exhaustion.

Steve found himself noticing all of it. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear while thinking. The crease between your brows when you concentrated. The quiet warmth of your shoulder pressed near his chest.

“You seeing this pattern or not?” you asked finally, turning toward him when he failed to answer. And abruptly realized how close he actually was. You paused mid-sentence.

Steve had gone too still beside you, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth. His eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that immediately sent your pulse stumbling.

Not the file. Not the screen. You.

Your throat tightened slightly as your eyes flicked down instinctively before finding those devastating blue eyes again.

Steve’s gaze dropped to your mouth. The shift was tiny. It still felt catastrophic.

For one terrible second neither of you moved. Then both of you leaned forward slowly, unconsciously, like gravity had changed inside the room.

Your brain caught up first. You nearly launched yourself out of the chair. Smoothing your shirt quickly, you stepped away from the desk and forced your expression into something resembling professionalism.

“You should probably head home,” you managed, your voice only slightly strained.

Steve blinked once like he was pulling himself back into reality before stepping away as well. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You should too.”

“Good idea.” You saved your work a little too quickly and locked the screen before gathering your things while making a very deliberate effort not to get anywhere near Steve again.

Then you made the mistake of heading for the elevator. You almost made it there alone too. Almost.

The sound of Steve’s footsteps caught up quickly thanks to his stupidly long stride, and by the time the elevator dinged he was beside you again, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his jacket.

You should have taken the stairs.

Instead the two of you stepped into the elevator together, immediately retreating to opposite corners of the small metal box like that would somehow undo the last five minutes.

The only sounds in the elevator were the steady beep counting down floors and the quiet rhythm of both your breathing.

This was absurd. You were both perfectly capable adults. There was no reason to act like two teenagers who had almost gotten caught making out.

Turning toward Steve to say something, your voice caught in your throat as the elevator suddenly jolted to a screeching halt. The lights flickered once overhead.

You froze. Terrible things happened in elevators in this building. Honestly, you had no idea why anyone trusted them anymore. Gripping the handrail tightly, you forced yourself to take a slow breath. “Okay,” you said quickly, looking toward the ceiling lights. “Probably just a temporary power relay issue.”

Steve heard it immediately anyway. The way your voice pitched slightly higher when stressed. The white-knuckled grip you had on the rail. He reached over and pressed the emergency call button before looking back at you. “I’m sure you’re right.”

The elevator shifted abruptly beneath your feet. The lights blinked out completely before the dim emergency lighting kicked in a second later.

You went utterly still. No movement. No breath.

Steve’s attention sharpened instantly. Mission panic he understood. Civilian panic too. But this — this felt older somehow. Automatic. Buried deep enough to bypass logic entirely.

Finally you pulled in a shallow breath. “I don’t like this,” you admitted quietly, so soft even Steve almost missed it.

Instinctively he stepped toward you before stopping himself. Five minutes ago he had almost kissed you and you had practically fled the room. Touching you now without permission felt like a terrible idea.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the elevator doors. He could get them open if he wanted to. Probably in under thirty seconds. He also suspected watching Captain America pry apart steel doors with his bare hands mid-panic attack would make this exponentially worse.

So instead Steve reached for an older instinct. The part of him that had learned how to calm frightened people long before the serum ever made him strong enough to save them physically.

Slowly he crouched down, making himself smaller instead of larger, his voice dropping softer as he leaned back against the wall. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me for a second.”

You tried. Really tried. But the second your eyes met his, your breathing hitched again and darted away.

God, this was humiliating. You were a grown woman. A fully trained SHIELD analyst. And you were standing here on the edge of a panic attack because an elevator had stopped between floors. In front of Captain America.

Your breathing broke into short uneven pulls. “This is ridiculous,” you managed weakly.

Steve shook his head immediately. “No,” he said, calm and firm all at once. “You’re scared. That’s different.”

The simple certainty in his voice made your chest ache unexpectedly.

Steve shrugged off his leather jacket before sitting fully on the elevator floor. Then he spread the jacket out beside him and glanced back up at you. “C’mere,” he said softly. Not pushing. Just offering. And stayed still while he waited to see if you would.

A nervous laugh escaped you then. “You say that like stray cats don’t hiss at you.”

A small smirk tugged at Steve’s mouth. “They usually do, yeah.”

Another slow breath worked its way out of you before you rolled your eyes at yourself and finally sat down beside him on the jacket. Your shoulder brushed lightly against his, just enough contact to ground yourself a little.

Beside you, Steve stayed perfectly still, deliberately keeping his breathing slow and even in the hope that yours might unconsciously follow.

It was strangely nerve-racking. This was the closest you had ever willingly let him sit beside you before. He could smell the faint scent of your body wash and whatever subtle perfume you wore beneath the recycled elevator air.

Leaning your head back against the wall behind you, you closed your eyes briefly. “I hate not being able to get out.”

Steve’s expression softened instantly. He closed his eyes for a moment and nodded once. “I know.”

You looked over at him then. Really looked at him.

Oh. Right. Steve Rogers understood being trapped better than almost anyone alive. In the ice. In the war. Inside a symbol people often seemed to value more than the man himself. If anyone should have been panicking in this elevator, it should have been him.

Something in your chest loosened unexpectedly at the realization that he truly understood what you meant. Slowly your breathing began to settle back into something normal.

Then, just as abruptly as it had stopped, the elevator lights flickered fully back on and the car resumed its smooth descent downward.

Neither of you moved. Partially because you were both waiting to see if it actually kept working. Partially because neither of you seemed eager to address the massive unresolved situation currently sitting between you on Steve’s jacket.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a soft ding and the doors slid open.

Steve stood first, brushing dust from his jeans before automatically offering you a hand. Without thinking, you took it.

The moment you were upright both of you paused slightly, your eyes dropping briefly to your joined hands before snapping back to each other’s faces. You let go quickly.

To avoid creating yet another moment, you bent to pick up his jacket instead and held it out to him. Steve took it carefully, your fingers brushing lightly together in the exchange.

Shoulders bumping accidentally, the two of you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Your footsteps echoed softly in sync despite your best efforts to maintain some kind of professional distance.

It was nearly midnight and somehow both of you were suddenly acting like normal conversation had become an advanced combat exercise.

Steve moved ahead slightly as you reached the exit doors, automatically pulling one open for you.

“Thanks,” you said softly. You slowed your pace just enough afterward to let him fall back into step beside you again.

Glancing sideways at him, you tried to break the awful silence. “At least we didn’t die.” Your voice came out drier — and slightly shakier — than intended.

He snorted softly. “Yeah.” His blue eyes were already tracking you again. “You okay?”

You shrugged, biting lightly at your lip. “Statistically elevators are extremely safe.”

That nearly made him laugh. It also made him absolutely certain you were deflecting.

As the intersection ahead came into view, Steve realized this was usually where he split off to head home. Instead his brain abruptly started moving a mile a minute.

He did not want you going home alone like this. Not because of the panic attack. Well. Not only because of that. Fine. If he was being honest, he just wanted more time with you.

Beside him, you were still carefully avoiding looking directly at him for more than a second at a time as you checked both sides of the street.

Before you could step off the curb, Steve cleared his throat.

You paused and finally looked at him fully.

Steve immediately looked like he regretted having a functioning nervous system. “Do you—”

He stopped abruptly, frustration flashing across his face before he muttered a curse under his breath.

You nearly laughed. Steve Rogers swore so rarely it still caught you off guard every time. “That’s never a good start,” you pointed out cautiously.

Steve looked at you like he was asking for patience on a spiritual level as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Right. Okay.”

He squared his shoulders slightly, like he was preparing to charge directly into enemy fire. “I was gonna ask if maybe you wanted to get coffee sometime.”

Then his eyes widened almost immediately. “Not because of the elevator.”

You blinked at him.

Steve pulled both hands from his pockets, holding them up helplessly. “I mean—not not because of the elevator.” He shut his eyes briefly. “Christ, that sounded worse out loud.”

You could not help it. A real laugh escaped you then — clear, warm, helplessly amused. Because somehow the man who fought aliens, HYDRA, and literal gods was visibly panicking over asking you to coffee.

Steve’s shoulders dropped slightly at the sound, some of the tension easing from his expression. “I just meant—” He glanced briefly toward the sky like he was searching for divine intervention before exhaling heavily. “I like talking to you. Outside work.”

Another breath. His eyes found yours again. “And preferably outside small mechanical boxes.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Studying him carefully, you hesitated. You wanted to say yes. That was the problem. The two of you worked together. SHIELD relationships had a reputation for becoming disasters at alarming speeds.

Delicately, you asked: “You’re asking me on a date?”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then let out a small huff of laughter. “…Yeah,” he admitted. “I think I am.”

You snickered softly despite yourself. “You know, for a guy who jumps out of planes, this is surprisingly painful to watch.”

Completely serious, Steve answered immediately: “You’re very intimidating.”

That finally broke you completely. You smiled then, because he meant it. Not just the invitation. The nerves too. The fact that this mattered more than either of you quite wanted to admit yet.

“You know this is a horrible idea,” you said softly.

Steve let out another breath, tilting his head slightly. “Probably.” Then, more hesitant this time: “Still wanna do it.”

Your mouth twisted as you tried not to smile too obviously. He looked painfully earnest standing there under the streetlights. “Okay.”

Steve’s entire body relaxed instantly. “Really?”

You nodded, laughing quietly again. “Really.”

His smile turned softer around the edges before he glanced down the street and back at you. “Can I walk you home?”

You tried fighting the smile this time and failed completely. “You’re getting greedy now.”

Steve gave a small helpless shrug. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Shaking your head, you started walking before glancing back over your shoulder. “You coming?”

Steve fell into step beside you immediately.

The night breeze curled around both of you as moonlight spilled across the sidewalk. Neither of you spoke much on the walk home. You did not really need to.

Your shoulders bumped occasionally. Once, your hands brushed lightly together and neither of you acknowledged it.

At your apartment building Steve stopped automatically at the bottom of the stairs, clearly trying very hard not to push his luck any further tonight.

You turned toward him, smiling despite yourself. “Goodnight, Steve.”

That nearly destroyed him on the spot. It was the first time you had ever called him anything other than Captain.

For one dangerous second Steve considered kissing you anyway. Instead he swallowed hard and managed: “Goodnight.”

Still smiling faintly, you climbed the stairs, unlocked your door, and stepped inside. The second the door shut behind you, you leaned back against it with a helpless smile already spreading across your face like a woman fully aware she had just made a terrible decision.

Outside, Steve stood there another moment staring at the closed door before finally turning back toward his bike. His own smile matched yours almost exactly.

Evans Variants Masterlist

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It might have been midnight in the middle of July, but you were already hip-deep in more orange, black, green, and purple beads than you could count. Two aisles over, someone sneezed.

"Bless you," a female voice called automatically.

"Don't," a male voice answered. "It only encourages the godforsaken sparkles."

You snickered as you hung another strand of beads.

Footsteps approached, making you pull one earbud out and glance up. Coming around the corner was your manager, Sheila, wearing the kind of sickly sweet smile that always meant your night was about to get worse. Beside her stood a good-looking guy with a "**NEW TEAM MEMBER"** badge, looking completely overwhelmed.

Sheila stopped beside you. "You wanted help. Here you go. You're training Barnes tonight."

Standing up, you leveled a flat look at her. "Thanks."

She gave you a smug smile before walking away, leaving you alone with the new guy. 

Looking him over, you smirked. "You piss somebody off already?"

He shrugged. "I don't think so. Is this a bad section or something?"

Shaking your head, you grimaced. "No. Sheila just hates me. If she assigned you to me, she definitely doesn't like you either."

Closing his eyes, he sighed. "Probably didn't help that I turned her down."

You barked out a laugh.

He opened one eye before offering his hand. "James Barnes. Everybody calls me Bucky."

Still chuckling, you shook it. "Congratulations on surviving the training videos." You gestured dramatically down the aisle. "Welcome to Bead Hell."

Bucky looked from one end of the aisle to the other, taking in the walls of beads and the four-foot section you were resetting with Halloween merchandise.

"I'm pretty sure it's July."

"It is." Turning to grab another box, you nodded toward the display. "Somewhere there is a palm tree crying because Halloween is already going out."

He snorted.

"It is okay, though. Christmas gets here next month."

He stopped mid-step. "...Next month?"

You nodded solemnly. "Then Halloween can sob with the palm tree."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. "Oh... that is how it is, huh?"

"You get used to it."

He pulled out a box cutter and sliced open the first carton. Before you could stop him—

Fwoomp.

A cloud of pink glitter erupted into the air. Bucky froze. Slowly, he looked at you through the settling glitter. "...I made a mistake."

Brushing glitter off his shoulder, you nodded sympathetically. "Yeah. That happens." Another piece floated onto his hair. "But good news." 

He blinked.

"You're one of us now." 

Picking up the first package, which somehow managed to rain even more glitter over both of you, you showed him how to match the item numbers before stocking them in the correct location. Once he had the hang of it, the two of you settled into the rhythm of stocking shelves.

Around two in the morning, your phone alarm chimed. "Finally."

Bucky looked over. "What's that for?"

Cleaning up your section, you stood and brushed your jeans off. "Lunch time. Come on, Barnes. I will show you the break room and our lovely snack machine."

He stood, unsuccessfully brushing the pink glitter from his clothes, and followed you toward the back of the store.

The break room was about as glamorous as the rest of the building—a microwave, a mini fridge, a snack machine, a drink machine, and exactly one table surrounded by four wobbly chairs.

Digging into your pocket, you fed a couple of dollars into the snack machine and grabbed your usual Milky Way before holding out the other dollar to Bucky. "Here. First night's free."

He stared at the bill. "You sound like a drug dealer."

Before you could answer, your coworkers Kayla and Carl wandered in. Carl pointed at the dollar. "Better take her up on that. She will not offer again."

Laughing, Bucky accepted it and bought a Snickers. "Is it always this weird?"

Kayla smiled. "Wait until Christmas shows up and we spend five months drowning in glitter branches."

Both you and Carl groaned. Dropping heavily into a chair, you opened your candy bar. "Do not mention the holiday that shall not be named while we are on break. Geez."

Carl frowned. "Christmas?"

You pointed your Milky Way at him. "See? That is exactly how it spreads."

Chuckling, Bucky sat beside you and unwrapped his "lunch."

Sighing dramatically, you waved your hand through the air. "Most holidays only stick around for three or four months. Not..." You lowered your voice to a whisper. "...Christmas." Returning to your normal volume, you continued. "That little diva takes over at least five months. Then we spend another month sorting through clearance."

Carl grabbed his usual M&M's and dropped into the chair across from you. "Anyway, new guy. You from around here?"

Rolling your eyes, you snorted. "His name is Bucky, Carl. Rude much?"

Carl shrugged. 

Kayla offered her hand instead. "Do not mind them. They have worked here too long. I am Kayla."

Bucky smiled as he shook her hand. "Nice to meet you. I just moved here with my best friend."

"Found a place yet?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Still looking. We are staying with some friends until we find one."

You caught the wheels turning in Kayla's head. Bucky, thankfully, did not. Before she could start flirting with the poor man, you bumped his shoulder. "You must like your best friend a lot if you are moving in with him."

He looked over with an easy smile. "He's like my brother." There was no hesitation in the words. "Honestly? Nicest guy you will ever meet."

You smiled back. "Maybe I will." The thought clicked into place. "Actually... my apartment complex just had a few units open up. You can use me as a reference if you want."

His face brightened. "Yeah. That would be great."

The two of you exchanged numbers, and you quickly texted him the leasing office information. Right as your phones disappeared back into your pockets, Sheila walked into the break room. "All right. Break's over."

The rest of the night was more of the same—beads for hours and more glitter than either of you thought physically possible. By the time dawn rolled around, the two of you sparkled from head to toe as you walked out into the parking lot.

Bucky looked down at his glitter-covered jeans. "Does this wash out?"

You laughed. "No."

He turned toward you. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

Grinning, you started walking backward toward your car. "I mean you are going to find glitter in places you have not been yet."

He stared at you. "That is not how glitter works."

"You keep telling yourself that."

He looked back down at his clothes and sighed. "...I've made a terrible mistake."

Still laughing, you climbed into your car while he headed for his truck.

When Bucky got home, Sam and Steve were sitting on the balcony of Sam's apartment with mugs of coffee.

Sam took one look at Bucky and immediately spit his coffee across the railing. "I thought you were going to work, not a strip club."

Steve looked up from his mug, his brow furrowing. "Why do you have glitter all over you, Buck?"

Bucky dropped into the empty chair with a groan and stole Steve's coffee before he could protest. "I've had one Snickers bar all night and seen more beads than I knew existed. I am not discussing what I've learned to call craft herpes with either of you."

Steve laughed as he reached over and reclaimed his mug. "...Craft herpes?"

"Hey!" Sam yelped.

Bucky leaned over and deliberately shook out his hair, showering Sam in the pink, green, and blue glitter already clinging to him.

"I just wanted to share the love, man."

Sam looked down at himself in horror. "I hate you."

"Give it a few hours," Bucky said. "You'll hate glitter more."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "So it really gets everywhere?"

Bucky sighed dramatically. "Everywhere. You can shower, wash your clothes, vacuum your truck, and somehow it'll still show up three weeks later."

Steve grimaced. "That sounds awful."

"It is." Taking another sip of Steve's coffee, Bucky shrugged. "Might've found us a place, though."

Steve perked up. "Yeah?"

Bucky nodded. "Coworker said her apartment complex has a few vacancies. If she can afford a place there by herself, we should be able to together."

A small smile tugged at Steve's lips. "Her apartment complex?"

Rolling his eyes, Bucky pointed at him. "Do not start."

Steve held his hands up. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Sam snorted into his coffee. "Since when don't you flirt with everything in a skirt?"

Bucky gave him a completely deadpan look. "She was wearing jeans."

For a beat there was complete silence. Then Steve and Sam doubled over laughing.

Bucky took another drink of Steve's coffee while they laughed. "Glad I could entertain you."

A couple of weeks later, Bucky and Steve moved into an apartment three doors down from yours. Tonight they were having a housewarming party, and Bucky had invited you since using you as a reference was what got them in the door.

Straightening your T-shirt, you walked down the hallway and knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately. "Hey!" Bucky grinned. "Come on in."

You stepped inside to find ten or fifteen people already scattered around the apartment with drinks in hand and paper plates piled with finger foods. "Hey, the place looks great."

Bucky glanced around proudly. "We've still got a few boxes to unpack, but it's coming together."

Looking around the room, you tried to figure out which one of the guys was his roommate. Then you saw him. Blond hair. Ocean blue eyes. Dear God. He was gorgeous.

Without taking your eyes off him, you reached over and tapped Bucky on the shoulder. "...Who's that?"

Bucky followed your gaze. A slow grin spread across his face. "That's my roommate, Steve." Then he looked back at you. "...Why?"

Finally tearing your eyes away from Steve, you grabbed Bucky's arm. "Because you're going to introduce me right now."

For half a second Bucky just stared at you. Then it clicked. *Oh. *He bit back a laugh. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

"What?"

"Nothing." Still chuckling to himself, he let you drag him across the room.

Steve looked up as the two of you approached. The man standing beside him and the redheaded woman glanced over curiously. Bucky gestured toward you. "This is my coworker. She's the one who recommended the apartment complex."

He pointed around the little circle. "This is Sam, Natasha..." Finally, he rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. "...and my best friend, Steve."

You smiled politely at Sam and Natasha before your attention landed right back on Steve. "Hi. I've heard so much about you from Bucky."

Steve smiled, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. "Hi." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah... he's talked about you some too."

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Bucky looking at Sam and Natasha with the biggest grin on his face. Both of them raised questioning eyebrows.

Ignoring whatever silent conversation they were having, you nodded toward the drink in Steve's hand. "Steve, would you mind helping me get something to drink?" You smiled sweetly. "Maybe you could show me around while we're at it."

"Oh." Steve cleared his throat. "Yeah. Sure."

He looked at Bucky for some reason. Bucky gave him an encouraging nod. "Go ahead."

"Right." Steve smiled at you again. "This way."

The two of you disappeared into the kitchen.

The second you were out of earshot, Sam looked at Bucky. "What?"

Bucky burst out laughing. "Oh, that's priceless."

Natasha crossed her arms. "What is?"

"Buck spends two weeks teasing us because some girl at work is nice to him..." Sam said.

"...and she walks in," Bucky finished, "takes one look at Steve, and completely forgets I exist."

Natasha peeked toward the kitchen where Steve was handing you a drink. Then she looked back at Bucky. "...Does he know?"

Bucky snorted. "Absolutely not."

Sam laughed. "You think he'll figure it out?"

Bucky watched Steve smiling at you while completely oblivious. "...He'll either lose the ability to talk..." He shook his head. "...or he'll miss it completely."

GroupMe Chat: Respectfully Oblivious (3 members)

Bucky: Omg. He thinks she likes me.

Sam: I'm sorry, what?

Nat: You've got to be kidding.

Bucky: Nope.

Bucky: She practically ordered me to introduce her to Steve.

Bucky: He thinks she's just really friendly.

Sam: ...

Nat: Oh no.

Sam: Steve.

Nat: Steve.

Bucky: Steve.

Sam: 🤦‍♂️

Nat: 😭

Several Sundays later, you found yourself knocking on the door to apartment 7B again.

Bucky answered almost immediately. "You're early."

You pushed a ceramic bowl into his hands. "I brought queso."

He looked down at the bowl before looking back at you, only to find your attention already fixed on Steve in the kitchen. "You don't even like football."

You glanced back at him with an innocent shrug. "I like queso."

Bucky followed your line of sight toward Steve before slowly rolling his eyes as he shut the door behind you.

Steve turned at the sound of your footsteps and smiled. "Hey."

You opened your mouth to answer and nearly forgot how to speak. The man was entirely too good-looking for your own good. "...Hi."

He dipped a spoon into the pot of chili simmering on the stove before holding it out over his other hand. "Try it. Bucky's terrible at seasoning."

Stepping closer, you lightly touched his forearm as though steadying him while you leaned in to taste the chili. "Mmm." You smiled. "That's really good." Your eyes met his. "It does need just a little cinnamon, though."

Steve's breath caught. "Oh." His ears turned pink. "Right. Cinnamon."

Behind you, Bucky set your bowl of queso on the counter. He looked from you...to Steve...then back again. "I'm gonna go watch the pregame." He started backing out of the kitchen. "You two have fun cooking."

Neither of you answered. Steve was busy digging through the spice cabinet. You were busy watching Steve. With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky wandered into the living room.

Steve finally found the cinnamon, added a small spoonful to the chili, and stirred. "Okay." He offered you the spoon again. "Try it now."

Once again, you leaned in for a delicate taste before smiling. "Perfect." You looked up at him. "I like a man who can cook."

The blush spread from Steve's ears to his cheeks. "Thanks."

His eyes drifted toward the living room where Bucky was now pretending very hard not to watch the two of you. "Why don't you grab a seat? I'll fix everybody a bowl."

You smiled sweetly. "You'll spoil me like that, Steve."

He chuckled. "Just trying to be a good host." Waving you toward the dining table, he ladled chili into three bowls before arranging them on a tray with a pile of tortilla chips beside your queso.

As he carried everything over, he called toward the living room. "Soup's on, Buck."

Bucky wandered over and deliberately took the chair across from you, leaving one empty seat beside you and another beside himself.

Without missing a beat, you reached over and moved the silverware from the place next to Bucky to the chair beside you. Bucky watched you. You shrugged. Then stuck your tongue out at him. He sighed into his chili.

Steve walked over carrying his own bowl and paused when he noticed the missing place setting. His eyes flicked between the chairs. You simply smiled. Swallowing, he took the seat beside you. 

As the three of you began eating, you hummed appreciatively. "Steve, this is amazing."

"Thanks." He scooped up some queso with a tortilla chip. After taking a bite, he smiled. "This is really good too."

You reached over and lightly touched his arm. "You're too sweet."

Across the table, Bucky closed his eyes for a second. "So..." he said loudly. "What's your favorite football team?"

You blinked, as though you had forgotten he was there. "I don't really have one." You thought about it for a moment before adding, "I mostly just enjoy watching grown men in tights try to bodily hug each other."

Steve immediately choked on his chili. Across the table, Bucky covered his face with one hand as he tried—and completely failed—not to laugh.

GroupMe Chat: Respectfully Oblivious

Sam: Report.

Bucky: She came over for football.

Nat: And?

Bucky: She sat in Steve's lap emotionally for three hours.

Sam: Did he ask her out?

Bucky: No.

Nat: Did she flirt?

Bucky: Aggressively.

Sam: Did Steve notice?

Bucky: Steve offered her an extra blanket because she "looked chilly."

Nat: I hate this man.

Sam: He's my best friend.

Sam: But I also hate this man.

A few weeks later, after spending all morning baking, you knocked on the door to apartment 7B again. This time you were wearing a low-cut tank top and a pair of short shorts.

Steve answered the door. His eyes widened for half a second before he smiled. "Hey." His gaze dropped to the plate in your hands. "What's that?"

You held up the homemade chocolate chip cookies. "I made cookies and thought I'd share."

He glanced back into the apartment as though checking for someone. "Um..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Buck's not here." Looking back at you, he stepped aside."...But you can come in if you want."

Smiling, you brushed lightly against him as you walked inside. "Thanks, Steve." You looked around. "Where do you want these?" 

"Oh." He hurried over. "Here, let me." 

Carefully taking the plate from your hands, he carried it into the kitchen and set it on the counter before immediately stealing one for himself. After one bite, his eyebrows lifted. "These are really good."

You wandered over until you were standing just a little too close. "I was hoping you'd like them."

Steve instinctively leaned back until his hips bumped the counter. "Thank you." His eyes darted around the kitchen before landing on the pitcher sitting beside the sink. "Do you want some tea? I just made some."

You bit your lip. "That'd be perfect." Fanning yourself dramatically, you smiled up at him. "I'm awfully hot after baking all morning."

Steve nearly missed the glass as he poured the tea. "I bet."

The apartment door opened. Bucky walked into the kitchen just as Steve handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed. Steve looked up. Your eyes met for just a second.

Bucky cleared his throat. "Hey." He looked between the two of you. "You come back for more sugar?"

You shook your head before pointing toward the plate of cookies. "No." You smiled over the rim of your glass. "Got what I needed last time." You nodded toward the cookies. "Thought I'd share with my neighbors."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. You looked far too innocent for him to believe a word of it. Steve accepted the explanation without a second thought.

"Well..." Bucky said slowly. "Thanks."

Steve nodded. "You always think of everybody." He smiled warmly. "Maybe we should start calling you Sugar."

Turning toward him, you rested your hand lightly against his chest. "You can call me Sugar anytime you want, Steve."

Bucky looked at the ceiling. 

Steve's entire face turned bright red. "...Sugar it is then."

You beamed. "Perfect."

Brushing against Steve one last time as you headed for the door, you waved over your shoulder. "See you boys on Sunday."

The apartment fell quiet. Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "She just... showed up."

Bucky stared at him. "She keeps doing that."

Steve nodded. "She's really thoughtful."

There was a beat of silence. Then Steve smiled to himself. "You should ask her out, Buck."

Bucky blinked. "...What?"

"I mean..." Steve cleared his throat. "She's beautiful."

Realizing what he had just admitted, he immediately clamped his mouth shut.

A slow grin spread across Bucky's face. "Oh..."

Steve looked away. "I just mean..."

Bucky folded his arms. "I know exactly what you mean."

GroupMe Chat: Respectfully Oblivious

Sam: How bad?

Bucky: She baked cookies.

Nat: Homemade?

Bucky: Chocolate chip.

Sam: ...

Nat: ...

Sam: That's basically a proposal.

Bucky: Steve said, "You always think of everybody."

Nat: 😭

Bucky: Then he nicknamed her Sugar.

Nat: NO HE DID NOT.

Bucky: He did.

Bucky: She told him he could call her Sugar anytime he wanted.

Sam: 💀

(Bucky shared a photo of you standing in the kitchen with Steve in the tank top and shorts.)

Bucky: He told me I should ask her out.

Sam: OH COME ON.

Nat: Steve...

(Sam changed the group photo to Steve looking confused while holding a casserole dish.)

(Nat changed the group name to Please Just Kiss Already.)

(Bucky changed the group name to Too Honorable for His Own Good.)

Sam: 🤣

Nat: 😤

You stood in the middle of your kitchen eating a banana as you eyed the sink. Finishing the last bite, you casually dropped the peel into the garbage disposal, turned on the water, and flipped the switch. The disposal groaned once before locking up. You smiled. Mission accomplished.

Turning everything back off, you stepped out of apartment 4B and knocked on the door of 7B.

Bucky answered. The moment he saw you, he narrowed his eyes. "...Yes?"

You smiled innocently. "My garbage disposal's stuck."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, without breaking eye contact—"STEVE!"

"What?" Steve called from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

"Your girlfriend broke something again."

"She's not—"

Steve wandered out of his room wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips. "...girlfriend."

You forgot how words worked. He had not noticed you yet. "What'd she break this time?"

Bucky stepped aside, finally revealing you in the doorway. Steve immediately smiled. "Oh. Hey, Sugar. I'll be right over."

You smiled sweetly. "Thanks, Steve."

Then you looked at Bucky. "See you at work."

Bucky simply shook his head as you disappeared back across the hall.

A few minutes later, you were perched on the kitchen counter waiting when a knock sounded at your door. "Come in!"

Steve poked his head inside first. "You sure?"

"Yep."

He stepped inside carrying a well-used toolbox before closing the door behind him. "So..." He set it on the floor beside the sink. "What's it doing?"

You flipped the switch. The disposal made one sad attempt to turn before giving up.

Steve immediately switched it back off. "Huh."

You shrugged. "I have no idea what happened."

"Mhm." Opening the toolbox, Steve knelt and disappeared beneath the sink.

You, meanwhile, had absolutely nothing to do except admire the view.

A hand appeared from beneath the cabinet. "Can you hand me the wrench?"

You were too busy appreciating the way his pajama pants hung on his hips to hear a word he had said.

You handed him a screwdriver. He chuckled. "Other wrench."

"Oh." Taking back the screwdriver, you handed him a pair of pliers instead.

Steve stuck his head out from under the sink. His lips twitched. "You're not helping."

Biting your lip, you gave him your most innocent smile. "I'm emotionally supporting."

He reached into the toolbox himself and picked up the wrench "You're doing great."

You melted on the spot.

The next week it was a curtain rod. The week after that, the smoke detector had somehow misplaced its battery.

A week later, Bucky came home from the grocery store to find you kneeling outside your apartment with a screwdriver in one hand. He slowly looked at the screwdriver...then at your apartment door...then back at you. "...Really?"

You finished loosening the last screw before standing. "Maybe."

He shifted the grocery bags to his other arm. "You're breaking your own apartment."

You slipped the screw into your pocket and leaned casually against the now-slightly-crooked doorframe. "Possibly."

He sighed. "You're a menace."

Grinning, you folded your arms. "I know."

Bucky unlocked his apartment door before glancing back over his shoulder."...I'm not telling him."

"Didn't ask you to." You kept grinning at him.

He glared at you. "You weren't going to." 

"Nope."

He pointed at you. "You're enjoying this way too much."

Your grin only widened. "I really am."

GroupMe Chat: Too Honorable For His Own Good

Bucky: Emergency update.

Sam: ??

Nat: ??

Bucky: She broke her own door.

Sam: Accident?

Bucky: No.

Nat: She admitted that?

Bucky: I watched her loosen the screws.

Sam: Respect.

Nat: Did it work?

Bucky: Steve fixed it.

Sam: Then?

Bucky: He thanked her for letting him help.

Nat: ...

Nat: I have a migraine.

Sam: Is he at least suspicious?

Bucky: He called her Sugar.

Sam: That's progress.

Bucky: Then he fixed her curtain rod.

Sam: ...

Bucky: Then her smoke detector.

Nat: She's manufacturing maintenance.

Bucky: Correct.

Sam: I almost don't want him to figure it out anymore.

Bucky: Neither do I.

Steve walked you home from the grocery store carrying every bag despite your repeated offers to help. The two of you laughed the whole way. Every chance you got, your hand brushed against his. Whether he noticed or not, you could not tell.

He followed you inside and set the groceries on the counter. "Thanks, Steve." You smiled up at him. "I'm glad I didn't have to go alone."

He pushed a hand through his hair. "Anytime, Sugar."

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. "I love it when you call me that."

Steve stiffened for half a second before carefully hugging you back. "...Yeah?"

Pulling away, you smiled. "Yeah."

His ears turned pink. "I should let you put your groceries away."

Before you could say another word, he was halfway to the door. "I'll... see you Sunday." Then he was gone.

You stared at the closed door for a long moment. With a frustrated huff, you started putting away the refrigerated groceries. Milk. Eggs. Butter. By the time you shoved the orange juice into the refrigerator, you were officially out of patience. "For fuck's sake."

Decision made. You slammed the refrigerator door shut and marched straight out of apartment 4B. Three doors later, you knocked on 7B.

Bucky answered. Before he could say a word, you pointed down the hallway. "Out."

He blinked. "...What?"

You took a deep breath. "Out, Bucky."

From the couch, Steve looked up from the sketchbook resting on his knee. "Everything okay, Sugar?"

Your irritation disappeared the second you looked at him. You smiled. "Perfect."

Bucky's eyes went wide. A grin slowly spread across his face. He grabbed his keys off the table. "This is the best day of my life." Then he was gone.

You stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. 

Steve set his sketchbook aside and stood. "...What's going on?"

Instead of answering, you crossed the room, grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss. For one stunned heartbeat, he froze. Then he kissed you back.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing a little harder. Steve searched your face. "...Buck—"

You pointed a finger at him. "If you say Bucky's name one more time..." The threat hung in the air.

He swallowed. "...I thought—"

You kissed him again, shorter this time. "I know what you thought."

His hands settled gently around your waist. "I thought you liked him."

You cupped his face in both hands until he had no choice but to meet your eyes. "I used him to meet you."

Steve blinked. "...What?"

"I made him introduce us."

Silence. "...Oh."

You let out one long, exhausted sigh. "Bucky can jump in the river for all I care."

This time when you kissed him, Steve did not hesitate. His arms tightened around you as though he was afraid you might disappear.

When the kiss finally broke, he rested his forehead against yours.  "I am such an idiot."

You laughed. "You really are."

His expression turned sheepish. "I spent months trying to be a good person."

"I know."

He closed his eyes. "I didn't want to hurt Buck."

"I know."

"I thought I was doing the right thing." He looked at you again.

You smiled and brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I know."

A slow smile spread across his face. "So..."

"So?"

"You've been flirting with me this whole time?" You laughed.

"Steve..." 

He winced. "...Right."

"I've been flirting with you since the housewarming party."

He closed his eyes. "Oh, no."

"What?" You looked at  him confused for a moment.

"I have so many conversations to apologize for."

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. Before you could recover, Steve slipped an arm around your waist and effortlessly lifted you into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct.

GroupMe Chat: Too Honorable For His Own Good

Bucky: She's in my apartment.

Sam: Finally?

Nat: FINALLY?

Bucky: She just told me to get out.

Sam: OH MY GOD.

Nat: IT'S HAPPENING.

Bucky: Steve just said, "Everything okay, Sugar?"

Sam: ...

Nat: ...

Bucky: I'm leaving before Steve accidentally invents celibacy again.

Sam: Wise.

Nat: Check back in an hour.

Bucky: Absolutely not.

The next morning, Steve woke feeling warmer than usual. He looked down to find you tucked against his side, your head resting on his chest. A smile spread across his face.

As though sensing him awake, you stirred, stretching lazily before blinking up at him. The moment your eyes met, you smiled. Then you poked him in the chest. "You owe me a date, mister."

Steve blinked. "...A date?"

You leaned over and kissed him before nodding. "Yes."

"I thought..."He gave you that wonderfully helpless look you had come to know so well.

"I know."

He brushed a kiss against your temple. "I skipped straight to..."

Laughing, you nodded. "Yep."

He rolled, gently pinning you beneath him as a crooked smile tugged at his lips. "...Should've asked you out first, Sugar."

You reached up and kissed his cheek. "Good thing you still can."

Steve smiled against your lips before kissing you again, determined to start making up for lost time.

Hours later, Steve wandered out of his bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts.

Bucky was already in the kitchen making coffee. Without even turning around, he asked, "You finally figured it out?"

Steve groaned. "You knew?"

Laughing, Bucky poured himself a cup before finally looking over his shoulder. "She was breaking her own apartment just to see you, Stevie."

Steve dropped his forehead onto the counter. A helpless laugh escaped him. "I'm never living this down."

You wandered into the kitchen wearing one of Steve's T-shirts. "Not living what down?"

Steve looked up at you, smiling despite himself. "You were creating things for me to fix, Sugar?"

Shrugging, you stole Bucky's coffee mug before he could take his first sip. "I wanted to see you."

Bucky sighed dramatically. "I cannot believe that actually worked."

You took a sip of his coffee. "It worked every time."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "...In my defense, things really were broken."

You and Bucky looked at each other. Then both of you looked back at Steve.

Steve frowned. "What?"

Bucky reached for the coffee mug still in your hand. "I'd like my coffee back."

You took another sip. "No."

Bucky looked at Steve. "You see what you've done?"

Steve smiled. "I think she's wonderful."

Bucky stared at him for a long moment. Then he threw both hands into the air. "Respectfully..." He pointed between the two of you. "...you're both exhausting."

GroupMe Chat: Too Honorable For His Own Good

Bucky: They figured it out.

Sam: Define "figured it out."

Bucky: Steve finally realized she wasn't into me.

Nat: HOW?

Bucky: She kissed him.

Sam: That'll do it.

Nat: Took a direct system reboot.

Bucky: He's apologizing to her right now for not asking her on a date first.

Sam: ...

Nat: That's actually kind of adorable.

Bucky: I hate that you're right.

Sam: So... are we deleting this chat?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

Nat: Evidence.

Sam: Historical record.

Bucky: In case Steve ever forgets again.

Evans Varaints Masterlist

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Twisted metal, broken glass, Remains of a dangerous crash. Exposed bone, seeping blood, Hold on baby here comes the flood. Bright lights, loud noise, Strange that these are joys. Floating darkness, numbing pain, What was my name?

It was dark and you were floating in a sea of nothingness. There was pain, dull, and voices, but nothing you could make out. You tried to open your eyes, thinking that must be why it was dark, but they were so heavy you gave up for now. The floating was nice.

You became conscious again to voices around you and light above you, but it was all still hazy. The voices seemed closer now. You tried to open your eyes again, and this time they fluttered, not really opening, but moving, and you knew you could not give up. Bright light be damned.

It was a fight to surface, and when you first opened your eyes, that damnable brightness forced you to close them again quickly.

Taking a deep breath, you opened them again slowly and looked around. Everything was in shades of white, and it took a second to realize it was not your eyes; it was the room. Everything was sterile, white or some variation of eggshell. An IV was in your arm, rails along the bed.

Hospital. The word came to you in a rush as your eyes landed on a man far too large for the chair he was curled up in, asleep. He had pale skin, long dark brown hair, and scruff on his cheeks. You had no idea who he was, but he was definitely good-looking. Why was he here?

It took a moment to find the nurse call button, but with some effort from your obviously out-of-use limbs, you finally reached the red button. It took another moment before a nurse came in, not even looking your way, just focusing on the man with a confused expression before finally turning to you and dropping her clipboard, eyes wide.

"You're awake?" It takes her a moment to collect herself as you struggle to clear your parched throat and speak, but only a gurgled grunt comes out. Finally, she ducks her head out of the room, calling for a doctor, saying that you are awake.

It is enough to wake the man, and deep blue eyes land on you and widen before he throws himself out of the chair toward you.

He breathes a name you do not recognize and takes your hand. "Baby, I missed you so much."

It is too much. With your weak muscles, it takes effort, but you pull back, confused. That only seems to confuse him more, but he does not get to say anything as the doctor comes in, beginning to take your vital signs and forcing him to step back so they can work.

After shining a light in your eyes, the doctor finally asks, "Do you know where you are?"

With your still dry throat, you croak, "A hospital."

The doctor nods. "Correct. I'm Dr. Martins. What's your name?"

You go to answer, but draw a blank. You look down at your lap, searching, but nothing comes. Startled, you look back up at the doctor, fear in your eyes. "I, I don't know."

The man who had been sleeping in your room says that unfamiliar name again, telling you it is yours, but you just shake your head. The doctor pulls your attention back. "Do you know this man?" He points to the brunette, whose eyes are imploring you to say his name.

You look back at the doctor and shake your head. "No. I have no idea who he is."

The air leaves the room. Or at least, that is what it feels like, judging by the reaction from the man, the doctor, and the nurse. Before he can completely fall apart, the nurse pulls him from the room as the doctor keeps asking questions.

What year is it? What state are you in? Who is the president? What are your parents' names?

Your answer to all of it is the same.

You don't know.

There is nothing; your mind is a complete blank, save for the lingering emptiness from before and this blonde angel talking to you. But you cannot say if that is real or some fever dream.

After an exhaustive number of questions, the doctor finally nods. "The name that young man said is correct. That is your name. You were in a bad car crash with another driver and have been in a coma for almost a year."

All you can do is look at him like he has two heads. "What? Is the other driver okay? Am I okay? What is happening? Who was that guy?" The questions spill out of your mouth as your world seems to spin.

The doctor puts a kind hand on your shoulder, grounding you before you can spiral. "Breathe for me."

You take a deep breath, then another, and the world settles. "Can you answer any of my questions, please?"

He gives you an equally kind, resigned smile and begins to answer. "You were going through an intersection when a drunk driver ran a red light and struck you. She was injured too, but is now in jail for reckless endangerment and vehicular assault. You were badly injured, but now you are simply weak and apparently have retrograde amnesia." He takes a breath. "That man in here was your fiancé. Bucky Barnes is his name."

Your head spins again. Not only do you not remember any of that, you do not even know who you are, let alone your own fiancé. You lick your lips and look back up at the doctor. "Will my memory come back?"

The doctor shakes his head. "We need to do a few tests before I can give you a proper answer. But my hope is that, with time, you will recover your memories."

You swallow hard. "What kind of tests?"

He smiles. "Nothing invasive. We just need to do some brain imaging and cognitive tests to see how severe your memory loss is. It does seem like you remember basic functions, like how to talk, but we need to know what you need help with."

Looking down, you take a breath and nod. "Okay, okay. Um, what about the guy? I mean, Bucky? That was his name, right?"

Dr. Martins meets your eyes. "That is entirely up to you. I will not have you uncomfortable just to soothe someone else. You are my patient, so if you want him to leave, that is what I will tell him." He tilts his head, shrugging slightly. "If, however, you are okay with him coming in to talk with you, I think it would be good for you and may help shake loose some memories."

You consider for a moment, then look back at the doctor. "Can I change my mind later? I mean, if I let him in now and it becomes too much, would you ask him to leave?"

He nods. "Of course."

Taking a deep breath, you nod again. "He can come in then. For now."

Smiling, he nods, taking your chart and beginning to write. "I will order the tests and some food for you, but I do not want you pushing yourself yet."

You nod, and the doctor leaves. The man, Bucky, comes back in after speaking with him for a moment.

He shuffles a little, looking unsure as he approaches the bed. You take pity on him. "I may not remember you, but I'm not going to bite. I promise."

Bucky lets out a startled chuckle. "Sorry, just…" He searches your face. "You really don't remember anything?"

Shrugging, you fidget. "I'm sorry. I really don't." You take a breath. "I didn't even recognize the name you called me."

He whispers it again, and you bite your lip. Bucky sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. "What did the doctor tell you?"

"That your name is Bucky Barnes, and you're supposed to be my fiancé." You watch him, his dark blue eyes still searching for some sign of recognition, finding none.

He swallows, and you see his Adam’s apple bob with the effort. "I am your fiancé. We got engaged a few months before the crash. We hadn't done much planning yet."

Biting your lip again, you search his face, trying to remember him, but still come up empty. Instead, you grasp for a different question. "Do I have a family? I mean, parents, siblings?"

His hand goes through his shaggy brown hair again. "Uh, yeah. Your folks are still alive. I need to call them. But you were an only child. You did… well, we do have some close friends that are like family too."

Nodding, you twist the sheets in your hands. "Do they visit?"

Bucky nods, taking a deep breath, a small smile pulling at his mouth. "Yeah, they do. Your folks will probably be here as soon as I call. Our friends might take a bit, but they'll all come through pretty quickly now that you're awake. Do you remember anyone?"

Shaking your head, you sigh. "No. It's all blank. I don't even remember myself."

He tentatively takes your hand, and you let him, if only for the comfort of another human being. "Are you okay to see everyone then? I mean, it might be overwhelming."

For a moment, you consider that. Yes, it will be overwhelming to have a bunch of people who know everything about you but whom you do not recognize, but, and it is a big but, you hope that maybe something will shake loose. Resolved, you look into his eyes. "It will be, but I don't know who I am, and I will only get better if I try. Maybe you can warn them first?"

"Okay, yeah, I can do that." He pauses. "Thank you for wanting to try. I mean, not that you normally wouldn't, but this all has to be a little scary right now."

Your shoulders relax. "It is, but scared can't be all I am."

Bucky smiles at that, like you said something familiar. As a nurse comes in with some ice chips and broth, he rolls his shoulders. "I, uh, guess I should give you some space then. Let you eat and do all those tests the doctor wants. I'll be back later with your folks."

You give a small wave as he retreats out the door, then turn gratefully to let some ice chips slide down your sore throat.

A few hours later, after an MRI and CT scan, as well as more cognitive tests than you knew were possible, it was confirmed that, as far as functioning and basic knowledge, you were fine, but no personal memories remained.

The nurse wheels you back to your room, where you are greeted by Bucky and an older couple who look excited but subdued. You assume they are your parents. It is an awkward meeting. These people watched you grow up, but now you cannot even feel recognition for them. They are patient and kind, and you talk with them for a bit, listening as they tell you stories of your childhood that feel more like stories than memories you can grasp.

According to your mom and dad, you and Bucky Barnes, along with his best friend Steve Rogers and your other friends Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, Pepper Potts, Sam Wilson, and Tony Stark had been thick as thieves since the eight of you were in elementary school. Only in college, though, had you and Bucky started dating and eventually become engaged.

None of it feels real; it all sounds like things that happened to someone else, in a different life. Eventually, you grow tired after so many tests and so much new information. As your energy fades, Bucky and your parents head out to let you rest.

The next few weeks go much the same, settling into something like a routine. The doctors run tests and begin working on rehab for both your body and your mind, and it is slow, frustrating work, full of small victories that feel insignificant and setbacks that feel far too large.

Bucky comes by almost every day, often with your parents, sometimes with his friends. Well, you suppose technically they are your friends too, though that still feels unreal. You thought you would meet his best friend Steve first, but apparently he is out of the country with his girlfriend Peggy, visiting her family in England, and the explanation comes with a flicker of something in Bucky’s expression that is gone too fast for you to name.

The next person you meet outside of hospital personnel is Sam Wilson. Bucky shows up as usual, hope written all over his face in a way that makes your chest tighten before you even speak, and when you confirm once again that you have no memory outside of after waking up, you watch that hope dim into the same tight smile he has worn every morning. He nods. "I have someone here to meet you today if you're up for it."

You sit up a little more in the bed, curious despite yourself. "Sure. Someone I used to know?"

Bucky nods and opens the door, motioning someone in. A tall man with a warm, easy presence steps inside, offering you a sheepish smile. "Hey. I'm guessing you don't know me anymore. I'm Sam. Sam Wilson." He holds out his hand, and you take it gently, still getting used to how your body feels.

You give him a small, self-deprecating smile. "I know you know me, but nice to meet you."

Sam’s smile softens instead of faltering as he takes a seat beside your bed like he belongs there. "Yeah, I figured we'd just start there." He studies you for a second, not in the searching way Bucky does, but like he is trying to understand where you are now. "So this must be weird, having people tell you things about yourself but not really being able to connect to it."

You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. "Yeah. It only gets more frustrating. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the effort."

That gets a real laugh out of both of them, easing something in the room, and Bucky lingers for a moment like he is deciding whether to stay before finally stepping back. "I'll let you two talk." You watch him go, noticing the way he hesitates at the door before pulling it closed behind him.

Then it is just you and Sam, and somehow it is easier. He does not try to make you remember him or test you, he just talks, telling you how you met in a sandbox, about Steve and Bucky getting into trouble, about you apparently being the one who got them out of it more often than not, offering pieces of himself like something to build from instead of something you have lost.

At some point he pulls out his phone and opens a music app. "I know you don't remember anything," he says, handing it to you, "but I thought it might help for you to just listen to some music and see what you like. Don't worry about what you used to like; just decide what you like now."

The choice hits you harder than you expect, your throat tightening as something dangerously close to tears rises, not from frustration this time but from relief. "Thank you," you manage, smiling at him. "I'd really like that."

For a few hours, you and Sam go through every genre and decade, arguing over songs and artists, discovering what you like, what you hate, and what makes you laugh for no reason at all. Bucky comes back somewhere in the middle but does not interrupt, just sitting quietly off to the side and watching as Sam helps you create something new, and when you catch him looking at you, something soft and almost painful flickers across his expression before he looks away. It is not a real memory, but it is something that tells you who you are that you did not have before.

A few days later, Bucky walks into the room with three women who smile at you and introduce themselves as Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, and Pepper Potts. You cannot help but smile back, though you notice how comfortable Bucky seems around them, maybe a little too comfortable for someone who is supposed to be your fiancé. You are almost sure that is just you, though, since none of them seem to notice.

Once again, he leaves you with them as they take seats around your bed, and quickly it turns into what you can only assume a sleepover would have been like. The three of them are so different, but the way they fall into conversation makes it obvious they are close. They talk about their lives, their relationships, and you—about how you have always been the one they go to, the one who listens, the one who somehow makes things make sense.

Especially Pepper, who rolls her eyes fondly as she talks about Tony Stark.

"He is a menace," she says, though she is smiling.

Natasha snorts. "You love it."

"That is not the point."

Wanda laughs, glancing between you and Pepper. "You two usually just sit there and let us complain about Tony and Bucky."

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. "And then remind us we picked them."

There is an ease to it, a rhythm you cannot quite step into, but you can see the shape of it—until something catches. The mention of Bucky being a flirt lands somewhere deep, sharp in a way you cannot explain, not a memory, not even a feeling, just an echo that refuses to settle. Natasha notices first and smoothly shifts the conversation before it can linger.

They spend the rest of the day helping you figure out things that feel almost embarrassingly basic—your favorite color, your style, even how you like your coffee now—and like Sam, they seem more interested in learning who you are now than pushing you to remember who you were.

About halfway through the day, the door swings open and Tony Stark drops in like he owns the place. "All right, which one of you is the problem child?"

Pepper sighs immediately. "Tony—"

He ignores her, eyes landing on you as he crosses the room without hesitation. "Tony Stark. Billionaire, genius, occasional pain in the ass." And then he hugs you like it is the most normal thing in the world. You freeze for half a second before awkwardly hugging him back, and he pulls away like nothing about this is strange. "Good, you hug back. That's a strong start."

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and that is new.

He does not ask what you remember or try to tell you who you used to be, he just talks to you like this is your first meeting and immediately starts teasing you like he does everyone. "We are definitely upgrading your situation," he says, glancing around the room. "This is depressing."

"Tony," Pepper warns.

"What? It is." He looks back at you. "We will fix it. I have opinions."

You huff out a laugh. "I believe that."

He points at you immediately. "Oh, I like you. We are keeping this version."

Pepper looks aghast, Natasha looks entertained, Wanda looks delighted.

Tony studies you for a second, then snaps his fingers. "Daisy."

You blink. "What?"

"You need a nickname. Daisy. It works."

Pepper stares at him. "You cannot just rename her."

"Watch me." He gestures vaguely. "It is better than Ditzy, considering—"

"Tony!"

You laugh again, louder this time, surprising yourself. "Daisy," you repeat, testing it, and it should feel wrong, but it does not. It feels easier, more natural than the name they keep telling you is yours.

At the end of the day, Bucky circles back and pauses just inside the door, taking in the sound of your laughter before his gaze lands on you, something shifting in his expression—relief, maybe, or something more complicated.

Tony claps him on the shoulder. "Good news. She likes me best."

Bucky shakes his head, but there is no real heat behind it. "I'm not surprised," he mutters, before noticing the exhaustion finally catching up to you and stepping in to usher everyone out despite Tony’s protests. "All right, out. She needs to rest."

The room empties slowly, voices trailing off into the hallway, and just like that, it is quiet again.

That night you dream of him again, or at least you think it is a him. The blonde angel who keeps showing up in your dreams with sunlight behind him as he looks down at you.

Everyone seems to take turns showing up to see you, helping you build something new out of pieces you do not recognize, telling you stories and offering memories as you try to learn things about yourself and them from both before and after the crash.

Almost a month after waking up, Bucky comes in with two new people, a brunette woman and a blonde man with ocean-blue eyes that, the moment your gaze meets his, steals the breath from your lungs. Something in your chest tightens in a way you do not understand.

Bucky is speaking, introducing them, but his words blur together as your attention fixes entirely on the man. Peggy, he says first, and she smiles warmly at you with that beautiful British accent, but you barely register it. Then he turns to introduce the man, and before he can, you are already speaking.

You breathe out his name. "Steve?"

The blonde stills, clearly having noticed your fixation, and steps forward carefully. "Yeah," he says, searching your face. "You guessed that right?"

You shake your head, eyes wide. "You're Steven Grant Rogers. Born on the Fourth of July… and you're my best friend."

The room goes quiet as Steve moves closer, looking at you like the world just shifted under his feet. "You remember me?"

And then it hits. Not slowly, not gently, but all at once.

You and Steve swinging in your backyard as kids, sunlight in your eyes and laughter in your chest. A much smaller, skinnier Steve at a Sadie Hawkins dance, trying so hard to keep up with you. Steve holding you years later, steady and unshaking as you cried into his shoulder.

Your best friend.

Your Steve.

You nearly sob as the real him takes your hand, your vision blurring as you nod. "Yes." You take a shaky breath. "I don't remember my own name, but I remember you."

That is what breaks you.

The tears come fast, and Steve does not hesitate, pulling you into his arms like it is instinct, like he has done it a thousand times before, holding you together as you fall apart.

Over your head, his expression shifts as he looks at Bucky, something uncertain and almost afraid in his eyes, because what does it mean that you remember him and no one else?

And behind him, Bucky has gone very still.

Part Two

The small room was bare except for a single chair. A blindfolded, gagged man sat tied to it while Lloyd paced lazily around him. He sighed. Torture was so tedious. Unfortunately, sometimes it had to be done.

He stopped behind the chair and ripped the blindfold away. "Hi there."

The man blinked rapidly against the harsh light.

"We're going to have a little chat." Lloyd crouched in front of him, resting his forearms on his knees as though they were about to have a perfectly civilized conversation.

"I ask questions," he smiled pleasantly. "You answer them. Honestly." He stood again with another sigh.

"If you don't…" He reached over to the nearby table, picked up a pair of pliers, and gave them a thoughtful glance before looking back at the prisoner. "…there will be consequences." He twirled them once between his fingers. "Do we understand each other?"

The man made a muffled sound behind the gag.

"I'll take that as a yes." Lloyd pulled the gag free.

"Now then…" He folded his hands behind his back. "Where's the device?"

"I—I don't know what you're talking about."

Lloyd pinched the bridge of his nose. "I did warn you." He sounded almost disappointed. "You've really brought this on yourself."

He reached for another instrument and used it to force the man's mouth open. "Now… breathe through your nose."

The pliers disappeared into the prisoner's mouth. A moment later, Lloyd gave a sharp tug. The man's scream echoed off the concrete walls.

Lloyd casually tossed the tooth onto the table. "Now," he said, as though nothing unusual had happened, "let's try that again."

His phone rang. He froze for only a fraction of a second. That ringtone. At two in the morning, it could only be one person. Holding up a finger toward the prisoner as though asking him to wait a moment, Lloyd answered.

You did not even say hello. "My car won't start."

Without hesitation, he replied, "Send me your location." The call ended.

Lloyd slipped the phone back into his pocket and drew a slow breath before glancing at the man still groaning in the chair.

"Sorry," he said almost conversationally. "Someone more important needs me." He replaced the gag and turned toward the door.

One of his men looked up as Lloyd stepped into the hallway. "Already?"

Lloyd rolled his eyes. "No." He jerked his thumb toward the interrogation room. "I just have somewhere else to be." He paused for a moment, considering. "Turn the heat up in there."

The other man frowned.

Lloyd smirked. "Let him sweat."

Without another word, he was already walking down the hallway, keys in hand, punching your location into his phone as he headed for the parking garage.

You pushed your hand through your hair for what had to be the hundredth time that night. You felt ridiculous. You had gone out with your friends and volunteered to be the designated driver, and after making sure everyone got home safely, your reward had been a dead car on the side of the road.

At least Lloyd was on his way. You knew exactly what people said about him. You had heard every story. None of them scared you.

Twenty minutes after your call, familiar headlights pulled in behind your car. Lloyd stepped out, his eyes finding you first before drifting to the open hood. "What's wrong, sugar?"

You shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. It just… won't even turn over."

The hood was already raised, so Lloyd walked straight to the engine bay. He looked things over for a moment, pressing here, checking there, before glancing back at you. "Try it one more time."

You climbed into the driver's seat with an exasperated huff and turned the key. The dashboard lit up. Click. Nothing else.

Lloyd nodded once. "Starter's fried." Simple as that.

He closed the hood before walking around to your door and offering you his hand. "Come on."

You looked up at him.

"I'll get you home. Tomorrow I'll replace the starter and bring your car back."

You slipped your hand into his. "Thank you."

He helped you out before locking your car and leading you to his. Moments later he was behind the wheel, pulling away from the curb as though he'd already driven this route a hundred times.

Which, considering how often he had taken you home, he probably had. "Why're you out this late, sugar?"

Leaning back in your seat, you pulled out your phone. "I was out with friends. Just dropped the last one off." You fired off a quick text. "I'm letting her know where the car is so she can keep an eye on it."

You tucked your phone away and glanced over at Lloyd. Even at two in the morning, he looked exactly as he always did. Perfectly put together. Completely in control. Somehow that ridiculous mustache still worked.

Lloyd caught you looking and chuckled softly. "You know…" His eyes stayed on the road. "You're the only person who could call me this late and I'd answer."

You frowned. "Why?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "Simple." A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Because everybody else is everybody else."

Your heart melted. Without another thought, you unbuckled your seat belt and carefully climbed into his lap, turning sideways so your back rested against the driver door.

Lloyd did not so much as flinch. One hand remained steady on the steering wheel while the other settled comfortably on your thigh just beneath the hem of your skirt. Like you had done this before. Like he trusted you completely.

You tucked your face against his neck and breathed him in. "I like how you are with me."

His thumb stroked your leg once. A slow smile spread across his face. "That's because you've earned it."

You smiled into his neck and stayed there the rest of the drive home. When he pulled into your driveway, Lloyd walked you all the way to your front door.

Before you could reach for the knob, he caught your chin gently between his fingers and kissed you. It was slow. Unhurried. Far softer than anyone who knew Lloyd Hansen would ever believe.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for just a second. "Get some sleep, sugar."

You nodded.

"I've got work to finish, but I'll see you tomorrow when I bring your car back."

You wrapped your arms around him in one last hug. "Thank you. See you tomorrow."

He waited until you were safely inside before heading back to his car. Sliding behind the wheel, Lloyd let out a quiet sigh and shook his head.

"Woman makes me soft." He smirked to himself as he started the engine. "Fuck."

Evans Variants Masterlist

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It had been one of those days where you just needed a hug. You somehow managed to make it through by wearing a convincing smile and insisting you were fine whenever anyone asked how you were doing. No one questioned the tightness around your eyes or the sighs you could not quite keep from escaping.

One thought carried you through the day. You were spending the evening with Steve. Being with him always made the world feel a little quieter.

The two of you sat across from one another talking about nothing in particular, laughing here and there as the tension slowly eased from your shoulders. Or at least you thought it had.

Steve's expression softened. "What's wrong?"

You looked up. "What?"

"You've been somewhere else all night." He ducked his head to catch your now lowered eyes.

You forced a small smile. "I'm okay."

He did not believe you for a second. "You don't have to tell me." His voice was as gentle as ever. "But come here."

You tilted your head.

"If you're not going to talk about it," he said, opening his arms, "at least let me hug you."

Your heart melted. Smiling gratefully, you stood and crossed the room. 

The moment Steve's arms wrapped around you, the carefully built walls around your emotions crumbled. A sob escaped before you could stop it. Then another. Your knees gave out beneath you.

Strong arms caught you before you could fall, effortlessly lifting you onto his lap as though there was nowhere else in the world you belonged. Steve simply held you. He wrapped you tightly against his chest and gently rocked the two of you back and forth while your tears soaked into the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

"I've got you," he whispered. Over and over. "I've got you."

You clung to him desperately, your fingers gripping the back of his shirt as though letting go might send you drifting apart completely.

Steve never loosened his embrace. He became your anchor. The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty of his arms were the only things keeping you connected to the world while everything inside you finally broke loose.

Eventually the sobs faded into shaky breaths. The tears stopped. Only the trembling remained. Embarrassed, you shifted slightly. "I should…"

Steve tightened his arms just enough to stop you. "No."

You looked up at him.

He hugged you tighter to him. "Just stay here a while." 

You searched his face. There was not an ounce of judgment there. Only concern. Only patience.

Pressing his forehead to yours, he whispered. "I'll watch over you."

Something about those words settled the last of the storm inside you. You relaxed completely against him. 

Once he was sure you were no longer falling apart, his embrace softened. One hand slowly traced comforting circles across your back while the other gently combed through your hair. He never stopped rocking. The motion was slow and steady, as dependable as everything else about him. After a while Steve began humming softly.

You did not recognize the tune. It did not matter. It was warm. Comforting. Safe. 

Your eyelids slowly grew heavier. You fought to stay awake, not wanting to become one more thing Steve had to take care of tonight. The battle did not last long. Your breathing evened out. Your body relaxed completely against his.

Steve smiled to himself and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Sweet dreams," he whispered. Still holding you securely against his chest, he continued humming as sleep finally claimed you, content to keep watch for as long as you needed.

Evans Variants Masterlist

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As he places the last infinity stone back in its proper timeline and his moment to return to 2023 draws near, Steve vacillates over the decision he made before leaving Bruce, Sam, and Bucky standing there. When the time comes, he makes his choice and lets the timestamp pass him by, leaving himself in 1949.

First, he finds clothes that will help him blend in more than his suit, and with his heart thundering in his chest, Steve heads to Peggy’s home. Upon arrival, though, he notices two cars parked out front. Curious and a little wary, he moves closer and finds a window with the curtains open. Tears prick at his eyes when he sees Peggy with a good-looking dark-haired man. They are hardly just talking either.

Turning away, Steve leans his head against the brick wall as his heart shatters. Not that he could blame Peggy for moving on when it seemed like he was dead.

Of course, he remembers that before he watched her pass in his own timeline, she told him she was married with kids. He had hoped, with his decision to stay, that he had been her husband—the one he never met. Now, though, he is not sure what to do.

Heart heavy, he walks away from the house, at first just wandering, but eventually he finds himself at a familiar veterans bar, far newer than the last time he saw it. Sighing, he walks in, takes a seat at the bar, orders a whiskey, and tells the barkeep to leave the bottle. Even if he cannot get drunk, he can damn well try. The burn of the liquid is satisfying, at least.

About halfway through the bottle, he hears his name called over his shoulder. Turning, he is surprised to see one of the girls from the USO tour staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Steve?” You were sure you were seeing things. As far as you knew, Steve Rogers was MIA before the war even ended.

As the blonde man turns to look at you, you feel like you are staring at a ghost. “Judas Priest! It is you.”

He gives you a wary, unsure smile as you step closer and says your name. “What are you doing at a bar like this, doll?”

You take the stool next to him, shaking your head. “I waitress here sometimes. I was just coming to pick up my check. Where have you been? Better yet, what are you doing in a bar?”

Steve puffs out his cheeks as he lets out a breath. “It’s a long story.”

Dipping your head to catch his eyes, you respond, “I’m not exactly in a rush to get anywhere.”

He tries to wave you off, but you always had a soft spot for the gentlemanly captain. “Come on, there’s a café around the corner with the best chocolate milkshakes. That’ll probably do more for your mood than that crap, since you can’t even get drunk.”

Once more he protests, and you put your hands on your hips. “I’m not taking no for an answer, mister.”

Giving you a small, reluctant smile at your persistence, he finally gets up and follows you out of the bar and down the street to a malt shop.

Once settled into a booth opposite each other with two chocolate milkshakes, Steve avoids your eyes, making you call his name. When he looks up, your heart aches at the pain and sadness in those beautiful ocean-blue eyes. “Come on, soldier, talk to me.”

With a sigh, he finally takes a drink of the milkshake. “You won’t believe half of it.”

You level him with a dry glare. “Steve, I was the only USO girl who knew you before the experiment, and I volunteered as a nurse after that. There are very few things that surprise me anymore.”

That brings a real smile to his lips. “Doll, you have no idea what you’re asking of me.”

“Of course I don’t,” you shoot back, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Because you won’t tell me.”

Leaning his head back against the booth, he rolls his shoulders. “What do you know about when I started working with the Howling Commandos—and after?”

Pausing, you think back. “I remember you coming back with all those men and starting to go on missions. But even as a Red Cross nurse, all I really knew was what the papers reported. The last thing the world was told was that you were MIA after blowing up some Nazi compound.”

He finally looks at you, and the breath leaves you at how very old he seems in that moment. “There’s a lot more to it. I went down in the Arctic on a plane carrying bombs I couldn’t let reach the cities they were meant for.”

Brows furrowing, you search his face. “How’d you make it out? Where have you been for four years?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “This is where it gets unbelievable.” He fidgets for a moment. “I was frozen in the Arctic ice for seventy years. When I woke up, the world had moved on.”

“Wait—seventy years? That’s the future, Steve.” Completely confused now, you wait with bated breath for him to explain.

Giving you a wary smile, he nods. “Yeah, it is. I woke up in 2011. And a million things happened, but to make a long, unbelievable story short…” He exhales. “Someone bigger and badder than any Nazi I fought showed up and wiped out half the population. Five years later, the team I was working with figured out how to go back in time to get what we needed to fix everything. And after we won—at great cost—I went back again to put those things where they belonged.” He hesitates briefly. “Then I decided to stay.”

It all sounds like something out of a science fiction novel, but Steve looks so sincere you have a hard time not believing him. You ask the only thing you can think of. “How long? I mean… how long were you in the future? What year did you come back from?”

“Wait—you believe me?” He looks completely floored.

You give him a bemused look. “Of course I do. You were never one to lie, Steve.”

Befuddled by your easy acceptance, he shakes his head, then finally answers you. “I came back from 2023. I was there just over a decade.” He studies you. “Why?”

Shrugging, you chew your bottom lip. “I was curious how much time you had to adjust… to being from a different time and everything that happened after the ice. You must have made friends there.” A small pause. “Didn’t you have to leave them behind to come back?”

His eyes go distant as he thinks of everything—and everyone—he left behind to return to a time he is not even supposed to be in. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I did. But I thought it was worth it.”

Cautiously, you brush your finger over his to bring him back to the present. “You thought what was worth it?”

Swallowing hard, you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the effort. Steve stares down into his half-empty glass. “Before I went into the ice, I sort of was with this woman. Peggy. We never officially dated or anything, but…” He sighs heavily. “…I owed her a dance.”

Your voice softens as you take his hand, trying to comfort him. “What happened?”

Devastated blue eyes lock on yours. “She moved on.” He shakes his head. “I can’t really blame her, but I didn’t expect to see her with someone else.”

“If I have this right, you’re now stuck here in 1949, your girl’s moved on, and you’ve got no connections and no prospects?” You sum up everything that has been weighing on him for the past few hours. He just nods, taking another drink of the milkshake.

Making a decision, you set your jaw. “Then you’re coming home with me.”

His eyes widen as they snap back to you. “Huh?”

You give him a look that brooks no argument. “You don’t have anywhere else to go, do you? Besides, you kept all those handsy guys off me during the tour without ever asking for anything. The least I can do is let you stay in my guest room while you figure things out.”

Steve breathes out your name. “Are you insane? You know what people would think of an unmarried woman letting a man stay with her.”

You consider that for a moment, then give a dismissive wave. “It will hardly be the worst thing my neighbors think of me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. “What does that mean?”

Finishing off your milkshake, you make a noncommittal sound. “Just that I’m already damaged goods as far as the neighborhood is concerned, so you staying with me for a while isn’t going to change much.”

He knows there is more to that story, but he can tell you are not going to explain it. Instead of accepting the offer, he tries deflection. “I don’t even know what I would do.”

With a small laugh, you smile at him. “Figure out what you want to do besides being a soldier. Get your girl back. The possibilities are endless.”

When he looks at you again, he knows he is not going to win this one. “This is one of those times you’re not taking no for an answer, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” You pop the “p” for emphasis.

Steve finishes off his shake, pays the waitress, and gets to his feet. You follow close behind. Just outside the café, he glances at you and offers his arm. “Well, lead the way. I don’t know where you live now.”

Beaming, you slip your arm through his and guide him down the quiet streets to your home.

Once inside, you show him around and finally to the guest room. “Here we are. Like I said, you can stay as long as you want. No rush to figure everything out, okay?”

Giving you a grateful look, he smiles. “Good night, then, doll.”

You turn toward your own room. “Night, Steve.”

It takes Steve a moment to settle in and wrap his head around the last few hours. Could he really just start over? Could he get Peggy back? And what the hell did you mean by 'damaged goods'?

Despite the thoughts racing through his mind, exhaustion finally claims him, and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, it takes Steve a moment to remember where—and when—he is. After taking care of his morning ablutions, he wanders into the kitchen to find you making oatmeal for the two of you, humming an old song from the tour. It makes him chuckle.

The sound startles you, and you spin around with a hand over your heart. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Steve, make some noise.”

“Sorry, habit.” He gives you a sheepish look.

Taking a deep breath, you carry the two bowls to the table along with some coffee. “Soup’s on. Take a seat.”

The two of you sit, and at first you just eat in silence. Then you fidget for a moment. “What’s the plan, soldier? How are you going to get your girl back?”

Steve pauses, licking his lips. “I have no idea. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He gives you a self-deprecating smile. “I’m still kind of hopeless when it comes to women.”

You snicker, remembering all the girls who used to throw themselves at the oblivious young man. “Well, maybe we start by getting you established, then. Got any ideas what you’d like to do for a living now?”

He leans back in his seat. “I’d still like to help people. Or maybe do something with my art. I don’t know—I never really thought about what I’d do after being Captain America for so long.”

Thinking for a moment, you realize that as far as the world is concerned, Steve Rogers is dead. “We should start by going to the VA. We need to bring you back to life, but you’re going to need a more believable story than ‘you came back from the future.’”

“That’s actually a good idea, but I’m no good at making things up.” He gives you a helpless sort of look that makes your heart leap, and you quickly shake your head to dismiss the thought.

“The best lies come from a grain of truth.” You pause, letting your imagination take over. “Let’s start with you going down in the plane but making it out of the crash because… let’s say a local found you and pulled you out, and you’ve been staying with them until your memory came back.” You glance at him to see what he thinks.

Impressed by your quick thinking, Steve nods. “Yeah, okay, but how did I get back?”

You bite your lip as you think, missing the way Steve’s eyes dart to the motion before flicking back to your face. “Kindness of strangers?”

Tilting his head, he rolls the idea around. “That’s believable. And vague enough to work.”

Smiling, you clap your hands. “Perfect. Then we just need to get you down to the local VA, spin the story, and bring you back to life.” Then another idea hits you. “You used to work with your girl, right? Maybe it would make sense for you to work with that organization again.”

Steve pauses at that. Could he work for a newly formed S.H.I.E.L.D., knowing what he did about Hydra’s infiltration? “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Okay, it’s your life. We don’t have to figure that out now. Let’s just bring you back to life first.” You give him an empathetic look, not sure where his hesitation comes from but knowing Steve always has a good reason for what he does.

He gives you a grateful look and adds, “I need to find a way for it not to be a huge headline. I don’t want all that attention.”

You nod in understanding as you take a last sip of coffee. “Hmm. Well, maybe instead of amnesia, you were working on something classified. That way, making a big deal of you being back would threaten whatever you were doing.”

Pushing a hand through his hair, Steve nods. “Yeah, that also gives me a reason to dodge any other questions about where I’ve been.”

Clearing the dishes from breakfast, you smile at him again. “Okay, are you ready then?”

Sighing, he nods. “Yeah. As I’ll ever be.”

Together, you make your way out to your car, and you drive to the VA office.

Part Two

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You met the young, gifted Mary Adler in a college calculus class, and despite her being only fourteen to your twenty, the two of you hit it off right away. It was obvious Mary was a prodigy in math, and just as obvious she had no interest in literature—which was hilarious to you, considering you had been a published fiction author at her age, making you a fellow prodigy.

It started one day after class when you noticed her lingering in the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting to be picked up. Not wanting the smart little girl to be stuck there alone, you walked over.

“Hey, is your ride home late?” you ask with a small smile.

Mary shrugs, already a little irritated. “My Uncle Frank isn’t usually late, but apparently he is today.”

“It’s nice outside,” you say, nodding toward the doors. “If you want, I can wait with you.”

She hesitates for a second—quick, thoughtful—then follows you out, and the two of you settle on the steps in front of the building.

“What was your name again?” she asks.

You tell her, then tilt your head. “It was Mary, right?” She nods. “Do you just take classes here, or do you go to a regular school too?”

She looks at you, surprised. “I do both. How’d you guess?”

A grin spreads across your face. “Because when I was your age, I was taking literature classes like you take math classes and doing everything else at a public school.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

You nod, a little amused. “Have you published anything yet?”

Mary shifts, a faint blush creeping in. “Yeah. Earlier this year. My first paper.”

You smile, genuinely impressed. “That’s amazing. I published my first book when I was fourteen—people still won’t shut up about it.” You roll your eyes, and she laughs, bumping your shoulder lightly with hers.

“What did you write?” she asks.

You shrug, offering a self-deprecating smile. “A fictional satire on teen life. It did well—critics liked it a little too much.” You glance at her. “I can bring you a copy if you want.”

“Wow, yeah, sure. I mostly read mathematics texts, but I would be curious to read something written by someone my own age.” Mary beams at you just as a man—gorgeous, a little disheveled, and clearly in a hurry—comes jogging up and bends over, trying to catch his breath.

Mary gives you an amused look and gestures toward him. “My uncle.”

You laugh, ignoring the way your stomach flips when you look at him. “I guessed.” You glance him over once—quick, contained—then lift a brow. “Are you going to make it?”

He waves you off, still catching his breath, then looks straight at Mary. “Sorry, kiddo. I got stuck on a repair and didn’t realize what time it was. My phone died, so my alarm never went off.”

Mary rests a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I made a friend while I was waiting.”

His bright blue eyes flick over to you—brief, but not nothing.

You give him a small, polite smile, then deliberately turn your attention back to Mary. She’s the one you were talking to. She matters more here. You make that clear—to him, to yourself.

“Sit next to me in class next time,” you tell her lightly. “So we can argue over answers. Even if I know you’re probably right.”

You give a small wave and start to walk away before you can linger.

“Make sure to bring me a copy of your book!” Mary calls after you.

You glance back over your shoulder, smiling. “Promise.”

Behind you, you hear him. “What book?”

Mary just shakes her head. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m sure Fred’s hungry.”

There’s a quiet pause, then the sound of him taking her hand.

You don’t turn around again.

Since that day, you started getting to class a little early—just enough time to sit and talk with Mary, who was always already there. You brought her a copy of your book the next class like you promised, and she devoured it, immediately peppering you with questions the second she finished. You answered all of them, then handed her your next book without much ceremony.

When she asked why you were going to college instead of just writing, you told her it was for the same reason you finished high school—you wanted the experience. The knowledge. The things you didn’t get the first time around.

That stuck with her.

The two of you ended up circling the idea more than once, coming at it from different angles—the pros and cons of being around people your own age, of actually being part of something instead of just moving past it.

Every once in a while, you exchanged a quick greeting with her uncle after class. Nothing more than that. It was obvious his focus was Mary, and you respected that about him—it made it easier not to think about anything else.

With spring break around the corner, you found yourself back on the steps with her after class. This time, she was already there, like she had been waiting.

“Frank’s at a parent-teacher conference today,” she says with a shrug. “He’s going to be late.”

You do not question it. The two of you fall into your usual spots, conversation picking up like it never stopped.

Leaning forward on your elbows from the step above, you glance down at her. “You got any plans for spring break?”

Mary smiles, shaking her head. “Mostly just hanging out with Roberta and Frank. What about you? Going to see your family?”

Your gaze drifts out across the stretch of campus greenery for a moment before you answer.

“No,” you say, quieter but steady. “I don’t have any family. I grew up in the foster system and aged out.” A small shrug follows, like it is not a big deal—even if it kind of is. “I usually just take a trip somewhere. Haven’t decided where yet.”

Mary’s expression shifts immediately—soft, confused—and she reaches out, placing a hand on your arm. “Where do you live if you don’t have a family?”

You push a hand through your hair, offering her a sheepish smile. “I live in the dorms on campus. I don’t really have a permanent home anywhere.” You wave it off with a small shrug. “It’s a life choice.”

Her brows pull together for a second as she thinks—then her whole face lights up.

“Why don’t you come stay with me for spring break?”

You cannot help but smile. She is, unfortunately, very convincing just by existing. You pull her into a quick side hug. “That’s really sweet, but you should probably talk to your uncle about that first.”

She shakes her head immediately. “I’m sure he’d be okay with it. Really.”

“What would I be okay with?”

You don’t even have time to brace before Frank walks up behind her.

Mary turns and hugs him quickly, then looks up at him with her most dangerous expression—the one that clearly works more often than it should. “Can she come stay with us for spring break, Frank? Please?”

His eyes—those eyes—shift to you.

You lift your hands in surrender, taking a small step back. “This is all her.”

He exhales, already halfway to saying no. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, kiddo. I’m sure she’s got family she wants to—”

“No, Frank, she doesn’t.” Mary cuts in, hugging him tighter. “Please.”

The shift is immediate.

His expression falters, something like realization settling in, and his gaze flicks back to you—sharper now, more careful.

“Sorry,” he says, quieter. “I didn’t know.”

You wave it off quickly. “It’s fine.” It is. It is not. You are used to it.

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, then sighs, looking back down at Mary. “Fine. But only if she actually wants to.”

Mary spins back to you, already glowing with expectation.

And really—how are you supposed to say no to that?

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah. I’d love to spend the week with you guys. Thank you.”

Mary beams and throws her arms around you before you can reconsider, then immediately grabs Frank and starts dragging him off, already talking about plans.

You stand there for a moment after they leave, then turn toward your dorm, exhaling slowly.

“…What did I just get myself into?”

Spring break comes faster than you expect, and before you know it, you are on a bus headed to St. Petersburg, Florida.

After getting off at the stop, you make your way through the quiet streets toward the address Mary gave you. When you reach the house, you notice immediately that Frank’s truck is not out front.

Not a great sign.

Still, you knock just in case. When no one answers, you settle onto the front steps, tug your laptop out of your duffle, and open it to start outlining ideas for your next novel. You have barely gotten a few thoughts down before you feel eyes on you.

Looking up, you spot a woman stepping out of the neighboring house—older, elegant, and watching you like she is already deciding whether you are a problem.

You smile and give her a small wave. “Hi.”

She does not wave back. She walks over, measured and direct. “Can I help you?”

You stand, brushing your hands off instinctively. “Hi—you must be Roberta.” You offer your hand, which she takes after a moment, still clearly assessing you. “I’m a friend of Mary’s from her college classes. She and Frank invited me to stay for spring break, but we never really nailed down a time, so I’m guessing they’re at the marina. I don’t mind waiting.”

Her expression shifts—just slightly.

“You’re a friend of Mary’s,” she says slowly, “not Frank’s?”

That makes you laugh, quick and unfiltered. “Oh, no. That old man and I barely exchange pleasantries. But I adore Mary.”

That does it.

Roberta huffs a laugh, some of the suspicion melting away, and gestures for you to follow her. “Come on. You’re not sitting out here all afternoon.”

You tuck your laptop away and follow her inside. Tea appears, conversation follows, and within minutes you understand exactly why Mary talks about her the way she does. Roberta is sharp, warm, and entirely too good at reading people. You like her immediately.

The time passes faster than you expect.

A few hours later, the sound of a truck pulling into the driveway cuts through your conversation. Roberta glances out the window, then nods. “That will be them.”

You both head outside.

Mary spots you first and immediately takes off running. You barely have time to stand before she crashes into you, arms wrapped tight. “You’re here!”

You laugh, hugging her back just as tightly. “I told you I would be.”

Behind her, Roberta greets Frank, and you feel his attention shift toward you a second later. You ignore it. Mostly.

When Mary finally lets go, Frank’s gaze drops to your duffle bag, then lingers like he is waiting for the rest of your things to appear.

They do not.

“Hey, kid,” he says, a little uncertain. “Is that all you brought?”

You give him a flat look. “My whole life fits in that duffle, thank you.”

He does not quite know what to do with that.

Roberta’s expression softens in a way you pretend not to notice, but Mary just shrugs it off like it is nothing, already grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the house. “Come on, I want to show you my room.”

You let yourself be dragged inside.

After a while—after talking, laughing, settling in—there is a knock against the doorframe. Frank leans in, one hand braced against it. “You two want pizza?”

Looking between him and Mary, you shake your head. “Nope. I’m here as a guest, so the least I can do is cook for you two.”

Mary giggles immediately, and Frank—very noticeably—goes a little pink. That tells you everything you need to know about the state of this kitchen.

Smirking, you glance at Mary. “I’m sensing we need a trip to the store first, hmm?”

Frank opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off with a quick, firm “Ah—” and a pointed look. Mary laughs harder.

“Just get your keys, mister,” you add, already moving. “We need a ride, and you don’t get to complain if I’m the one buying and cooking food for the week you’re letting me stay.”

He makes a low, disgruntled sound but does not protest again, just follows the two of you out to the truck like he has already accepted defeat.

Smart man.

The store turns into chaos almost immediately. You and Mary dart up and down aisles, tossing things into the cart, doubling back, arguing over ingredients like it is a competitive sport. At one point you nearly collide with a display, and Mary laughs so hard she has to grab onto you to steady herself. A few other shoppers glance over, smiling despite themselves.

Somewhere along the way, you catch Frank watching the two of you—half amused, half something else—like he is not used to this kind of noise filling his day. When your eyes meet his, you look away first.

By the time you are done, the cart is overflowing.

Back at the house, the three of you unload everything together, filling the fridge far more than it probably has been in a while. You start setting out ingredients without hesitation, already slipping into a rhythm you know well.

“Alright,” you say, turning toward him and pointing lightly. “Go invite Roberta.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me,” you reply, already moving again. “Four people, not three. Go.”

Mary snickers, and Frank shakes his head like he does not know how he lost control of his own house this fast—but he goes.

With Mary at your side, you start cooking—nothing overly complicated, but warm, intentional, the kind of meal that fills the space as much as it feeds people.

For a moment, it almost feels like something steady.

Frank heads next door, feeling vaguely like he has lost control of his own house somewhere in the last hour—and unable to do anything about it.

A home-cooked meal will do that to a man.

He knocks.

Roberta opens the door already smirking. “You running away from that sweet girl already?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. I’m actually here to invite you to dinner—but if you don’t want to come…” He gestures like he is about to turn and leave.

Roberta laughs, stepping out and locking her door behind her. “Oh, boy. Pretty, young, and she cooks too.”

Frank exhales through his nose. “No. She’s Mary’s friend. And she’s too young. We barely even talk.”

“Mmhmm.”

The sound Roberta makes says she believes exactly none of that.

He does not bother arguing as they walk back toward the house. The moment they step inside, the noise hits him—laughter, something that might be singing, the clatter of dishes. It is louder than he is used to. Warmer, too.

He pauses just inside the doorway.

You are in the kitchen with Mary, moving easily like you belong there, like you have done this a hundred times before. Mary is laughing at something you said, bright and unguarded in a way he does not always get to see.

And you—

Yeah.

He noticed that already.

But it is not just that you are beautiful. It is the way you fit into the space without asking permission. The way Mary gravitates toward you without hesitation.

That is the problem.

Even if you were not too young—

(You are.)

Even if you were not Mary’s friend—

(You are.)

This would still be a bad idea.

So he does what he always does.

He draws a line.

After you and Mary finish cooking—cleaning as you go—Roberta and Frank set the table, and before long the four of you are sitting down to eat.

“This is so good,” Mary gushes, already halfway through her first few bites. “You’re an amazing cook.”

You smile, shrugging it off. “You helped, so you are too.”

Mary beams and goes right back to eating, and Roberta turns to you, asking about the recipe. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, trading cooking ideas while Mary jumps in every so often with a question or comment.

Frank mostly stays quiet, leaning back in his chair, listening and watching.

You talk to Mary like she is an equal—like her age does not matter, like her mind is the only thing worth paying attention to. She lights up under it, and he notices.

He also notices something else.

Your eyes never quite land on him. Not really. They move easily between Roberta and Mary, engaged, focused—but when they pass over him, it is quick, skimming, like he is not part of the conversation at all. Like he does not belong in it.

At first, he writes it off. He is not exactly making an effort either.

But then it keeps happening, and it starts to feel intentional.

That bothers him more than it should.

You laugh when Fred hops into your lap mid-meal, shifting easily to make room for him while still managing to eat. You scratch behind his ears without breaking conversation, and the cat settles like he has already decided you belong here.

Frank notices that too.

Of course he does.

After dinner, he clears his throat. “I’ll do the dishes.”

That finally gets your attention. Your eyes lift to him—actually settle this time—and for a second he thinks—

“Thanks,” you say, soft but polite.

Then you are already looking back at Mary, like that moment never happened.

Roberta catches it. Of course she does. She gives him a look over the stack of dishes—amused, knowing—as she starts helping clear the table.

Frank takes the plates and heads into the kitchen, his jaw a little tighter than before.

Mary barely notices any of it. She is already pulling you back toward her room, the two of you talking like you have known each other for years instead of weeks.

Later, as Roberta takes her leave, Frank lingers a moment before stepping down the hall and knocking lightly on Mary’s doorframe.

“I’m going to head out,” Frank says, lingering in the doorway. “Give you two the house for the night.”

Mary raises an eyebrow at him, but he waves her off before she can say anything.

You look up at him and smile—warm, easy, unguarded in a way he has not gotten from you yet. “Okay. We’ll be fine. Just a movie and then sleep. Traveling kind of wiped me out.”

And there it is—your full attention, all at once.

Frank swallows, nodding a little too quickly. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll—uh—I’ll see you two in the morning.”

Smooth.

Mary stands and hugs him goodbye like nothing is off at all. Frank turns and is out the door a second later, moving just a little too fast for it to be casual.

He tells himself he just feels like getting out and does not question it too hard.

The night air hits him, and he heads straight for Ferg’s Sports Bar & Grill. Not his usual night, but he is not about to argue with the sudden need for space.

Back inside, Mary turns to you with a crooked, knowing smile. “I think you make him nervous.”

You laugh, tipping your head back. “Not likely. I think he just doesn't know what to do with a woman who doesn't pay him any attention.” You wrinkle your nose at her and stick your tongue out.

Mary giggles, completely delighted.

The moment passes easily after that, the two of you settling in to pick out a movie. Conversation fades into background noise, then into quiet, and long before Frank makes it home, you both end up asleep on her bed—half tangled in blankets, the TV still playing softly.

The next morning, you wake early—habit more than anything—and gently pull the covers up to Mary’s chin before slipping out of her room.

The kitchen is quiet when you start breakfast. Bacon hits the pan, biscuits go into the oven, and for a little while it is just you and the steady rhythm of something familiar.

Then you hear footsteps, followed by a very feminine gasp.

You bite back a laugh and lift a hand, waving over your shoulder without turning. “Don’t mind me. I don’t give a crap who that old man screws.”

“Excuse me.”

Frank.

He sounds somewhere between offended and deeply regretting his life choices.

You wince slightly, then glance over your shoulder, a faint blush creeping in. “Whoops. Three or four?”

He blinks at you, confused for half a second—then it clicks. “Three,” he answers quickly.

You nod once, turning back to the stove like that settles it.

Behind you, there is a low exchange—whispered, tense. It takes about ten seconds before it turns into an argument. You catch something that sounds like “you’re a complete ass” before the front door slams.

Silence.

A moment later, Frank steps into the kitchen, looking both sheepish and stubborn. “Old man?” he repeats.

You glance at him, smirking. “Oh, come on. What are you—twenty, twenty-five years older than me? I’m allowed.”

He huffs, muttering something under his breath about not being old, which only makes you laugh again.

He pours himself a cup of coffee, lingering this time instead of hovering at the edges, watching you.

Then he asks, “What’s your story?”

You glance at him briefly but do not answer right away.

“I mean,” he continues, a little rougher now, “you send Mary home with books all the time. You know she’s fourteen, right?”

That does it.

You pull the skillet off the heat and turn the burner off with a decisive click. Then you turn—fully this time—arms crossing, weight settling into one hip as you look straight at him.

“I send her home with books I wrote,” you say evenly. “And yes, I’m aware she’s fourteen.”

“She’s also more grown up than most people twice her age because she’s brilliant. I was like that.” Your voice sharpens just slightly—not loud, but steady. “A kid in an adult world, publishing books, being picked apart by people three times my age.”

He does not interrupt.

Good.

“I would have given anything to have someone tell me I wasn’t strange. That I wasn’t alone just because my brain worked differently.” Your gaze does not waver. “Mary doesn’t have to wonder that. Not if I can help it.”

The tension lingers between you.

Then you lift a brow, just enough edge returning to your voice. “She’s an incredible kid, and I’m lucky she calls me a friend. Anything else?”

Frank studies your face, something softer replacing the earlier edge. “What happened to your family?”

You look away, eyes drifting to the window over the sink, your jaw tightening before you answer.

“I don’t really know.” A small breath. “I grew up in the foster system. Moved around a lot.”

When you look back at him, your expression is steady again.

“Do not get me wrong—I had it better than most. But no one really knew what to do with me.” Your fingers tap lightly against the counter. “I started writing at thirteen. One of my teachers helped me publish, and after that I was taking literature classes at a local college on scholarship.”

“When I aged out, I packed a duffle and just… kept going.”

Frank’s brows pull together. “That sounds rough. I can’t imagine Mary having to deal with everything on her own.”

You turn back to the stove, flipping the bacon like the motion alone settles something in you. “She doesn’t have to,” you say, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth. “She’s got you. And Roberta. And she mentioned a teacher from when she was younger, too.”

He nods, leaning back against the counter. “Her first-grade teacher. Bonnie Stevenson.”

The way he says it makes you glance at him sideways.

He catches it immediately, a faint blush creeping in as he rolls his eyes. “I might’ve slept with her once. We’re still friends.”

You laugh, sliding the bacon onto a plate. “Do you ever take any of your women seriously?”

He chokes on his own breath a little at that, clearly not expecting it. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” he mutters.

You shrug, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Not really.” You glance at him, just long enough. “And you’re deflecting.”

And, you realize, it is a little more fun than it should be.

Frank exhales, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling for a second before answering. “I stick to passing relationships because Mary is too important to me. My life revolves around her, and I don’t want to put her through getting to know someone who’s just going to leave.”

You give that a moment, then reach for the eggs, cracking them into the pan. Butter sizzles softly.

“What happens when Mary turns eighteen and goes to college for real?” you ask, almost casually. “You won’t have that excuse anymore.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he says, a little sharper this time—then reins it in. “And honestly… I don’t know what I’m going to do when she goes. I’ll be forty-six and still a boat mechanic.”

You glance at him as you start scrambling the eggs, your timer going off just then. You pull the biscuits from the oven, the warmth filling the space between you.

“That sounds lonely,” you say simply. “And if anyone knows lonely, it’s me.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “No wisecracks about the job?”

You give him a look—like you already know more than he expects. “Please. Mary told me you used to be a professor in Boston.” A small shrug. “This is a choice. Just like me not having a home outside the dorms is a choice.”

That lands.

You do not press it. You just keep moving—stirring, plating—like none of it is a big deal.

And that might be the problem.

“You’re the first person,” he says slowly, “other than Roberta, who doesn’t question it.”

You nod toward the cabinets. “Plates.”

He moves automatically.

“It’s not really my place to judge,” you add, softer now. “And you’re clearly taking care of Mary. That’s what matters.”

You say it like it is obvious. Like he does not need to defend himself. Like he never did.

Something in his chest shifts—quiet, but not small.

He does not like what that probably means.

Mary appears right on cue, drawn in by the smell of food before anything else. “What smells so good?”

You turn to her immediately, your expression brightening without effort. “Bacon, eggs, and biscuits. You hungry?”

“Absolutely.”

She slides in beside you for a quick side hug before grabbing a plate. You hand it over with a small smile, then turn to pass one to Frank—

—and catch him already watching you.

Not casually.

You hold his gaze for half a second, just long enough to register it.

Then he looks away, taking the plate like nothing happened and turning toward the table.

You do the same, shaking off the strange little feeling settling in your chest. You pour orange juice for yourself and Mary and follow them to the table.

A few days later, you find yourself walking through town with Mary, listening as she talks about her eighth-grade classmates and her fellow Girl Scouts. At some point, you start noticing a pattern—specifically, how often a boy named Justin comes up.

You glance at her sideways, a slow, knowing smile forming. “So… are you and Justin just friends?”

Mary goes wide-eyed immediately, color rising in her cheeks. “Yes. What does it sound like we are?”

You slip an arm around her shoulders, smirking. “It sounds like you want more.”

She flushes deeper, and it is the first time you have ever seen Mary genuinely flustered. Her hands twist together in front of her. “I—I mean… he doesn’t see me like that.”

You duck your head slightly, catching her gaze. “Hey. It is completely okay to like a boy your own age.” Your tone softens just a little. “And don’t sell yourself short—why wouldn’t he like you?”

Mary looks ahead again, fidgeting, chewing on her bottom lip. “I think I intimidate people sometimes. Kids my age, I mean. Not that I don’t have friends—I do.” She hesitates, searching. “But the math stuff can make me feel… I don’t know. Hard to reach?”

“Inaccessible?” you offer.

She nods quickly. “Yeah. That.”

You ruffle her hair lightly. “I get that.”

Your expression shifts, just slightly more thoughtful.

“When I was about your age, there was this boy I liked. Danny.” You huff a quiet laugh. “He was a year older, and yeah, all the girls liked him because he was cute—but I liked him because he was kind to me.”

Mary glances up at you, listening closely.

“I was already publishing, already taking college classes,” you continue, “but he never made it weird. He treated me like I was just… another kid.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “Sometimes I could tell he didn’t really get the writing stuff, but he never made me feel bad about it.”

You bump her shoulder gently. “That only made me like him more.”

She smiles a little at that.

“I never told him, though,” you add, something softer slipping into your voice. “He always felt a little out of reach.”

“Do you regret it?” Mary asks, studying your face.

“Sometimes.” You exhale softly, eyes drifting up to the clouds. “He graduated the year before me, and I ended up dating a boy in my class.” Your jaw tightens just a little. “I still remember the look on Danny’s face the first time he saw me with my boyfriend.”

“It was like I broke his heart a little—and I knew, right then, I should’ve said something.” You glance back at her. “But it was too late.”

Mary watches you carefully.

“Every now and then,” you add, quieter, “when I’ve got too much time to think, I wonder what would’ve happened if I had.”

She chews on her lip, thoughtful. “Do you think you would’ve been happier?”

You shrug lightly. “I don’t know. It could’ve been a disaster.” A faint smile tugs at your mouth. “Or we could still be together. There’s no way to predict how something like that plays out… or what it does to you long-term.”

You nudge her shoulder. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

Mary sighs. “I just don’t want to lose my friend.”

You squeeze her shoulders gently. “I know. I think it comes down to what you can live with—whether it hurts more to say nothing or to risk it.”

Your gaze drops briefly to the pavement.

“I could tell you you’ve got all the time in the world to figure this out,” you add, quieter now, “but you and I both know that’s not always true.”

Mary nods slowly, eyes flicking over your face. “What happened to Danny? Do you still talk?”

You shake your head, offering a small, uneven smile. “No. I don’t really talk to anyone from high school.” A shrug follows. “I was more of a loner than you are. Last I heard, he moved out of state. Got married.”

You roll your eyes at yourself, just a little. “I make acquaintances easily, but real friends… those are harder for me. I’m kind of an oddball.”

Mary bumps her shoulder into yours. “I like you. Roberta likes you. And I think Frank’s starting to, too.”

That makes you smile—soft, genuine. You squeeze her shoulder. “Thanks. Really. I’m glad we’re friends.”

She beams at you, then her expression shifts again, a little more serious. “Do you think I should tell him? Justin, I mean.”

You shrug, a small grin returning. “I think if you get the chance to follow something that could be good… you should take it.”

Mary says your name, drawing your full attention again. “Thanks. I can talk to my other friends about my crush, but they mostly just tease me.” She smiles faintly. “It’s nice having someone who actually gets it.”

You hug her lightly, tapping your head against hers. “Happy to help. And hey—if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know you’ve got Roberta and Frank, but… I mean it.”

By the time you finish, you have made your way down to the marina and over to the boat Frank is working on.

Mary gives you a quick smile before calling out, “Frank! We’re here. Are you almost done?”

A muffled string of curses answers her before Frank pops up from below deck—slightly disheveled, a little flushed, and, annoyingly, looking far better than he has any right to.

You shut that thought down immediately.

“Hey, old man.”

He shoots you a disgruntled look on instinct, which only makes you smirk, before turning back to Mary. “Almost. Just need to clean up, then I’m all yours, kiddo.”

She waves him off. “Take your time. We’ll walk the dock.”

And just like that, she is already turning away, dragging you with her before he can argue.

You fall into step beside her, the two of you wandering the length of the dock, pointing out boats, watching the water, letting the quiet settle comfortably between you.

By the time Frank calls you back, nearly half an hour has passed. The three of you head to his truck, then back to the house, the routine already feeling easy. Familiar.

Inside, you head straight for the kitchen without thinking, pulling out ingredients and pans like you have been doing it your whole life.

“You’re spoiling us,” Mary says, bumping her hip into yours. “It’s going to be rough going back to how we usually eat after a week of this.”

You laugh, already moving. “Hush. You and I both know Roberta—and half the neighborhood—keep you fed.”

Mary waves that off. “It’s not the same as having a meal cooked in your own house.”

“We do just fine, Mary,” Frank cuts in, hovering somewhere between defensive and amused.

You glance at her and wink. “I think you’re just trying to keep me around.”

“Of course I am!”

Her immediate answer makes you laugh again, even as Frank lets out a quiet, half-hearted protest from across the room.

By Friday, you know Mary and Roberta are up to something.

Roberta joined you for dinner again the night before, and the two of them spent half the evening whispering while you and Frank did the dishes. On top of that, Mary has been texting more than usual and acting just a little too… deliberate.

Suspicious.

When Frank comes home early from the marina around midday, it only makes it worse.

Mary turns to him like she has been waiting. “Oh—I almost forgot. I promised Hannah and Stephanie I’d spend the night at Danielle’s with them.”

Frank’s expression immediately shifts—confused, then narrowing. “I don’t remember us talking about that.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes like this is a him problem. “Of course we did. Go ask Roberta. She’s literally making cookies for me to take, like she said she would.”

That is… suspiciously specific.

Then Mary turns to you, all innocence with just a hint of apology. “Sorry. I totally forgot this was already planned. You don’t mind, do you? I mean—” she gestures vaguely toward Frank, “—he’ll still be here to keep you entertained.”

You snort softly. “Nah. I’ll just write. It’s not a big deal.”

She shifts—just slightly.

And that is all the confirmation you need.

Oh, this is absolutely a setup.

You decide immediately that if she is going to orchestrate this, she is going to work for it. Tilting your head, you add casually, “Isn’t this Frank’s usual night out?”

Mary freezes, then slowly turns to look at him like you just suggested something criminal. “You wouldn’t leave a guest here alone, would you?”

Frank pinches the bridge of his nose, already tired of this—which means he has absolutely caught on too.

All three of you are suddenly very aware of what is happening.

He exhales. “When are your friends supposed to pick you up?”

Mary brightens instantly—too instantly. “In about an hour.”

Of course it is.

Speechless, you and Frank both turn to look at each other—

—and then the knock comes.

You do not even have to guess who it is.

Frank exhales through his nose and heads for the door. When he opens it, Roberta stands there with a container of cookies and a smile so sweet it should be illegal.

He gives her a look.

She gives him one right back—saccharine and entirely unapologetic.

“I just wanted to drop these off for Mary,” she says, stepping inside without waiting. “For her sleepover.”

Of course.

Mary lights up, greeting her warmly and taking the cookies with a quick thank you. Within seconds, Roberta is ushering her toward the bedroom, already talking about making sure she has everything she needs.

You watch them go, then glance back at Frank, amused. “They do this to you often?”

He drags a hand over his face, letting out a quiet, reluctant chuckle. “More than I’m willing to admit.” He looks at you, a little apologetic. “Sorry. I have no idea what they’re thinking, but… we might as well play along.”

You hum, nodding once. “Yeah. Can’t let all that effort go to waste.”

By the time Mary and Roberta reappear, Mary has a packed bag slung over her shoulder and an entirely too-innocent expression on her face.

You almost laugh.

She crouches to hug Fred goodbye just as a car pulls up outside. Voices drift in—her friends, one of their moms. There is a quick round of introductions, a lot of energy, and then she is gone as fast as she came.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Roberta disappears too.

Of course she does.

The house goes quiet.

Frank runs a hand through his hair, looking at you like he is still catching up. “Well… that just happened.”

You smile at him. “Really, I can just go sit with my laptop and write. You don’t need to entertain me.”

“I know that,” he says easily, “but like you said—they put in all that work.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Come on. We can walk the beach.”

You follow him, a little thrown, sliding into the truck beside him.

You are not entirely sure what is happening.

It is not like the two of you avoid each other—you talk most mornings while you cook, easy and familiar. But this feels different. Intentional.

And from the look of it, Frank knows exactly what is going on.

What surprises you is that he is not fighting it.

He parks near the beach, and the two of you head down toward the water, falling into step beside each other. For a while, neither of you says anything. The sound of the waves fills the space instead.

Eventually, you glance at him. “Care to clue me in?” you ask. “I mean, I get that Mary and Roberta want us to talk, but… we already do.”

He snorts softly. “You’re not going to like it.”

You give him a flat look that clearly says try me.

He exhales. “I warned you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze drifting out over the water instead of at you. “I’m pretty sure they set this up like it’s a date.”

You stop short.

“What?” You turn toward him, completely thrown. “Why?”

He glances at you, faintly amused, like it should be obvious. “Mary doesn’t connect with a lot of adults. Most of them treat her like she’s seven instead of fourteen going on forty.” A small shrug. “She already cares about you like family.”

That lands.

“And I don’t exactly warm up to people,” he adds. “But we get along. You take care of her. You cook for us.” Another glance your way. “So, yeah. In their minds? Two plus two.”

“Equals four,” you mutter, exasperated, dragging a hand over your face.

He chuckles under his breath, then bumps his shoulder lightly against yours as you start walking again.

“I know you think I’m an old geezer,” he says, “but I don’t see anything wrong with us being friends.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile slips through anyway. “You’re not that old. I just like giving you a hard time.”

That earns you a laugh, low and easy, before his expression shifts—curious again. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, gesturing for him to go on.

“You’re obviously more of a creative type,” he says. “So why advanced calculus? Doesn’t seem necessary for your degree.”

You take a second, thinking it through before answering. “I like it. Math, science—there’s something about the logic of it.” A small shrug. “I might lean more right-brained, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the other side. Honestly, I think it makes me a better writer.”

He nods slowly, then follows up almost immediately. “Is that why you’re in college at all? You could’ve skipped it.”

You huff a quiet breath. “Mary asked me the same thing.” You glance out over the water. “I did the split thing too—public school and college classes at the same time. And even though I was… kind of a loner, I liked being around people my age.” A small pause settles in your tone. “I guess I just wanted something that felt normal.”

Frank studies you. “You don’t come off like a loner.”

That makes you laugh. “You don’t see it because you see me with Mary. I don’t connect with people easily. It’s not really a choice—it just… doesn’t happen. Most people don’t stick around past surface level.”

He stops walking.

You take another step before realizing, then turn back toward him.

“That’s bullshit,” he says plainly. “You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. You look away instead, jaw tightening as you stare out at the waves. “Maybe. All I know is no one ever sticks around. Not friends. Not boyfriends.” You cross your arms, shoulders pulling in just slightly. “Everyone finds a way to leave eventually.”

Your voice drops, quieter. “So I just… don’t hold back. I put everything into it while it lasts. Because I know it won’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then Frank steps closer. “Or,” he says carefully, “maybe you’re the one creating the distance.”

That hits.

You turn sharply, something between hurt and anger flashing across your face, and start to walk away—but his hand catches your arm.

You go still, teeth clenching.

He lets go immediately, his voice steady—just enough to carry over the wind. “I’m not trying to piss you off. But you’ve got more walls up than you think.”

With tears pricking at your eyes, you look back at him. “I bounced from house to house for so many years… I just learned it’s easier to keep things close to the vest.” Your voice wavers, but you keep going. “I know I’m a people pleaser. I’d rather be what someone else needs than expect them to meet me halfway.”

A breath that does not quite steady.

“That way I never feel like a disappointment.”

The tears fall before you can stop them.

Frank does not hesitate. He pulls you into a tight hug, one hand steady at your back like it is the most natural thing in the world.

You go rigid at first—instinct—but it does not last. The moment stretches, and the pressure in your chest finally gives way. Slowly, you wrap your arms around his middle, holding on just as tightly.

Your breath stutters.

You have not done this in a long time.

When you finally pull back, you swipe at your cheeks, a little embarrassed, a little raw. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

Frank looks at you differently now—softer, but not pitying. His hands settle on your arms, grounding, steady.

“You don’t have to hide all the time,” he says quietly. “Mary doesn’t let people go easily.” A small pause in his tone. “Neither do I.”

That lands somewhere deep.

“We don’t need you to be anything but yourself.”

You stare at his chest for a second, pulling yourself back together, then let out a shaky breath before meeting his eyes again.

“I’m not very good at this,” you admit. “Being vulnerable.” A faint, uncertain smile tugs at your mouth. “But I’ll try not to hide so much.”

“Mary’s worth it.”

Then, softer—like you are testing the words as you say them—“And so are you, Frank.”

Something in his expression shifts.

He smiles—really smiles this time—and drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in as you start walking again. “Come on,” he says, a little lighter now. “We’ll head back. I’ll let you have a drink with me tonight.”

You glance at him, amused despite everything, and nod. “Yeah. That sounds like a plan.”

A few hours later, you and Frank are a couple beers in, talking like you have known each other for years.

He tells you about his sister, Diane, about Evelyn—his mother. You tell him about the different foster homes you bounced through, the chaos, the strange little moments that somehow stuck with you more than anything else.

Somewhere along the way, the distance between you disappears.

By the time the light outside starts to fade, you are both relaxed—comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Frank groans under his breath but pushes himself up anyway, heading to answer it.

You hear a woman’s voice—familiar, easy—and then she steps inside like she belongs there.

She stops the second she sees you.

“Oh—sorry.” Her gaze flicks between you and Frank. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

She is pretty. Brunette. Composed.

And the way she looks at him—

Yeah. That tells you everything.

Frank shakes his head. “It’s fine. This is Mary’s friend—from her college class.” He gestures toward her. “This is Bonnie. Mary’s first teacher.”

Ah.

That clicks.

You nod once, already stepping back. “I can go see Roberta if you two want to catch up.”

Frank shuts that down immediately. “No. She just came by to make sure I hadn’t died since I wasn’t at my usual spot tonight.” A quick glance at Bonnie. “I’m a creature of habit.”

You give him a look—teasing, pointed—as you push yourself up from the couch. “Well, in that case, I should probably start dinner.” You gesture lightly toward him. “Let her check your pulse.”

He huffs a laugh, waving you off as you head for the kitchen.

Behind you, Bonnie’s voice lowers just enough. “She’s making dinner?”

There is something in the way she says it.

Frank sighs, already defensive. “It’s not like that.”

You pause just long enough to hear the rest.

“She’s staying with Mary for spring break,” he continues. “She insisted on cooking while she’s here since we’re putting her up.” A brief pause. “Pretty sure she figured out I can’t.”

Bonnie hums softly, unconvinced.

“You say that,” she replies, unimpressed, “but Mary isn’t here, Frank.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “No, she isn’t. But I’m allowed to be friends with her friends.”

Bonnie studies him, clearly not buying it. “Friends, huh? She’s very pretty… and a little young to be one of your friends.”

Frank huffs, rolling his eyes, sidestepping it. “Did you come over here for something else, Bonnie?”

That lands wrong.

Her expression shifts—surprised, a little stung—and she straightens. “No. I guess not.” She turns toward the door, sharper now. “I’ll leave you to your dinner with the college girl.”

The door shuts a little harder than necessary.

Frank exhales and heads into the kitchen, where you are already back at the stove, humming softly like nothing happened.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

You shrug, glancing at him with an easy smile. “No problem.” A pause, then a teasing tilt of your head. “But are you sure it was just once? She seemed a little… invested.”

He groans, dropping onto the counter. “Yes. It was just once.” A quick breath. “Am I aware she might want more? Yeah. Doesn’t change anything.”

You laugh softly, reaching out to pat his thigh. “Relax. I’m just teasing.”

You turn back to the stove—but your ears are warm now, and you know it.

“I get it,” you add lightly. “You’re an attractive guy. Must make having female friends complicated.”

That gets him.

His brows shoot up. “That from the girl who calls me ‘old man’ every five minutes?”

You glance at him, then—because apparently you have no self-preservation—stick your tongue out. “What? Just because you’re twice my age doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes, Frank.”

There it is.

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it.

He goes still for a split second—then looks entirely too pleased with himself, something shifting in his expression.

“Really now?” His voice dips, quieter. Closer.

Your face heats instantly.

You grab a knife and shove it into his hand, along with a cutting board and vegetables. “Shut up and cut these.”

Frank’s eyes are still bright with amusement as he hops down and joins you. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm in the kitchen, moving around each other like you have done this a hundred times before.

It is comfortable.

Dangerously so.

When dinner is ready, you set two plates on the table. Frank grabs a couple more beers, pops them open, and takes the seat across from you.

For a while, you just eat.

“So,” he says after a moment, “how’d you learn to cook? Thought you lived in a dorm.”

You finish your bite before answering. “Basics came from one of my foster homes.” You shrug lightly. “In the dorm, I’ve got a couple hot plates and a toaster oven. I make it work.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “I think I like the structure of cooking more than actually eating.”

He nods, studying you. “Well, you’re good at it. If the whole writer thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a future as a chef.”

You take a sip of your beer, then lick your lips without thinking. “We all need a backup.”

His gaze flickers—quick, but not quick enough to miss—dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

You pretend you did not notice.

“I’ve read the books you send home with Mary,” he says, quieter now. “You’re a good writer.”

That catches you off guard.

You smile, a little shy despite yourself. “Thanks. You’d think I’d be used to compliments by now, but… genuine ones still surprise me.”

“I’ve noticed,” he replies. “You don’t take them well.” A brief pause. “That’s about how you see yourself, right?”

You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around your glass before you set it down. Your teeth catch your bottom lip for a second. “Yeah.” A small exhale. “You’re not wrong. It’s not really about my work—it’s just… me.”

He nods once, like he expected that answer.

Then—without overthinking it—his hand moves across the table and closes gently around yours.

You still.

“You’ve got no reason to think that way,” he says, voice steady. “You’re smart. You’re kind.” A pause, just enough to make it worse. “And you’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches.

When you look up at him, a little stunned, he just smirks—soft, not teasing—and gives your hand a small squeeze.

“Like you said,” he adds, “the age gap doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes.”

Heat floods your face, spilling down your neck before you can stop it.

For a second, words do not come.

So instead, you turn your hand over in his and squeeze back—small, tentative, but real.

And that says enough.

The mood shifts—quiet, warm, and a little fragile.

Neither of you pulls away.

You finish eating like that, hands still loosely intertwined across the table, trading small smiles instead of words. Afterward, you clean up together, falling back into that same easy rhythm. It should feel normal.

It does not.

Not anymore.

When you move to the couch, there is a small space between you at first—just enough to pretend this is still the same.

It lasts about five seconds.

Frank exhales softly, then lifts an arm and settles it around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You go easily, fitting against him like you belong there.

Your heart is beating a little too fast.

You tilt your head up to look at him, biting your lip—this time not out of nerves, but anticipation.

His gaze lingers on your face, slower now. More deliberate.

He gives you time.

Every second of it.

And when he leans in, it is cautious—like he is still giving you the chance to stop him if you want to.

You do not.

Your eyes fall shut just as his lips meet yours—soft, warm, exploratory. It is not rushed, not overwhelming—just enough to make your breath catch and your chest tighten in a way that feels new and familiar all at once.

It lasts a few quiet seconds.

Then he pulls back.

His hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair back from your face, fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“I do not want to rush this,” he murmurs. “Okay?”

You let out a breath you did not realize you were holding, your forehead nearly brushing his as you nod.

“Slow is good.”

He brushes his nose against yours, then kisses you again—slower, more certain this time. You could still stop this.

You do not.

Feeling brave, you part your lips for him, and swiftly his tongue slides into your mouth to dance with yours. His hand on your shoulder moves to your waist, and with a groan muffled by your lips, he hauls you over flush against him to straddle his lap as he deepens the kiss.

There’s a split second where you register how far this is going—then you lean in anyway. Breathlessly you kiss him back, your arms wrapping around his neck as your head spins with desire for the man beneath you.

After trading several heated kisses, he pulls back as you both breathe heavily. You are not dizzy from him—but from the fact you are choosing this.

Leaning his forehead against yours, his lust-blown eyes meet yours as his free hand cards through your hair. "You're not making it easy for me to take it slow, sweetheart."

Chuckling, you give him a coy look. "Am I supposed to?" If he asked you to stop right now, you do not think you would.

He lets out a breath and under his breath says, "Fuck it." That is the moment the line disappears.

Then his mouth is on yours again, his tongue licking into your mouth to expertly devour you, making you mewl into his mouth. Frank's hands slide down your back to cup your ass as he begins to guide you to rub your overheated core against the length of him straining against the zipper of his jeans. The friction is delicious and exactly what your lust-addled brain wants. You have spent years holding pieces of yourself back—this is not one of those times.

Soon you are grinding against him all on your own as his hands slide up under your t-shirt to slide along the soft flesh of your back. You are not reacting anymore—you choose him right back.

Frank's mouth slides from your mouth to let you take in some much-needed oxygen, but he is relentless, trailing a blaze of fire over your jaw and down your throat with open-mouthed kisses, making you whimper and slide your fingers into his hair.

"Tell me to stop, sweetheart, otherwise I don't think I can." His voice is husky with lust and desperation even as his hands drag your shirt up and over your head.

No one has ever meant that when they said it to you. You shake your head at him and twist your arms behind you to unclasp your bra and let it fall from you. "Don't stop Frank." And for once, you do not second-guess yourself.

He lets out an almost whining moan as his head dips down to capture one of your strainingly hard nipples into his mouth and presses you closer to him. You gasp at the sensation as he laves both your breasts with the attention of a starved man.

Soft sounds of pleasure drop from your lips as he continues to kiss your skin, driving him wild and making him desperate to taste your mouth again. Quicker than you can blink, he stands up with you in his arms as if you weigh nothing, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as you kiss while he walks the two of you into his bedroom. Somewhere between rooms, this becomes something else.

Gently he drops you on the bed, only letting you lie there alone to grab the back of his shirt and pull it over his head before he joins you on the bed, kissing you wildly again. His large hands slide down your sides, and he pulls back to look in your eyes as he pops the button on your jeans. He is still giving you a way out—and you do not want one.

Only when you give him a nod does he slide down the zipper, and hooking his hands in the sides of your panties, he pushes both garments down your legs.

He follows the motion with his mouth, kissing down your throat, across your sternum, then your stomach, to your hips. Hands sliding up your legs, he swears as his fingers find your folds glistening and wet for him. "Christ, sweetheart, you're so wet for me."

When his fingers dip in to circle your clit, you moan and roll your hips towards him as his eyes, nearly blown completely black with desire, look up at you. "Shh, I'll take care of you just like you need."

You do not thinking about what after. That is what makes this dangerous. Your head falls back and you grip the sheets tightly as he licks a strip up your weeping slit. With gentle laps followed by firmer, quicker licks, he begins to drive you wild with his tongue.

As your hips rock against his face with the coil low in your belly tightening with every pass of his tongue, he pushes you over the edge by pushing two fingers into you and curling them to hit that spot that makes you see stars. For once, you are not bracing for the end before it happens. With a gasp of his name, you come undone against his mouth and fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, extending your pleasure as much as possible until you lie panting and spent against the sheets. With one last kiss to the apex of your thighs, he slides back up your body to give you another drugging kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Letting you breathe again, Frank hovers over you, his body taut with restraint. "Last chance to tell me to stop, sweetheart."

Fire in your eyes, you move quickly so he does not have time to react and flip you both over to where you are on top of him and he looks up at you in surprise. With a smirk you whisper in his ear. "My turn." First, you nip his earlobe, and then your mouth is on his throat, tasting his skin and making him close his eyes and tilt his head to the side to let you have more access.

Frank's hands slide over your back as you leave nips and licks across his chest. He hisses in pleasure as your nails rake over his sensitive nipples, leaving faint red marks in their wake. When your mouth reaches the waistband of his jeans with nimble fingers, you undo them and then push them off with his boxer briefs.

You lick your lips when your eyes land on the long, hard length of him straining up against his stomach now an angry red with precum weeping out of the tip. He swears again as you wrap your tiny hand around him and stroke him. Dipping your head down, you lick the slit, tasting his precum, and his eyes fly wide open to watch you wrap your lips around his head and suck, making him moan lowly.

You surprise him by sinking your mouth down and relaxing your throat so you can press your nose to his pelvis, taking him in completely as you suck and lick his cock. His hand tangles in your hair as he pants. "Fuck, sweetheart, you're killing me here."

With practiced motions you begin to bob your head up and down his length, and just to drive him further towards the edge, you hum, and the vibrations have him tugging at your hair.

Sounding completely wrecked, he pleads with you. "Sweetheart, you've got to stop, or this is going to end way before either of us want it to."

Letting him out of your mouth with an obscene pop, you let him pull you back up his body to kiss you frantically. He moans into your mouth as your legs slide to either side of his hips and your molten, dripping sex rubs against the hot length of him.

He reaches for his bedside table but pauses when you shake your head. "I'm on the pill; we don't need a condom."

Nodding, he moves that same hand between your bodies to guide the head of his cock to rub between your soaked folds. "Ride me, sweetheart. Want to watch you loose yourself."

Sitting up to hold yourself up with hands on his abs, maddeningly slow, you sink down onto him, making you both let out long moans of pleasure.

"You're so fucking tight, sweetheart." Frank looks as ruined below you as you feel while your body learns to accommodate his thick length.

With a soft whimper you test moving and your head falls back. "Fuck, I'm so full; just sitting here feels so good."

With a strangled noise, Frank's hands find your hip, guiding you to move on top of him. You moan with the motion, and soon enough you are using your hands on his body for leverage to bounce on his cock. Your breasts sway hypnotically with each motion. Once you find a good rhythm, Frank's hands leave your hips to cup your swaying breast and roll your hardened nipples between his fingers. "That's it, sweetheart; use me to find your pleasure."

Moaning in response to him, you shift, and the new angle has his cock hitting you in all the right spots, making pleasure wash through you with every thrust like you never knew was possible. Gasping and moving faster on top of him, you push both of you toward the waiting blissful oblivion.

Frank's hands return to your hips with bruising pressure as your pussy flutters around him so close to the edge. And all it takes is his voice, harsh and demanding, "Cum for me, sweetheart," for the coil inside of you to snap and you are flying with the euphoria as your walls clamp down on him in a vice-like grip, sending him spiraling over the edge with you, spurting streams of white-hot cum deep in you, claiming you in the most primal way possible.

Still floating, you collapse against his chest while you both try to catch your breath. You wait for distance that does not come. When you finally come down from the clouds Frank's hands are stroking your back, and he is nuzzling your sweat-dampened hair with his lips at your temple. You do not realize how tense you have been your whole life until this moment lets go.

When you shift to lie at his side, letting him slip from between your legs, you both groan at the loss. It feels like more than just physical space. His arm curls around your waist, holding you to his side as he kisses your forehead. "Rest, sweetheart. You've earned it." Relaxing into his side, you let your eyes drift closed. If this ends, it is going to hurt more than anything before it. You fall asleep anyway, content in the warmth of Frank's arms.

As you drift off, Frank watches you for a few moments, marveling at the complete trust you put in him tonight.

His brain is panicking—he did not hesitate nearly as much as he should have. You are so off-limits, and he just crossed every line he set for himself like they were finish lines. And you are so far from another one-night stand.

That is the part that sticks.

His heart, on the other hand, is already fifteen steps ahead, building a future he never thought he deserved.

He reaches out, pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear, slower this time, more careful. She trusted him. Completely. And he does not take that lightly—even now.

He tells himself this cannot happen again.

He doesn’t believe it.

Eventually, his breathing falls in sync with yours, the steady rhythm pulling him under until he slips into sleep beside you.

Sunlight filters through the curtains as you bury your face into your pillow. Except pillows are not usually this warm—or this solid. Your eyes open slowly, your brain taking a second to catch up with what your body already knows. You are still draped across Frank, bare skin against his, his arm heavy and warm where it rests around you.

Memory hits all at once, and you flush. Right. That is how you ended up here.

For a second, you go still, caught between wanting to move and not wanting to break whatever this is. You do neither.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at him—really look at him. Without the usual tension in his face, without the weight he carries when he is awake, he looks softer. Younger. Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, brushing his hair back from his forehead, your fingers trailing down to his cheek.

He leans into the touch in his sleep.

Your chest tightens.

Then he starts to stir, and you pull your hand back quickly like you have been caught. His eyes open slowly, and when they land on you, there is no confusion. No distance. Just warmth.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough, his hand already moving along your back.

“Hi.” Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.

It only makes him smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

His hands guide you closer, and when he kisses you, it is slow and easy—nothing like the night before. No urgency. No edge. Just warm and certain.

You are not sure what you expected this morning to feel like.

But it was not this. Not this soft. Not this steady. Not this real.

That realization settles somewhere deep, quiet and dangerous.

Breaking apart, you smile down at him. “I’m going to go make breakfast. You can rest a little longer if you want.”

Frank answers you by kissing you again. “I’m awake now. And I like our morning talks.”

Grinning, you bury your face in his neck for a moment, and he tightens his arms around you like he is in no rush to let go. You stay there a second longer than you should, just… feeling it.

Then, reluctantly, you push up from the bed and pull on his discarded shirt and your underwear.

He follows a second later, dragging on a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips as he trails you into the kitchen.

You fall easily into motion, starting breakfast like you have every other morning this week—but it does not feel the same.

Not when he is right there.

Not when he keeps finding reasons to touch you.

He steals a kiss from you as you move past him, soft and quick, like he cannot help himself. His hand lingers at your waist a second too long after.

You pretend you are not noticing.

Mostly.

You press a cup of coffee into his hands and nudge him toward the table. “Sit. You’re distracting me, and I’d rather not burn the house down.”

He chuckles and gives in, dropping into his usual seat, but his eyes stay on you—tracking every movement like he is still trying to figure you out.

Or maybe he already has.

And you do not think too hard about what that might mean.

Frank says your name softly, pulling your attention back to him. “Would you want to live here when your classes are out?”

You blink at him, caught off guard, needing a second to process. “I’m sorry—I think I misheard you.”

He shakes his head, that same easy, affectionate look on his face. “No, you didn’t. It’s just an offer. Not a demand.”

You bite your lip, turning back to the stove more out of habit than necessity, giving yourself a second to think before glancing at him again. “You’re sure? Because that’s… kind of a big jump from whatever we’re calling last night.”

Frank pushes up from the table and crosses the space between you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as his arm wraps around your waist. “All I know is I want you in my life.” His voice is steady, certain. “And we’ve got time. You’ll still be in the dorms until the semester ends—we don’t have to figure everything out right now.” A small squeeze at your side. “Just think about it.”

You relax into him, the tension easing out of your shoulders. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Then something occurs to you, and you tilt your head up to look at him. “What do we tell Mary when she gets home?”

Frank does not let go, but his hand drags through his hair—a nervous habit you are starting to recognize. “Well… she did set us up,” he says, a little wry. “So I don’t think she’ll be mad.” A brief pause. “And she’s too smart for us to hide anything anyway. I’d just rather ease her into it.”

You nod, brushing a quick kiss to his cheek. “That sounds reasonable. I’ll follow your lead.”

Something in him visibly settles at that, like you just took weight off his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what she’s already got planned in her head, but… we’ll figure it out. Together.”

That makes you smile.

A spark of mischief flickers in your eyes. “But we’re still allowed to tease her a little for setting us up, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Frank grins, stepping in behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist as you turn back to the stove, settling into the easy rhythm of cooking together.

Mary’s friends drop her off around noon, and instead of bounding up to the house like usual, she slows her pace, dragging it out so she does not accidentally walk in on anything.

Roberta meets her halfway down the sidewalk, already smiling like she knows something Mary does not.

“Well?” Mary asks immediately, barely containing herself. “How do you think it went?”

Roberta shrugs, far too calm for Mary’s liking. “They went out for a bit after you left, but I haven’t seen either of them since.” A small pause. “No shouting, though, so I’m not too worried.”

Mary makes a face. “That’s not helpful.”

“Patience,” Roberta says, amused.

Then the back door slams.

Both of them freeze.

Frank calls your name, his voice sharp enough to stop them cold.

Mary and Roberta exchange a look—wide-eyed, immediate panic—and take off around the side of the house without another word.

What they find stops them both short.

You stand a few feet from the back door, arms crossed tight over your chest, your back rigid, facing away from the house. Behind you, Frank storms out after you, the door banging open again, his expression dark, jaw set, anger rolling off him in a way neither of them has seen before.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, brat!” Frank snaps as they round the corner.

You whirl on him, eyes blazing. “Brat? Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

Before either of you can escalate, Roberta steps between you, and Mary rushes to Frank’s side. He is practically vibrating with barely contained anger, but the moment he notices her, he clamps his mouth shut.

“What in the world is going on?” Roberta demands, looking to you—because Frank is clearly past reasonable conversation.

You throw your hands up, rolling your eyes. “Ask him. He’s the adult here.” The last word comes out sharp, almost bitten off.

Mary and Roberta both turn to Frank, wide-eyed.

He scoffs. “You bet I am—and you’re just proving how childish you are, throwing a tantrum like this.”

Your eyes flash. “Tantrum? I’ll show you a tantrum, you ass—”

You lunge forward, but Roberta catches you, her grip tightening as alarm finally sets in. “Hold on—everyone just needs to breathe,” she says, though even she sounds thrown.

Mary reaches for Frank’s arm. “What happened? You two were fine yesterday.”

Frank does not look at you—just at Mary. “That was yesterday. Before we spent way too much time alone together and I figured out who she really is.”

He lets it hang for half a second.

“A bratty child.”

The words hit like a slap. Mary and Roberta both go pale.

You make a sharp, frustrated sound and slip past Roberta’s outstretched hands, barreling straight into Frank. He stumbles back under the impact, and the two of you go down hard, hitting the grass and rolling as Mary and Roberta both shout in alarm.

Frank recovers fast—of course he does—using his size to pin you beneath him, hands braced, breath a little rough as he looks down at you.

“Had enough?” he growls.

And that is it. You break.

Laughter spills out of you—bright, uncontrollable, completely at odds with everything that just happened.

Frank freezes for half a second—then grins. He drops his head to your shoulder, his body shaking with quiet laughter as it catches up with him.

Behind you, Mary and Roberta stand frozen, staring at the two of you like they have completely lost the plot.

“What?” Mary shrieks, while Roberta’s eyes narrow, trying to make sense of the two of you tangled in the grass, laughing like you did not just try to tear each other apart a second ago.

Frank rolls off you, landing beside you in the grass, propping himself up on his elbows with a smug look. “Well,” he says easily, “we figured if you two could set us up, we might as well give you a little of your own medicine.”

Roberta lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter.

Mary does not. She storms over and starts swatting at Frank’s arm repeatedly, which only makes him laugh harder. “You scared me!”

He catches her wrists and pulls her into a quick hug, still chuckling. “Yeah, yeah, I can see that.”

You push yourself up, sitting beside him with a grin still tugging at your mouth.

Roberta walks over, shaking her head, and offers you a hand. “We might have deserved that.”

You take it, letting her pull you to your feet. “More than a little,” you say, smiling as you brush yourself off.

Frank stands, and Mary immediately leaves his side to hug you instead.

He gives her an offended look. “Why do I feel like I’m the only one getting punished here?”

Mary doesn’t hesitate. “Because I like her more.”

You laugh outright at that while Frank mock-pouts.

Taking pity on him, you slip an arm around his waist and lean up to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

He glances down at you, something softer flickering there, and winks.

That is all it takes.

“I knew it!” Mary practically shouts, eyes lighting up as she points between the two of you.

You roll your eyes and reach out to ruffle her hair. “Yeah, yeah. We know.”

Roberta watches the two of you with a deeply satisfied smile, and Frank groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Evans Variants Masterlist

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Peggy’s jaw clenches as she watches Steve hold you while you cry, and deciding she has seen enough of you clinging to her boyfriend, she quietly slips out to find a doctor and let them know about the new development.

Bucky’s emotions are all over the place, happy for you because you finally remember someone, but devastated that it is Steve instead of him.

As your sobs slowly begin to subside, Steve continues to stroke your hair, steady and familiar, and you pull back slightly, staring at him in disbelief as the flood of memories settles instead of crashes. Moments with him rise first—your first kiss, shared quietly and never spoken about again, secrets whispered back and forth, your journals tucked away with him so no one else could find them, the two of you sneaking into each other’s rooms just to make sure the other was okay.

"You okay, tiger?" Steve asks, and you cannot help the small laugh that escapes you, a smile following close behind at the sound of the nickname.

"No, but yes." He shifts onto the bed beside you, letting you lean into his side more comfortably, and you cannot help but notice how easy it feels, how natural. "I still don't remember much about myself, except now I have all of these memories of talking to you." You run a hand through your hair, not quite able to look at Bucky because this has to be a bitter pill to swallow. "Honestly, my head is spinning a little with all the new information."

Before anyone can say anything else, Dr. Martins walks in with Peggy right behind him, and she scowls at Steve sitting on the bed with you before quickly schooling her features.

Dr. Martins looks between you and Steve for a moment. "So Ms. Carter tells me you remembered something?"

You nod, a little too enthusiastically. "I remember Steve, as well as a bunch of our memories together, but it's all a little jumbled."

The doctor nods and checks your vitals again without making Steve move from your side, where you are very obviously drawing comfort from him. "That is perfectly normal when you start having new memories."

Bucky finally speaks up. "Is there any reason she would remember Steve and not anyone else, including herself?"

Dr. Martins pauses, looking at Bucky for a moment before turning to you. "Well, there are a few possibilities. First, let me ask, do you happen to remember if you and Mr. Rogers were in contact around the time of the crash?"

You bite your lip, trying to search for anything about the crash. "I don't remember the crash still, but the last thing I do remember…" You look up at Steve. "We were on the phone, and maybe I was going to see you?" You give him a searching look, not completely sure.

Steve nods, meeting your gaze. "Yeah, that's right. We were on the phone when it happened. Still can't get the sound of your scream out of my head."

You instinctively grab his free hand at the pained look on his face, and he squeezes back, offering you a small smile before looking to the doctor again.

Steve tilts his head slightly, not completely convinced. "You think that's it? That because I was the last person she talked to, that's why she remembers me?"

Dr. Martins' mouth twists. "It's possible," he hums. "It's also possible that the two of you simply share a strong enough emotional connection that seeing you, Mr. Rogers, triggered that response and brought forward those memories."

Bucky nearly bursts at that. "You're saying she has a stronger emotional connection with Steve than me? Her fiancé?"

Dr. Martins lifts his hands slightly in surrender, shaking his head. "I'm saying it's a possibility. There are a lot of unknowns when it comes to amnesia and how memory works. But I do think it would be beneficial if Mr. Rogers came by often. It may help her regain her other memories."

You do not see Bucky’s jaw clench as you look at Steve with questioning, almost hopeful eyes.

Steve huffs a soft laugh. "Of course, I'll be here every minute I can." He smiles at you. "I would do anything to help you, tiger. You know that."

You smile, relieved, but finally notice the tension in both Bucky and Peggy and bite your lip. "I would say I'm sorry, but I didn't remember just Steve and no one else on purpose. I'm as surprised as anyone that I remember him."

Bucky blows out a breath and looks away, his jaw tightening as Peggy gives you a tight smile. "It's okay. This is just a lot to take in. I mean, you two were always close… but now he's all you have."

You flush, ducking your head, something defensive rising before you can stop it. "I may not remember everyone, but I wouldn't say Steve is all I have. He's just all the memories of before the crash that I have."

Steve's arm around you tightens, drawing your attention as he gives Peggy a brief, confused look before turning back to you. "Of course you still have everyone, tiger. I'm just glad I can help."

Dr. Martins smiles as he makes a few notes on your chart. "I think this is good progress. And now that you have someone you remember, I think we should start talking about how you feel your rehab is going."

You lick your lips, looking at the doctor. "I am feeling stronger, but I still can't stand very long or walk much on my own."

He nods. "I know, but we are getting close to you being able to return home with some help. At some point, we'll need to start seeing you as an outpatient."

You nod, swallowing hard, not sure how you feel about being on your own. You glance at the others. "Do I have a home to go back to? I mean, a year is a long time."

Bucky answers, already bracing himself for where this might go. "Despite our engagement, we weren't living together. You had an apartment, but we packed up your things after you'd been in a coma for a few months."

"Oh." You look down at your lap, trying to wrap your head around it. "So I'm homeless, then."

"Hey, tiger," Steve cuts in gently, not liking the way your expression falls. "We were roommates in college. You can stay with me."

You look at him, a little stunned. "Really? I mean, I would need a lot of help, Steve. I'm sure my parents would take me in." The idea of living with Bucky—a man you are supposed to love but do not know—feels daunting, but taking advantage of Steve's kindness does not sit right either.

Peggy finally speaks up. "She's right, Steve. She'll need constant care, and you have a job. Her parents would be much better suited to help, or even Bucky." She does not add that she would have a problem with it. She clearly thinks that is obvious.

Steve makes a disgruntled noise. "Nonsense. I can take some time off, and there is no reason she needs someone hovering over her all the time anyway."

"I am right here." Steve shoots you an apologetic look, and his obvious desire to help, to be on your side, makes you want to say yes. Let the only friend you remember be there for you, and maybe you can get your journals from him, at least have your memories as written by your own hand. "Okay."

"What!?" Both Bucky and Peggy say, each looking equally flabbergasted.

Taking a breath, you give them a determined look. "I'm not being released yet. But if I still don't have any other memories when I am—" You turn to Steve, giving him a grateful look, "—and you're still okay with it, then I'll stay with Steve until I get back on my feet."

Dr. Martins jumps in before the room can explode. "Wonderful. Then I'll let the staff know, if you agree, Mr. Rogers, to release you into his care when the time comes." Steve just nods, and the doctor quickly makes his exit.

Peggy stalks off with an angry huff, and you are a little surprised when Steve only rolls his eyes instead of following her.

Bucky, on the other hand, is livid, and his anger finally boils over. "Seriously? Just like that, Steve is your answer?"

You look at him, frustration rising to meet his anger. "It's not like that, Bucky. I remember Steve, and I know I'm comfortable with him. He doesn't have to look at me and hope to God I remember him. I don't have to hurt him every time he sees me because I just… don't."

Bucky deflates. "I'm sorry, it's just…" He looks between you and Steve. "I've always felt like there was more between you than just friendship, and you remembering Steve and not me just makes it feel all the more real."

Steve sighs. "Come on, Buck. You know neither of us would ever do that to you. We've been friends since we were kids. Yeah, she remembers me, but that doesn't change your history together. It'll come back. Just give her time."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair and exhales. "I'm going to need a bit to process this." He looks at you, something raw and pained in his expression, and you hate that you are the reason for it, even if you know you have done nothing wrong. "I'm just going to go. Let you two catch up, I guess. I'll see you, babe."

And then he is gone.

It is just you and Steve sitting together on your small hospital bed. You look at him helplessly for a moment, and he sighs.

"It's okay, tiger. You have nothing to fret over. Peggy and I will talk and figure it out, and Bucky will come around." He brushes a piece of hair behind your ear. "Are you okay? You sure you want me to take care of you?"

You lean your head against his shoulder and nod. "Yeah. I know it kind of seems sudden, but I have all these memories now of you and me as kids and teenagers. I remember living with you and how much fun we had." You tilt your head to look up at him. "But are you sure you want to do it? I mean… I'm kind of helpless. You're going to have to help me with everything. Even stuff like showering."

Blushing to the tips of his ears, Steve laughs and winks at you. "Nothing I haven't seen before, tiger."

Abruptly, you are hit with a memory—Steve, much smaller and skinnier, the two of you in the back of a car after that Sadie Hawkins dance, losing your virginity together—and you flush furiously as you smack his thigh. "Steven Grant Rogers, that was once, when we were sixteen, and you're…" You huff, gesturing vaguely at him. "…bigger now."

Steve barks out a startled laugh before giving you a mischievous look. "Tiger, some things don't change."

You smack his leg again, blushing and a little outraged, especially since he is usually so shy around everyone else. "Jesus, you have a girlfriend, Steven."

He smiles and ruffles your hair. "I know, tiger, but I can't help teasing you a little after not being able to talk to you for over a year."

Smiling warmly at him, you lean into a light hug, remembering what you wanted to ask but could not in front of Bucky and Peggy. "Hey, you still have my journals?"

Steve blinks, then nods. "Yeah, of course. I keep them in my safe. Why?"

You shrug, your mouth twisting as you both smile and frown at the same time. "I just thought maybe it would help to read my own thoughts. But not here—when I get released. You're still the only one who knows about them."

Steve smiles, a little more brightly now. "That sounds like a great idea, tiger. I can't believe I never thought of it."

You yawn, and Steve slowly gets up, finally pulling away from your side. "You should get some rest, tiger. I'll come back tomorrow." He hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your forehead before slipping out the door.

You lean back into your hospital bed, feeling lighter than you have in a while. Finally, you remembered something—and it was something big. Someone who had been a big part of your life.

As Bucky comes in the next morning, he rolls his eyes that Steve is already in your room, making you laugh like he has not heard since you woke up. When he walks in Steve is thankfully not sitting on the bed with you again but is in a chair next to the bed talking animatedly. Bucky throws out the coffee he brought you, seeing Steve beat him to it.

Both of you turn to him smiling as he walks in, and he notices that Sam is in the room too. That somehow makes it better that you do not look so damn happy because of Steve. Not that Bucky does not want you happy, but seeing Steve be the reason is gut-wrenching. He loves the guy, but why did it have to be him?

Sam smiles at Bucky. "Hey man, I was just about to head out. I just dropped by with a new phone for our girl with the playlist we made together all loaded up on it for her. You know since she lost hers in the crash."

Bucky nods. "Oh okay, cool. You two worked really hard on that." He turns to you, and though you smile at him, he can tell you still do not remember him. He sighs and takes a seat on the other side of your bed. "How're you feeling, babe?"

"I'm okay, nothing new today. Just some more physical therapy in a couple hours. How are you today, Bucky?" It bugs you when he calls you "babe." It is another one of those echoes of a memory that niggles at you but you cannot quite put your finger on. You let it go and wave at Sam as he walks out.

Bucky gives you a tight smile that you are becoming all too familiar with lately. "Doing okay. The others were really happy to hear you remembered something. I think the girls will be coming by today too."

Hearing that you might get to see Natasha, Wanda, and Pepper brightens your mood. You really enjoy being around them, and maybe you will get to see Tony too. You look forward to that because he puts you so at ease. "Really? I guess today is company day."

Steve laughs at your reaction. "You'd think you remembered them with how happy you seem."

You blush and swat the blonde's arm. "I just really enjoyed hanging out with them. They helped me remember what coffee I like without making it weird."

He sticks his tongue out at you childishly, and you immediately reciprocate, making Bucky laugh at your antics. You give him a sheepish smile, suddenly feeling a little awful because you forgot, for a second, that you and Steve were not alone.

Bucky clears his throat. "So, any more news about when you'll be released?"

Thankful for the change in topic, you shake your head. "Not yet. I think they want me to complete a little more rehab and a couple more tests, especially since I started remembering things, before they discharge me."

He nods, fidgeting slightly. "Yeah, that makes sense."

Steve gets to his feet. "I'm going to go check with the nurse about when they want to do your rehab."

You smile at him, knowing he already asked about it so he could go with you and learn the exercises. He is just trying to give you a moment alone with Bucky.

Once Steve is out of the room, you look over at Bucky, your chest already tight. "Go on. I know you have something you want to say."

He sighs, his deep blue, troubled eyes lifting to yours. "Why were you so quick to agree to Steve taking care of you? I know you don't remember me, but I am your fiancé."

You lean back into your pillows with a sigh of your own, dragging a hand through your hair as you try to find the right words. "I—" You stop, shaking your head slightly. "I see how much it hurts you every time I don't remember you or something about our life together." Your voice softens, but it does not make it easier. "And I hate that. I really do."

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep going. "But being around you like that… it would just make it worse. You'd always be hoping I remember, and I—" You falter again, your gaze dropping before you make yourself look back at him. "As I am right now, Bucky… I don't feel anything but friendship for anyone, much less you."

The words sit heavy between you, and the moment they land, you wish you could take them back—not because they are not true, but because of what they do to him.

Tears spill from Bucky's eyes as you finally say the one thing he has been trying so hard not to hear. "That's it then. Am I supposed to just pretend I don't love you?"

Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, your chest tightening painfully, before you shake your head and look at him again. "No. No, I don't want that either." Your voice wavers despite yourself. "But I can't pretend that I feel something I don't. That's not fair to you."

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "I don't want to hurt you, but right now I have to focus on getting better, on trying to find the memories I'm missing. And maybe—" You hesitate, hating how uncertain it sounds. "Maybe even if I don't remember… I'll fall in love with you all over again. In time."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bucky leans back, his composure slipping just enough to show how much this is costing him. "If that's what you want… okay. But you have to promise me if you do remember, you'll tell me."

"Of course, Bucky. I have no reason to hide that from you." You try to offer him something, anything. "I know you'll probably need time, but that phone Sam got me is still my number, so it's not like I'm out of reach." Your heart aches for him—not because you feel what he does, but because you can see exactly how much this is breaking him. He has been here, waiting for you to wake up and marry him, and now you are the one pulling away.

Bucky looks away. "Yeah… okay. You're right. I need some time." His voice roughens. "I do love you. And I've been waiting to give you your engagement ring back, but I guess I'll just keep it for now."

He stands and takes your hand for a brief moment. You squeeze back without thinking, and then he is gone before you can say anything else.

The room feels heavier after he leaves.

You sink back into the bed, your head tilting against the pillows as you close your eyes, letting the awful feeling settle in your chest like something you deserve to sit with.

A few moments later, you look up as you hear someone enter the room, and your eyes meet Steve's ocean-blue ones. He gives you a small, sad smile. "Bucky looked… pretty rough when he left. Can I ask what happened?"

You swallow hard, your chest tightening at the question, knowing they are like brothers and this might change the way Steve looks at you. "I… cut him loose, for lack of a better term."

Steve's eyes go wide. "What?"

You sigh again, biting your lip as you try to steady yourself. "It wasn't fair to him to keep expecting me to feel something or remember something that I may never recall." You hesitate, your voice softening. "And like I told him, maybe one day—even without my memories—I'll fall in love with him all over again. But he shouldn't be… stuck waiting for that."

As Steve steps closer and brushes his thumb over your cheek, you realize you are crying. You are not even sure when it started—if it is because of some unremembered feeling, or just because you hurt someone who loves you.

His voice is quiet when he asks, "You sure that's what you want, tiger?"

Your mouth twists into that same frown-smile. "No." You let out a shaky breath. "But I can't keep hurting him like this. Not remembering… and then remembering you."

Steve nods and pulls you into a warm, steady hug, and you lean into it because it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart more than you already are.

"You're not mad at me?" you ask into his shoulder. "For hurting your best friend?"

He shakes his head, pulling back just enough to look at you, that same sad smile still there. "You're my best friend too. And yeah, I hate seeing Buck hurt, but… I get it. Right now, this might be what is best."

A knock at the door from the nurse telling you it is time for physical therapy cuts the moment short. Steve helps you into the wheelchair and follows alongside you down the hallway.

You cannot help but think how grateful you are that you at least remember him—that you have someone who is willing to stay, no matter what.

Part Three