#female reader insert

And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.

Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.

He doesn't believe you.

He won't believe you.

Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?

Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.

So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.

You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.

The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.

Damn her.

What the hell did she see in this man anyway?

Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)

The madman of high society.

If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!

But you didn't know.

And now you're stuck with the aftermath…

At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.

Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.

Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.

And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.

Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.

Wherever he was… that became your workspace.

You’d turn around and he’d be there.

In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.

Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!

Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.

But he never hurts you.

His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.

But you've started to notice something.

He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…

And it becomes a routine.

You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.

At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.

No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.

He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.

You don't know when this became normal.

You hate that it feels normal.

Tonight, you try to get up.

His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.

"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"

"Stay."

His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.

"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."

"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."

You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realized…

He never follows through.

Not with you.

"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"

His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.

But he knows you're right.

He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.

"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."

"…I'm sat."

You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.

And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.

He, on the other hand?

Dead to the world.

The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.

His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.

At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.

Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.

Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.

And yet… Here you are, watching him sleep.

Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.

Usually the guards.

You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.

"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."

His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.

Your quill scratches to a halt.

"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.

His smile deepens.

He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.

You stare at him.

Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth you’ve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.

Nothing is wrong with him.

The potion didn't work.

He's just like this.

You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.

And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.

Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.

Little did both of you know.

The potion didn't work on him.

It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs… Basically anything ingested.

The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.

He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.

Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.

Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.

Until he saw you.

And something in his chest pulled again.

Not the potion, that was already gone.

Something else he didn’t have a name for.

He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.

…

It's not.

He was just love-struck at first sight.

And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.

Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.

On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.

Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.

You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.

It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.

Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.

The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.

Over, and over, and over.

And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.

That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.

But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.

Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.

"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.

But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?

You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.

"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."

And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.

Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.

Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.

You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.

"Hey."

Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.

"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"

You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.

"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."

"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.

And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.

It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.

You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.

That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.

You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.

"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.

And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her shoulder, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.

So you protect your peace.

"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."

You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.

Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?

Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.

"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"

Your eyes don't leave the road.

"What about it?"

Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.

"You said you'd come over again tonight."

"Didn't think I'd be this tired."

“We can just go to sleep.”

You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.

“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”

A beat.

You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"

That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."

Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.

So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.

Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.

If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.

You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.

But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.

(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).

The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.

Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.

Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.

Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.

And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.

"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."

You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"

He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."

Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.

"Oh," you murmur.

"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."

Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.

"...What are you saying to me right now?"

"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."

"Do you mean...astrology chart?"

"Sure?"

"And Sagittarius?"

"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"

You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."

All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.

Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.

You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."

You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.

All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.

The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.

"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"

You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.

"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"

Your knees nearly buckle.

"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."

He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."

"I'd step on your feet."

"I wouldn't mind."

"My stiletto could puncture your toe."

"Is it made of steel?"

"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."

"Sweet girl." A warning.

You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.

Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.

You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"

But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.

Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.

"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"

Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.

So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"

It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.

He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.

And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.

You don't stay much longer after that.

It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.

You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.

Like an idiot, you check your phone.

Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?

The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.

Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.

Your thumbs move before you can stop them.

You: Hey, B. Not tonight.

Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.

Almost immediately, you follow up.

You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be messing around. So. You can take me off the roster.

Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.

Right?

You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.

In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.

Bucky: Wait what 1 Missed Call From: Bucky Bucky: Roster? Bucky: Sweetheart 2 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb. 3 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?

When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.

You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.

The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.

It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.

But of course things can't be good for too long.

Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.

You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.

The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.

"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.

"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"

You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."

When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.

"I've noticed," he says after a minute.

The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.

Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"

Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?

You decide to play it safe.

"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"

Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.

But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.

"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."

You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"

Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.

"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"

You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.

"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."

The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.

"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'

"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.

Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.

You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.

"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."

Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You know I'm all for hating on men."

"Of course."

"But—“

"Natasha—“

"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."

Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.

Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."

"You could be sitting."

"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.

"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."

"Really?"

She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"

You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.

Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.

"Later," you say simply.

Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.

“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."

You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"

She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."

"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."

"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"

You stop slicing immediately.

"What?"

"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."

Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"

"Why would I be asleep?"

"I heard you snoring."

"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."

Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."

The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.

As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.

“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.

You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.

"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.

Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“

You hang up immediately.

Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.

That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.

Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.

Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.

You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.

Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.

And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.

“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”

“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.

Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”

Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.

Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”

Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”

“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.

Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.

It makes you squirm.

You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.

“Uh, the sweatsh—“

Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.

You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.

Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.

“Are you gonna—“

“You look pretty.”

The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.

You can’t dwell on the semantics.

All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”

“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”

You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.

“I would completely beg to differ.”

Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”

Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”

“I’m too busy.”

“I’ll make time for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“How?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“

But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.

“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.

“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.

You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.

The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.

Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? That I care about you?”

God, he’s not fucking getting it.

You shake your head, exasperated.

“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”

His jaw slacks.

Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.

“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.

It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.

God, why is he looking at you like that?

“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”

You blink at him.

He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”

A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“

“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”

The confession makes your blood run cold.

“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“

He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.

Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.

But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.

“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”

Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.

He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”

Your chest aches. “You what?”

“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”

If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.

Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.

“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You dare to bite. “About which part?”

His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”

“Oh,” is all you can murmur.

“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”

The expression on your face must be comedic gold.

“Oh,” you repeat quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”

You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.

In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.

And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.

You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.

“Breathe,” he guides gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.

“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“

Bucky’s grin grows.

“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”

When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.

“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.

You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.

Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.

“To get over you.”

His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”

“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”

“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—

“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.

For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.

To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.

Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.

Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.

"That's— When did— Are you sure?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.

"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"

"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."

"How could I possibly have known?"

"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."

"Well, I thought you were just...excited."

"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."

"Semantics."

"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."

The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.

"For science," he adds quickly.

You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."

You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.

His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.

Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.

When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.

"You really love me?"

Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."

He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.

And your heart just...aches.

But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.

"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.

You're hardly one to refuse that request.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

In the meantime, everyone in the party was sticking around, yet a part of you knew this era would be short-lived. Jonathan was finishing his essay for NYU, Robin was waiting till the last possible minute to send her applications, and Nancy had been re-admitted to Emerson after deferring the year before. They’d be gone next year, and then the younger teens would follow them out. 

The battles were over, and everyone could finally move on. Find a new normal. 

But moving on was easier said than done. You had tried to confide in your father about losing another daughter. He was surprisingly accepting of her absence quicker than you were, “Jane… made a choice. I know that it is hard; it is so difficult to accept that she’s gone. But, kid, you gotta understand that this isn’t like when we lost Sarah… Sarah didn’t get a choice. Jane made a decision that neither of us will ever understand.”

Then there was Mike, equally lost in grief. Yet the grief you shared was starkly different. While you fought through the pain of not only losing one, but two sisters, Mike was battling the loss of his first love. The kid was a shell of himself, trying to find the answer to an unsolvable riddle or to rewrite an ending for them. Maybe if they had been able to get in contact with Dr. Owens again, he could’ve helped them hide from the government while living a normal life. As much as you both tried, neither of you could stomach the conversation. 

Will, Lucas, Dustin, and Max would come over to check on you and talk about the readjustment to high school life. They’d complain about homework load, other extracurriculars, or what some dumbass said in class that day. Everyone tried to be there for you, and they were. But grief is an ocean, the tides pushing and pulling regardless of time. 

Steve had seen the worst of it. The nights when neither of you got any sleep because he was consoling you amid endless sobs. He listened as you recounted stories about when your dad first brought you into the cabin to meet Jane. About how you had missed her when Joyce took Jane to California while you lived as an emancipated minor in Hawkins. How you wished you had more time to be a big sister, not just to Jane, but for Sarah…

He listened, he always listened. Because he couldn’t answer your questions. Steve was an only child, and though Dustin was practically his little brother, he knew he couldn’t equate the two. But he was determined to be with you through your grief. He made you easy meals when you couldn’t stomach the thought of food. He helped motivate you out of bed in the morning. He pushed you to find a new perspective on life, now that nothing could hold you down to Hawkins. 

— — —

A year had passed since Vecna’s demise. Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin were settled in the east, but regularly called to catch up. They’d all be visiting home for the holiday and swore to hang out like old times. 

Dustin had been accepted to Princeton and was on track to graduate as valedictorian. Lucas had accepted an athletic scholarship to IU, and Max was still waiting for her acceptance letter. Will had mentioned something about wanting to move to the city with Jonathan and maybe consider art school. Mike didn’t talk about college, though everyone knew his parents expected him to attend. 

You and Steve had even decided to move in together. Steve’s parents had sold their business to private equity and retired to Florida, but Mr. Harrington had left the deed to the Harringtons’ estate. He had been practically living and taking care of the house since his parents fled before quarantine was instituted in ‘86. His parents’ lack of interest in his life was something you both continued to bond over while you built your lives together. Both of you decided to live there until you could save up enough money to buy a house where you two could build happier memories than those on Maple Street. Your dad was suspicious at first. 

“I just don’t understand,” He sighed as he stood in the doorway of your old bedroom, dressed in that same police chief uniform from years ago, “You two have only been dating for eight months. It just feels too soon, kid.”

“Dad,” you looked at him as you taped up another box, “Steve and I were playing a long game of ‘will they, won’t they’ for years. He… he’s the only one who understands—”

You tried to gesture. The words were coming up short on your tongue. Words that you didn’t want to speak because they would remind you of your losses. Your eyes flicked around the bedroom you had once shared with Jane. This cabin held too much history of two sisters thrust together who desperately needed each other. Engrained in the wood were tales of girlhood, haunting memories of a childhood that both your sisters had been robbed of. 

Hop’s demeanor softened when he noted the tears rimming your eyes, “You’re not a kid anymore. You’ll always be my little girl, but you’ve outgrown this cabin. And I… I’m gonna miss my girls…”

The two of you moved to hug each other, silently mourning the Eggo waffle extravaganzas and Magnum PI reruns. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the echoes of laughter and records playing. 

A knock came from the doorway. Steve was perched there in a red Henley and jeans, his hair tamed beneath a backwards baseball cap. He gave you both an easy smile, “I hate to break up the moment, but we are running short on daylight.”

Both you and your father wiped away tears as you pulled apart.

“Harrington,” Hop nodded at him, “How’s your first year at Hawkins Middle going? Did Mr. Clarke finally recruit you to help him with the A.V. Club?”

Steve chuckled and shook his head, “No, no. I had to be honest with him. Told him that my brain doesn’t work like his or Dustin’s when it comes to technological advancement. That, and I’m unfortunately caught up with these after-school practices.”

“The kids love Coach Steve,” You interjected with a proud smile. 

“They call you coach in the classroom, too? Or do you make them call you Mr. Harrington?” Hop asked. 

“No, Mr. Harrington was my father, and he was all business,” Steve explained, “So I’m Mr. H in the classroom. And Ms. H makes sure our athletes are well taken care of as our newest school nurse.”

You grinned at how Steve subtly gushed about your most recent accomplishment. Hop, however, suspiciously eyed the two of you, “Mr. and Ms. H?”

“Ms. Hopper is too formal,” You shrugged, quickly moving to grab the last box. 

You pressed a quick kiss to your dad’s cheek before exiting the room. You expected Steve to follow behind you shortly. 

Once you were out of earshot, Hop met Steve with an intense look, “Mr. and Ms. H? When should I expect Mr. and Mrs. H?”

Steve’s eyes quickly flicked in the direction of his truck before meeting your father’s stern gaze once more. He let out a heavy sigh and stood up straight, “I bought a ring a month ago. But… I don’t know when to ask. We’re happy right now. Y’know, she has her good days and her bad days. But it’s great to have her at the school. She’s always been good at… taking care of the little guys. I just—”

He halted and ran his hand over his face, “It’s not a question of if. Just when. I don’t want her to feel like I’m forcing her to move on from this too quickly.”

Hopper took in the information, the gears in his head turning. He understood why Steve was cautious; hell, he even respected him for being so thoughtful. But he also wanted to make sure that he knew you wouldn’t be alone when your old man was gone.

— — — 

With eighteen months since the bridge closed, a chapter was quickly closing again as the kids… the teens and soon-to-be adults, would be graduating. Dustin had been over to have dinner with you and Steve the night before. He talked endlessly of how excited he was to go to New Jersey, and how he could take the train up to visit Will in New York. He also complimented the camper parked in the driveway, a recent purchase Steve had made with summer break looming at the school.

A day later, everyone had come together to celebrate the Class of 1989. After the ceremony and Dustin’s exciting address to his fellow graduates, your parties split up with the promise of hanging out again before anyone left town post-graduation celebrations. 

Steve and you had joined your old friends on the rooftop of the Squawk. Nancy and Robin nursed their red solo cups while Jonathan recounted the plot of the script he was working on. 

“So an anticapitalist, cannibalism indie film? Byers, the Hollywood elite will hate you.” You chuckled as you snagged yourself and Steve another beer from the cooler. 

“What’s rent like in New York?” Steve quickly followed up. 

“Why? You two thinking of finally moving?” Nancy asked him with a knowing smile. 

“Yeah, you could move in with me while you get a taste for city life,” Jonathan shrugged and finished the remainder of his drink. 

You shook your head as you perched next to Steve, “No… no. We’re gonna stick around here just for a little while longer.”

Steve beamed at you, glad that you were choosing to be present in the moment, “Yeah. We’re saving up to get our own place. Maple Street just isn’t for us. There’s a nice plot of land available out on Forest Park that we’ve almost got enough for. Market’s not too bad right now.”

And like the ceremony from earlier in the day, your group couldn’t help but feel that pang of nostalgia. The wave of feeling that comes from speaking with old friends who have seen what you were and the potential for who you could become. It was bittersweet to go into Family Video, Melvald’s, and the Hawk without seeing your teenage selves. 

“Let’s promise to meet up once a month,” Robin suggested. The group knew that once a month would be difficult. Between traveling to Hawkins or the east coast or Robin’s uncle's house and finding the time amidst baseball practices or work or college, it was a hopeful dream shared between friends with shared trauma. 

— — — 

Two months later, at the Harrington-Hopper residence. It had been twenty months since your family had been separated. 

Your dad and Joyce were visiting Maple Street tonight. Steve thought it was important to have your dad over for dinner at least once a month. Will had just moved out to the city with Jonathan, and you each felt the lack of his presence at the dinner table that night. But there was still so much good to be had. 

Joyce now sported a quaint engagement ring, ready to finally get her happily ever after with your father. You were terribly happy for both of them. Steve recalled the events of your drive, and so-called vacation, to take Dustin to college orientation. Yet among all the joy, you noticed that your father had been uncharacteristically quiet. 

The conversation hit a lull, and you immediately called him out, “There’s something you want to tell us?”

Hop’s eyes flicked between you, Steve, and Joyce. When she nodded at him, he released a heavy sigh and set down his fork. 

“Joyce and I have decided to move to Montauk,” Your dad came straight out with it, knowing better than to avoid the truth. “I’ve accepted a position as Chief of Police, and we’ll be closer to Jonathan and Will. Which means you’ll be able to see them when you visit—”

“You’re leaving me?” Your words sliced through the air. 

The room went silent, neither Steve nor Joyce wanting to insert themselves into the exchange.

Your dad’s shoulders sagged, the words stinging his heart, “I-I’m not leaving you, but we want to leave Hawkins finally.”

“Right, so you’re just abandoning me,” You quickly got to your feet. Steve gently tried to grasp your hand in consolation, but you pushed it away. 

“Kid, please,” Hop grit his teeth, attempting to remain unemotional, “We need a new start. I need a new start. There’s nothing left for me in Hawkins—”

“Except for me!” You snapped. Suddenly, you felt like you were seventeen again and fighting with your old man while Jane was out with Mike. 

“No, I told you that I made plans to go see the re-release of Jaws with Steve that weekend,” You stomped into the bedroom in frustration, “I can’t just babysit Jane and Mike all the time. It’s my summer vacation too.”

Hop rolled his eyes as he stood in the doorway, “Yeah, and I told you to get a summer job, but you couldn’t even do that. The least you could do to earn your keep around here is to make sure your sister doesn’t get into any funny business with Wheeler.”

“My keep?” You scoffed at his turn of phrase, emotions hitting a high, “I’m your daughter too. Or did you forget that? And if you’ve forgotten about me, then maybe you forgot about Sarah?”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but that’s enough, kid,” He held his hands up in defense. 

“No, you never listen to me,” You spat as tears threatened to spill, “I lost my sister. You moved us back here, bummed around as you drank and smoked yourself out, and then you get a case that makes you feel like a big city cop again. And now I’m stuck playing mother to a lab experiment—”

“Jane is your sister—”

“Sarah is my sister. Jane is my sister. And you are their father,” A sob raked your body, “But you’re my dad too, y’know!”

Your dad froze in place, realization dawning on him. He looked defeated as he shook his head. He placed a large hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes saying more than words could, “I’m sorry. I… I’m so sorry.”

The evening ended when you stormed upstairs, the door to the master bedroom slamming. Steve packed a container of leftovers for Hop to take to work for lunch the next day. He bid your dad and Joyce a goodnight with a promise that it would be okay, you just needed time to adapt to the change. 

When Steve finally came upstairs, he found you curled into a ball at the foot of your shared bed. He stood at the doorway, calm and collected. You two had done this ritual plenty of times, showing up for each other when the nightmares got too real again. 

“Sweetheart, can I join you?” Steve gently asked. He always sought your permission, wanting to make sure you felt in control of the situation. 

The only response was the sound of your sobs. Until he caught the faint nod of your head. In a few short strides, Steve was next to you, hand ready for you to take when you were ready. It was another twenty minutes before you put your thoughts into words.

“Do you think he’d still leave if it were Mike and Jane here instead?” 

Your question pierced deeply, instantly understanding right where your mind was.

“You can’t do that to yourself, honey,” He tried to console you, “You know as well as I do that he didn’t make this decision lightly. He wouldn’t leave if he didn’t think you could stand on your own two feet.”

Your glassy eyes continued to wander the room, “If Jane were here, she’d be excited to see somewhere new. Despite the bullies, she really did love California. I think she just loved to see the world…”

Steve wrapped his arms around your shoulder, tugging you into his side. It was a small act to help ground you. 

“After Eddie’s funeral, I dropped Dustin off at home… But I couldn’t go back to my house. It was too quiet with my parents being gone for good,” He explained as he ran a soothing hand over your arm, “So I went to Lover’s Lake and Skull Rock… retraced my steps. I thought that if I could go back and relive that week through Dustin’s eyes, I would see what he saw in Eddie. Something that I thought I was lacking, and that’s why Dustin had started to pull away from me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” You wiped your eyes with the back of your hands, “Dustin would never want you to be Eddie. He’s only ever wanted his best friend, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “But we didn’t communicate with each other. I felt like a failure because I couldn’t be enough for Dustin, and then we both got angry. But I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at myself because we should’ve planned better for the demobats. I could’ve biked faster, but I was too late. And so I wondered if this is how it would’ve been if the roles were reversed. Why was I, just some dumb jock who got mixed into this crap on accident, the one who had survived a demogorgon, the Mind Flayer, and Vecna?”

His words washed over you, bringing you a sense of understanding that you couldn’t put into words. You pressed a kiss to his temple before resting your forehead against his, “You’re here because I need you here. Those kids need you here. And we’ve got a  great party of friends who need you here.”

Steve grinned, your assurance mending something he needed to hear in his heart long ago, “And that’s why you’re still here, too.”

— — — 

New Year’s Eve, 1990. NYC. Two years after the gate closed. 

Steve and you had flown into Long Island to visit Joyce and Hopper for the holidays. Montauk was beautiful at Christmas, the perfect place to pop the question. You two were officially one step closer to being Mr. and Mrs. H. 

But now you both had taken the train into the city to meet up with Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin. Jonathan had managed to reserve a booth at an underground jazz club for the group to ring in the New Year together. The monthly meetups had failed by the second attempt to get to Philly. It was simply too difficult to travel, and the timing never seemed to work out. But your friends had discovered that every three months and some holidays were doable. 

Robin had just recounted running into Vickie while home visiting Hawkins, and that she may or may not have given Vickie her landline number. Jonathan was still enjoying NYU and working as a part-time production assistant for some hotshot indie filmmaker that he just raved about. Nancy mentioned earning a recent promotion to the full-time editing staff of her paper. 

But the most exciting news of the evening was the shiny ring on your finger. 

“Harrington, that is a rock,” Robin gawked at the size of the stone. “Is that why you two sold the Harrington estate?”

Both you and Steve laughed as you remained tucked against each other in the dim booth. Steve rolled his eyes, “No, we sold it because we finally decided to just buy some land and build our dream home. But we are living in Forrest Hills for the time being until we decide where we want to be.”

“You two are ditching Hawkins?” Nancy leaned in, her expression riddled with surprise. 

“We haven’t officially decided anything yet,” You quickly interjected, “But we want to keep our options open right now. But what’s most important to us is that you all know that you will always have a home to visit us in, even if it isn’t in Hawkins.”

“But why leave?” Robin followed up, “Not that I am not totally psyched about all these awesome things.”

Both you and Steve looked at each other. It was a question you both wrestled with. Why should we leave? Why should we stay? But there was opportunity everywhere, and you both knew that as long as you were together, you could settle anywhere and finally live out the Harrington dream. 

You nodded at him and looked at your friends with an answer, “We’re just weighing our options.”

That satiated them enough. With a toast to your friendship and to the New Year, you chuckled as the countdown to the New Year started. 

A deep part of you ached. You longed to share a moment like this with your sisters again. You wished Sarah could have met the ragtag group who had become your friends. You wished Jane could be here to see that you and Steve would be tying the knot. You wished they were here to see how happy your father was in Montauk. But deep down, you knew that they were with you through all of it. 

— — — 

August 1991. 

That summer, you and Steve were happily married. All of the party returned to Hawkins for the ceremony. Dustin had suggested a destination wedding, but both you and Steve agreed that it needed to be in Hawkins. You were both surrounded by friends and family. Steve’s folks had flown in from Florida, but most of his relatives remained standoffish. 

It was a simple wedding followed by a beautiful honeymoon in a beach cottage in Maine. Steve and you had spent two weeks exploring the coast and spending plenty of intimate time together before another school year started in September. 

You had just arrived home to find a stack of packages on your doorstep from the wedding registry. Steve sighed and shook his head, “Why don’t you grab the mail while I lug those inside?”

Easily agreeing to the proposal, you climbed out of the cab of his truck. You took a deep breath of the Hawkins air because you didn’t know how much longer you would have to savor it. Steve had found a plot of land in a nice neighborhood just outside of Chicago, yet you were still in the middle of figuring out which master’s program you would attend — Chicago or Boston. Your thoughts jumped between the two cities as you approached the mailbox. 

You plucked the stack of mail. It was a mix of bills, congratulatory letters, and weekly coupons; however, a smaller notecard caught your attention in the stack. While you examined the strange postcard, you wandered back into your temporary home. 

The postcard was a gorgeous photo of a fjord with a waterfall on either side of the strait. There was a cursive white lettering that read, “Greetings from Iceland!”

“Hey, babe,” You called out to Steve, “Do you know anyone from Iceland?”

“Iceland?” He repeated, surprise obvious in his tone, “Um, no… and my mom hates the cold, so it couldn’t be family?”

Finally, you flipped the card over to find it blank. Steve raised a brow. He noted the lack of ink beside the childish writing of their home address. He shrugged as he continued to bring your bags back inside, “Looks like one of the school kiddos, maybe? And they just forgot to write the rest of their note?”

You hummed in contemplation, not quite believing his story. With a sudden idea, you searched the junk drawers of your kitchen. It only took a moment to find the blacklight that you stored away years ago. As soon as you turned on the little light, the hidden message revealed itself to you. 

‘Sister, 

Congratulations — I know that you and Steve will be very happy together. 

I miss you. I miss all of you. But I am happy on the other side of this. 

With love, 

J.H’

You only lowered the note when a teardrop hit the edge of the postcard. With a quick hand, you wiped away the tear to preserve the ink. As the blacklight danced over the long forgotten curves and scratches that belong to someone so dear to you, the little girl inside of you finally got her peace, her closure. 

“Whoa, sweetheart,” Steve rounded the corner, instantly sensing the distress, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

Pocketing the light, you quickly tacked the postcard onto the fridge with some gaudy tourist magnet he bought. You smiled and quickly wiped your cheeks as you turned back to look at him. You nodded, reaching out to take his hands within your own, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

Steve gave you a loving smile, noticing that your steps were suddenly lighter. In your eyes, he saw that part of you was now at peace. He didn’t press you for more information; he trusted that you would share whatever it was once you were ready. Instead, he enveloped you in a bear hug, “Alright. Night in. How about I order us a pizza while you pop in Back to the Future?”

The clubhouse looks exactly the same.

You stand in the parking lot for a moment, taking it in. The bikes lined up like soldiers, the worn wooden exterior, the SAMCRO banner hanging proudly above the entrance. It's like stepping into a time capsule, except you're not seventeen anymore, and the world has kept spinning without you.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you push open the door.

This is a mistake, you think, even as your feet carry you forward. You should've stayed away. You should've built your new life back in Charming without looking back at the old one.

But you've never been good at staying away from the things that could hurt you.

The noise hits you first, the sounds of laughter, the crack of pool balls, classic rock bleeding from the jukebox. Then the smell: leather, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and beer. It's intoxicating in its familiarity, and for a moment, you're frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by the weight of memory.

How many nights did you spend here as a teenager? How many times did Jax sneak you in through the back door, his hand warm in yours, his smile promising trouble?

"Holy shite."

The voice comes from Chibs, who's standing by the bar with a beer halfway to his lips. His eyes go wide, and then his face splits into a grin that could light up the whole damn room.

"Lads! You're not gonna believe this!"

Heads turn as conversations quickly die out, and then it's chaos.

"No fuckin' way!" Tig practically vaults over the couch, his arms open wide as he barrels toward you, still as overly touchy as you remember and just as crazy looking. "Look who came back to Charming!"

You laugh as he sweeps you into a hug that lifts you off your feet, spinning you around like you weigh nothing. "Tig, Jesus... put me down!"

"Not a chance, sweetheart. We gotta make sure you're real."

"She's real, you idiot," Opie deadpans from his spot at the poker table, but even he's smiling. A rare, genuine smile that makes your chest tighten, past memories of you, him, and Jax getting up to no good.

Chibs is next, pulling you into a hug that smells like whiskey and Old Spice. "Missed ye, lass. Charming hasn't been the same without ye."

"Missed you too, Chibs."

Juice appears at your elbow, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Dude, you look amazing. When did you get back?"

"Just a few days ago," you tell them, your voice a little breathless from all the attention. "I'm still unpacking, but I thought I'd stop by and—"

"And grace us with your presence," a familiar voice cuts in, smooth and warm and unmistakably Gemma.

You turn, and there she is, Gemma Teller Morrow in all her glory, striding toward you with her arms outstretched and a smile that could melt steel. She's wearing her usual tight jeans, a low-cut top, and enough jewelry to fund a small country, and she looks every bit the queen she's always been.

"Come here, baby," she says, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and cigarettes. She holds you at arm's length, her dark eyes scanning you from head to toe. "Look at you. Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous. Isn't she gorgeous?"

The question is directed at the room, but her gaze flicks pointedly toward the corner where Tara Knowles is standing, a glass of wine in her hand and a tight smile on her face.

"Absolutely stunning," Gemma continues, her voice dripping with approval. "I always told Jax you'd grow up to be a knockout, and look at you now. I was right."

Tara's smile doesn't reach her eyes.

You feel the tension immediately, but before you can say anything, Gemma's arm is around your shoulders, steering you toward the bar. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you a drink. You're family, and family doesn't stand around like strangers."

Family. The word lands heavy, deliberate. You catch the way Tara's jaw tightens, the way her fingers grip her wine glass just a little too hard.

You shouldn't be here, the voice in your head whispers. You're walking into something messy, something that's going to hurt people.

But then you see him.

Jax.

He's standing near the pool table, a cue stick in one hand, and he's staring at you like he's seen a ghost. His blue eyes are wide, his lips parted slightly, and for a moment, the entire room fades away. It's just you, him, and the weight of everything left behind.

He looks good, too good. The years have been kind to him—his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader, his hair still that perfect shade of golden blonde that used to drive you crazy. He's wearing his kutte, jeans that hang low on his hips, and a white shirt that clings to his chest in all the right ways.

Your mouth goes dry.

This was a mistake. This was absolutely a mistake.

But you can't look away.

"Jax," Gemma calls, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. "You gonna say hi, or are you just gonna stand there with your mouth open?"

That snaps him out of it, and he sets the cue stick down, his movements slow and deliberate, and then he's walking toward you. Every step feels like an eternity, and you're acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room watching this unfold.

"Hey," he mumbles when he finally reaches you, and his voice is rougher than you remember, deeper. It sends a shiver down your spine, you remember the way it used to sound in breaths next to your ear.

"Hey," you reply, and you hate how breathless you sound.

His eyes roam over you, taking in every detail, from your hair, your face, the way your jeans hug your hips, to the curve of your neck. It's not subtle, it's hungry.

"You're back," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds like disbelief, maybe hope?

"I'm back," you confirm, and you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Gemma claps her hands together, breaking the moment. "Alright, enough staring. Let's get this girl a drink and catch up properly. Tig, move your ass. Chibs, grab her a beer. Juice, stop looking like a lovesick puppy."

The guys laugh, the tension breaking as they scramble to follow Gemma's orders. You're swept up in the chaos, pulled into conversations, hugs, and stories that make you laugh until your sides hurt.

But the whole time, you feel Jax's eyes on you, and across the room, Tara watches.

The night wears on, and the clubhouse fills with noise and laughter. Piney shows up and nearly crushes you in a bear hug, telling you how good it is to see you. Bobby gives you a kiss on the cheek and jokes that you're still too good for this place. Even Clay makes an appearance, gruff as ever but with a nod of approval that feels like a blessing.

Gemma holds court at the bar, regaling everyone with stories about you and Jax as teenagers. "You should've seen these two," she grins, her voice loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Thick as thieves. Couldn't keep 'em apart if you tried."

"Remember that time they got caught sneaking into the high school pool at midnight?" Tig chimes in, grinning. "Cops showed up, and Jax tried to play it cool, but this one—" he points at you, "she jumped the fence in her bra and panties and ran like hell."

The room erupts in laughter, and you bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Oh my God, I forgot about that."

"I didn't," Jax admits and when you look up, he's smiling, like really smiling. The kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "They were perfect together. Everyone knew it. Some things are just meant to be, you know?"

Her eyes flick to Tara, who's standing near the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable; she hasn't said a word the whole time you were here.

You shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like a pawn in a game you didn't sign up for. "Gemma-"

"What? I'm just saying." She shrugs, all innocence, but there's a glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's doing. "If your parents hadn't left Charming and taken you with them, who knows where you and Jax would be right now. Given me some grandbabies-"

The air in the room feels too thick, too warm. You need a moment to breathe, to think, to process the fact that you're back in Charming and everything is exactly the same and completely different all at once.

"I'm gonna get some air," you say, setting your beer down and heading for the door.

No one stops you as they all awkwardly look at each other, sipping their drinks.

The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat of the clubhouse. You lean against the wall, tilting your head back and closing your eyes, letting the sounds of the night wash over you—crickets, distant traffic, the low hum of music from inside.

"You really came back."

You don't have to open your eyes to know it's Jax. His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and when you look at him, he's leaning against the wall beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he continues, his gaze fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"I didn't think I'd be back either," you admit, your heart pounding. "But here I am."

He steps closer, and the air between you shifts, charged with something electric. His hand grazes yours, and the touch sends a jolt through you, waking up parts of you that have been dormant for years.

"You look…" He trails off, shaking his head like he can't find the words. "Fuck, you look good. More than good. You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Your breath catches at his tone. He's so close now that his body heat is radiating against you, and you can see the desire in his eyes. It's the same desire you feel echoing in your chest.

"You're not so bad yourself, Teller," your voice teasing, but there's an edge to it like a vulnerability you can't quite hide.

He chuckles, low and deep, and the sound vibrates through you. "You have no idea what you're still doing to me," he murmurs, his hand settling on your waist, pulling you closer.

The world narrows to this, his hand on your waist and his eyes locked on yours, the way his thumb brushes against your hip in slow, deliberate circles. You should step back and remind him that he's with Tara, that this is messy, complicated, and wrong.

But you don't, you can't.

"Jax…" you start, but the words die in your throat when he leans in, his forehead resting against yours.

"I missed you," he whispers, and the rawness in his voice nearly breaks you. "Every fuckin' day, I missed you."

You close your eyes, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and erratic, matching your own.

"I missed you too," you tell him, and it feels like a confession, like opening a door you've kept locked for years.

For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the world fading away. And then you hear it, a door opening and then footsteps on gravel.

You pull back, and when you look across the lot, Tara is standing there, her expression unreadable but her posture tense. She knows. She's always known. Jax was never entirely hers, not in the way he was yours.

Jax doesn't move. His hand is still on your waist, his body still angled toward you, and when you glance at him, you see it—the conflict in his eyes, the yearning, the inevitability of what's happening between you.

"Jax," Tara calls, her voice tight.

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze stays locked on you, his fingers tensing on your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"I should go," you say softly, even though every part of you wants to stay.

"Don't," he pleads, and the desperation in his voice nearly undoes you. Those blue eyes that haven't changed a bit except for the grief that wasn't there before.

But you step back, putting space between you, and the loss of his touch feels like a physical ache.

"Goodnight, Jax," you whisper softly, and then you're walking away, your heart pounding and mind racing.

Behind you, you hear Tara's voice, sharp and accusing; you know she's worried, and she has every reason to be.

Because tonight, Jax wasn't hers. Not entirely. Not when his fingers had tightened on your waist after hearing her voice, and you knew this was only the beginning.

Three days.

It's been three days since you walked into the clubhouse, three days since Jax's hand was on your waist, three days since you felt the weight of his gaze following you across the parking lot.

Three days of unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and pretending you're not thinking about him every single second.

You're in your apartment, surrounded by the chaos of moving half-empty boxes, clothes draped over chairs, books stacked on the floor. You've been trying to make this place feel like home, but it's hard when your mind keeps drifting back to blue eyes and a voice that makes your knees weak.

The knock on the door makes you jump.

You're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, but then it comes again, three sharp, impatient raps that echo through the small space.

When you open the door, Jax is standing there wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirt, his kutte absent for once, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they lock on yours, you feel your breath catch.

"Jax," you whisper, and you hate how his name sounds on your lips, all breathless and wanting. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you," he states, his voice rough. He steps forward, and you instinctively step back, letting him into your apartment. He closes the door behind him, and suddenly the space feels too small, too intimate.

"How did you even know where I live?"

"Gemma," he explains simply, and of course. Obviously, Gemma would tell him it's easy to see where she lies in all of this. Her pointed words and knowing looks toward Tara.

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to create some kind of barrier between you and him, "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," he says, but he doesn't move to leave. Instead, he takes another step closer, and you can smell him, the same leather, soap, and something uniquely Jax that makes your head spin. "I tried to stay away. I really fuckin' tried."

"Jax-"

"I can't stop thinking about you," the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, I can't think about anything else. You're all I see. You're all I want."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "You're with Tara."

"I know," he expresses, and there's pain in his voice, conflict. "I know I am. But it doesn't change how I feel about you. It never has."

He's so close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens like he's fighting some internal battle.

"This is wrong," you whisper, but even as you say it, you're leaning toward him, drawn by some invisible force you can't resist.

"I don't care," he declares, and then his hand is cupping your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me I'm crazy, and I'll walk out that door right now."

You should tell him exactly that. You should push him away, remind him of Tara, and protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

But you can't.

"I feel it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "God, Jax, I feel it, I never stopped."

That's all the permission he needs.

He closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that's desperate and hungry and years in the making. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours as his other hand tangles in your hair.

It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's raw and needy and everything you've been denying yourself for three days.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His body presses against yours, backing you up until you hit the wall, and then his hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your sides.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark with desire, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again."

"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if it's a plea or a prayer.

He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense. His lips move against yours like he's memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, and you melt into him, your body fitting against his like it was made to be there.

His hand slides under your shirt, his palm warm against your skin, and that's when reality crashes back in.

"Wait," you gasp, pulling back. "Wait, we can't—"

"Why not?" His voice is rough, his forehead resting against yours.

"Because you're with Tara," you say, and saying her name out loud feels like a bucket of cold water. "Because this is wrong. Because I can't be the other woman, Jax. I can't."

"You're not the other woman," he says fiercely, his hands framing your face. "You've never been the other woman. She's—"

"She's your girlfriend," you interrupt, stepping out of his embrace. The loss of his touch feels like a physical ache, but you force yourself to put distance between you. "She's your girlfriend, and I'm not going to be the reason you cheat on her."

"I don't want her," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I want you. It's always been you."

"If you really want me, if this is real, then end it with her first. But I can't do this, Jax. I can't be with you while you're with someone else." Your voice cracks on the words, and as much as you want to say 'fuck it' and lead him to your bed like all those years ago as fumbling teens, you can't.

He stares at you, conflict written all over his face, and for a moment, you think he's going to argue. But then his shoulders slump, and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Fuck," he mutters, and the word is heavy with frustration.

"You need to go," you say softly, even though every part of you is screaming at you to take it back, to pull him close and damn the consequences.

"I don't want to go," he states, his eyes locked on yours.

"I know," you whisper. "But you have to."

For a long moment, he just looks at you, and you can see the war raging behind his eyes. Then, finally, he nods.

He crosses to the door, his hand on the knob, but he pauses before opening it. "This isn't over," he says, looking back at you. "You and me, this isn't over. It was never over."

"Jax-" you breathe, voice pleading.

"I'm gonna fix this," he tells you, voice firm. "I'm gonna make this right. And then I'm coming back for you."

Before you can respond, he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

You slide down the wall, your legs giving out, and you bury your face in your hands. You can still taste him on your lips, still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.

What the hell have you done?

The universe, you decide, has a sick sense of humor because over the next three days, you run into Jax everywhere.

Day One: The Grocery Store

You're in the cereal aisle, debating between two brands, when you feel that prickle of awareness that tells you you're being watched. You turn, and there he is, leaning against his shopping cart at the end of the aisle, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Stalking me, Teller?" you call out, trying to keep your voice light even though your heart is racing.

"Just shopping," he shrugs, pushing his cart toward you. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"Liar," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself.

He stops beside you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, and peers into your cart. "Frozen dinners and wine. That's sad, babe."

"I'm still settling in," you defend, even though he's right. You haven't had the energy to cook real meals.

"Let me cook for you. As friends," he adds quickly, and the offer is so casual, so domestic, that it makes your chest ache. Though the look in his eyes says there's nothing friendly about what he's feeling. "Just… let me take care of you. Please."

You should say no. You should maintain your boundaries and keep your distance until he sorts out his situation with Tara.

"Okay," you hear yourself say instead.

His smile is blinding, and your stomach tightens remembering that same excited smile from when he'd see you sneaking out to his bike after midnight. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, and you're rewarded with a look of such pure happiness that it makes your knees weak.

His hand brushes yours as he reaches past you for a box of cereal, and the touch sends electricity shooting up your arm. His eyes darken, and you know he felt it too.

"Saturday night," he says, his voice low. "I'll bring everything. You just have to show up."

"It's my apartment, Jax. I kind of have to show up."

He grins, nudging you as if he'd missed your brand of brattiness. "Smart ass."

You watch him walk away, and you can't help but notice the way his jeans hug his ass, the confident swagger in his step. When he reaches the end of the aisle, he looks back, catching you staring, and his grin turns wicked.

You're in so much trouble.

Day Two: The Gas Station

You're pumping gas, lost in thought, when a motorcycle rumbles up to the pump across from you. You don't have to look to know it's him; you'd recognize the sound of his bike anywhere.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this," Jax grins, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his hair.

"You're the one who keeps showing up wherever I am," you point out, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him.

"Charming's a small town," he says with a shrug, but there's mischief in his eyes.

He starts pumping his gas, and for a moment, you both just stand there in comfortable silence. But then he speaks again, his voice softer.

"I've been thinking about that kiss."

Your breath catches as your eyes widen as you look around in case anyone's listening. "Jax. We can't just-"

"Can't help it," he admits, his eyes locked on yours across the pumps. "I close my eyes, and I'm right back there, with you against that wall, your hands in my hair…"

"Stop," you whine, but there's no force behind it.

"Tell me you haven't been thinking about it too," he challenges, and you almost think he's going to grab you and kiss you right here.

You can't because you have been thinking about it constantly, obsessively, to the point where you can barely sleep, and when you do sleep, you dream of him...

"That's what I thought," he states smugly with satisfaction in his voice.

Your pump clicks off, and you busy yourself with replacing the nozzle, needing something to do with your hands. When you turn back, Jax is right there, having crossed the space between the pumps.

"I'm working on it," he comments quietly, and you know exactly what he means. "The thing with Tara. I'm working on it."

"Okay," you nod slowly, because what else can you say?

His hand comes up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes your throat tight. "I meant what I said. I'm coming back for you."

Then he's gone, swinging his leg over his bike and roaring off into the afternoon, leaving you standing there with your heart in your throat.

Day Three: Main Street

You're walking out of the hardware store, carrying a bag of supplies for your apartment, when you literally collide with someone.

Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you, and you look up into familiar blue eyes.

"Jesus, we really need to stop meeting like this," you state, echoing his words from yesterday.

"I'm starting to think fate's trying to tell us something," Jax says, and he hasn't let go of your arms yet.

You're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people flowing around you, but it feels like you're in a bubble, just you and him and the electric current running between you.

"How's the apartment coming?" he asks, nodding to your bag.

"Slowly," you admit. "Turns out I'm not very handy."

"I could help," he offers immediately. "I'm good with my hands. You remember that, right?"

The innuendo is clear, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. "Jax."

"What?" He grins, all innocence. "I meant fixing things. What did you think I meant?"

"You're impossible."

"You love it," he says, and the word love hangs between you, heavy with meaning.

His thumb is stroking your arm through your shirt, a small, unconscious gesture that's driving you crazy. You should step back and put some distance between you, but you can't seem to make yourself move.

"Dinner's still on for tonight, right?" he asks.

"You're really going to cook for me? I didn't know you could cook. Last I remember, you and Ope used to microwave hot dogs from the garage and call it gourmet."

"I'm a changed man. I know how to cook... now, and if you're lucky, I won't even burn it," he teases, flashing those charmingly pearly whites. "Seven o'clock?"

"Seven o'clock," you confirm.

He leans in, and once again, for a heart-stopping moment, you think he's going to kiss you right there. But instead, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "Can't wait."

Then he's stepping back, his hands sliding away from your arms, and you immediately miss his touch.

"See you tonight, darlin'," he smirks knowingly, and then he's walking away, leaving you standing there trying to remember how to breathe.

That night, you change your outfit three times before he arrives. Too bold, too casual, too... 'this might lead to sex if we're not careful'. So you settle on a simple dress.

When the knock comes at seven on the dot, you take a deep breath and open the door.

Jax is standing there with two bags of groceries, wearing jeans and a grey henley that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and he smells incredible.

"Hey," he greets as his eyes roam over you appreciatively. "You look beautiful."

"You brought a lot of food," you say, trying to deflect from the compliment.

"I'm making my mom's pot roast recipe," he says, stepping inside. "It's kind of involved."

You follow him to your small kitchen, watching as he starts unpacking ingredients. There's something surreal about having Jax Teller in your kitchen, domestic and comfortable, like this is something you do all the time.

"Can I help?" you offer, standing behind him a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with yourself.

"You can keep me company," he tells you, shooting a smile over his shoulder. "And maybe open that wine I brought."

You do, pouring two glasses and settling onto a barstool to watch him work. He moves around your kitchen with surprising confidence, chopping vegetables and seasoning meat. You find yourself mesmerized by his hands—the way they handle the knife, the sureness of his movements.

"You're staring," he says without looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"You're in my kitchen," you counter. "I'm allowed to stare. I'm also still in shock that you can cook, and it's not dollar store ramen with little hot dogs in it."

He glances at you then, and the heat in his eyes makes your stomach flip. "Stare all you want, darlin'."

As he cooks, you talk—about everything and nothing. He tells you about the club, about the garage, about his boys. You tell him about where you've been, what you've been doing, carefully skirting around the question of why you came back.

But eventually, he asks.

"Why did you come back?" He's standing at the stove, stirring something, but his eyes are on you. "To Charming, I mean. After all this time."

You take a sip of wine, considering your answer. "I don't know," you express finally. "Maybe I was running from something. Or maybe I was running toward something."

"Toward what?"

You meet his eyes. "I'm still figuring that out."

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you can see the question in his eyes.

Was it me? Did you come back for me?

But he doesn't ask, and you don't answer.

Dinner is incredible—the pot roast tender and flavorful, the vegetables perfectly cooked. You eat at your small table, knees bumping underneath, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Finally, you reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. "Thank you for this. For cooking for me."

He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. "Thank you for letting me."

The moment stretches between you, charged and intimate, and then his thumb is stroking across your knuckles, and you're leaning forward, and he's leaning forward, and-

Your phone buzzes on the table, shattering the moment.

You pull back, grabbing it, and your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.

Gemma.

"It's your mom, I should-" you start, but Jax nods, not a look of disappointment on his face as much as knowing.

"Answer it."

You do, and Gemma's voice fills your ear, warm and commanding. "Hey, baby, I'm just calling to check on you. You settling in okay?"

"Yeah, Gemma. Everything's good." You don't tell her that her son is sitting at your table after having cooked you the best meal you've had for a long time.

"Good, good. Listen, we're having another family dinner at the clubhouse this weekend. You better be there."

You glance at Jax, who's watching you with an unreadable expression. "I'll be there," you promise as you watch him to see if he gives anything away.

"Perfect. And honey? Don't be a stranger. You're still family. If you need anything, we can send a prospect around," Gemma states, and you realize this is more than just coming home, this is family, this is the club.

When you hang up, Jax is smiling softly. "She really has adopted you again, hasn't she?"

"Apparently," you muse, putting the phone down, you'd always gotten on well with Gemma, even when you were a teenager getting caught by police on the back of Jax's bike at 3am. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," he states, and there's something fierce in his voice. "It's not a problem at all."

After dinner, he helps you clean up, and the domesticity of it—washing dishes side by side, his arm brushing yours—feels almost more intimate than the kiss you shared days ago.

When everything is clean and put away, you both linger in the kitchen, neither wanting the night to end.

"I should go," Jax whispers finally, but he doesn't move. Almost like if you'd asked him to stay, he would have.

"Yeah," you agree, but you don't move either.

He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup your face. "I'm working on it," he tells you again. "I promise."

"I know," you whisper.

He leans in, and this time his lips brush against your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. "Goodnight, darlin'."

"Goodnight, Jax."

After he leaves, you lean against the closed door, your heart full and aching at the same time.

This is dangerous, you think. This is so dangerous.

But you can't seem to stop.

You tell yourself you're not going back to the clubhouse.

You spend the day of Gemma's dinner trying to convince yourself to text her with an excuse—you're not feeling well, you have plans, anything to avoid the inevitable tension of being in the same room as Jax and Tara.

But by the time the sun sets, you're pulling on your favorite jeans and touching up your makeup, because you've never been good at denying Gemma Teller anything.

The clubhouse is already buzzing when you arrive. The guys are gathered around the bar, beers in hand, and the smell of grilled meat wafts from the kitchen. Gemma spots you immediately, her face lighting up like you're the prodigal daughter returned.

"There she is!" she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. She pulls you into a hug, then holds you at arm's length, her eyes scanning you approvingly. "Look at you. Stunning, as always."

"Thanks, Gemma," you say, smiling despite yourself.

"Come on, baby. Sit with me." She loops her arm through yours and guides you to the bar, where she's already claimed two stools. "You're family, and family sits at the head of the table."

The pointed emphasis on family isn't lost on anyone, least of all Tara, who's sitting at a table in the corner with Jax. Her jaw tightens, and she takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you.

Jax, for his part, looks like he's been hit by a truck. His gaze locks on you the moment you walk in, and it doesn't waver. He's wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his chest, his kutte draped over the back of his chair, and his hair is slightly messy.

The way he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room, like Tara doesn't even exist, makes your stomach flip.

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Gemma calls, clapping her hands together. "We've got our girl back, and I think that calls for a celebration. Let's hear some stories. Tig, you start."

You let out a whiny groan, knowing this could be bad.

Tig grins, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I got a good one. Remember that time these two-" he gestures to you and Jax, "decided to 'borrow' Clay's bike and take it for a joyride?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Oh God, not this story. I blame Jax-"

"Yes, this story," Tig insists, his grin widening. "They made it about ten miles before the engine started smoking. Clay was pissed. But this one-" he points at you, "she looked him dead in the eye and said, 'At least we didn't crash it.'"

The room erupts in laughter, and even you can't help but smile at the memory.

"She had balls," Chibs states, raising his beer in a toast. "Still does, I reckon."

"Damn right," Gemma agrees, her eyes gleaming. "She's always been a firecracker. Jax knew how to pick 'em back then."

The comment hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. Tara shifts in her seat, her expression tight.

"What about the cop story?" Juice pipes up, grinning. "That one's legendary."

"Oh, Jesus," you mutter, but you're laughing now, the memories flooding back.

"Alright, alright," Jax speaks for the first time since you arrived. His voice is low and warm, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "I'll tell it."

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his eyes find yours across the room. "We were seventeen. I'd just gotten my bike, and we were cruising around town, being stupid kids. Cop pulled us over for a busted taillight, and he was being a dick about it, threatening to impound the bike."

"And then?" Juice prompts, even though everyone in the room already knows the story.

Jax's lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "And then this princess..." he nods toward you, "she gets off the bike, walks up to the cop, and lifts her shirt."

The room explodes with laughter and wolf whistles, and you cover your face, laughing so hard your sides hurt.

"She flashed him," Jax continues, his voice full of admiration. "Just like that. Cop didn't know what the fuck to do. He stammered something about a warning and let us go."

"Best distraction he's probably ever seen," Tig cackles, wiping tears from his eyes.

Gemma leans in, her voice dropping just enough to be pointed. "See, that's what I'm talking about. They were chaos together, but they worked. Some people are just meant to be, you know?"

Her gaze flicks to Tara, who's staring down at her wine glass, her knuckles white.

You feel a pang of guilt, but before you can say anything, Gemma's already moving on, launching into another story about the time you and Jax got caught sneaking into a drive-in movie.

The night wears on, and the stories keep coming. Bobby tells the one about you beating Tig at pool and winning fifty bucks. Opie reminisces about the time you helped them fix a bike when you were sixteen, your hands covered in grease and a smile on your face. Even Clay contributes, mentioning how you once punched a guy who was hassling you before Jax stepped in.

"She's always been one of us," Chibs nods, raising his beer. "Welcome home, lass."

"Welcome home," the others echo, and the warmth in their voices makes your chest tight.

But every time you glance at Jax, he's already looking at you, and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable.

Eventually, you excuse yourself to find the bathroom. The hallway is dimly lit and quiet, a stark contrast to the noise of the main room. You're just about to push open the bathroom door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"It's down there." You turn, and Jax is standing there, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"I know where the bathroom is, Jax," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"Right." He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels too small, too intimate. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't get lost."

"I've been here a hundred times," you remind him, but you don't move away.

"Yeah," he says, his voice dropping. "I remember."

The air between you crackles, charged with something you can't name. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips, and you feel your pulse quicken.

"You having a good time?" he asks, stepping even closer, and you can feel the warmth coming off him.

"Yeah," you manage as you look up at his face. "The guys are great. It's like I never left."

"You shouldn't have left," he states, and there's an edge to his voice now, something raw and honest. "You should've stayed. With me."

"Jax, it wasn't my choice, my parents-" you start, and then huff, "Plus, you're still with-"

"I know, I know. I'm with Tara." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "But fuck, you're making it really hard to remember that."

"I'm not doing anything," you protest weakly.

"You're breathing." he's so close now you can feel his minty breath. "You're existing. You're here, and you're beautiful, and you're everything I've wanted for years, and I can't-" He breaks off, his jaw clenching.

"Can't what?" you whisper.

"Can't stop thinking about you," he says, his voice rough. "You look good tonight. You always look good, but tonight… fuck."

The words hang between you, a reminder of the line you're both toeing.

"You're all I can think about," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers linger on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "Since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse, you're all I can fuckin' think about. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I'm at the garage. Even when I'm with her... it's always you."

You should step back. You should remind him that this is wrong, that he's with someone else, that you can't do this.

But you don't.

Instead, you lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, it's just the two of you in the dim hallway, the rest of the world fading away.

"This is a bad idea," you whisper, but even as you say it, you know you don't mean it.

"Probably," he agrees, his forehead resting against yours. "But I don't care."

His hand slides to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, and you feel the tension coiling between you, tight and electric. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, and you can feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.

"I'm ending it," he says suddenly, his voice fierce. "With Tara. I'm ending it. I just need to find the right time, the right way. But I'm done pretending she's what I want when you're right here."

"Jax," you breathe, and you're not sure if it's a warning or an encouragement.

He leans in, his lips hovering just above yours, and you can feel his breath on your skin. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, once again giving you the chance to stop him. To walk away from this.

But you can't; the words won't come.

And then, from the end of the hallway, you hear Tara's voice.

"Jax?"

He pulls back, his jaw tightening, and when you open your eyes, you see the conflict written all over his face. But there's something else there too, determination.

"I'm just gonna-," you say, motioning away as your voice shakes.

"Wait," he breathes, his hand catching yours. "I meant what I said. I'm ending it. Soon."

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and then you're slipping past him, your heart pounding, your mind racing. As you walk back into the main room, you feel Tara's eyes on you, sharp and accusing.

And you know, without a doubt, that everything is about to change.

You're standing outside the clubhouse, getting some air, when you hear the door open behind you. Tara. You can feel her presence, sharp and cold, like a blade against your back.

"We need to talk," she asserts, her voice tight and controlled.

You turn slowly, and she's standing there with her arms crossed, her expression hard. She's beautiful—you can see why Jax was attracted to her—but there's something brittle about her right now, something fragile beneath the anger.

"Okay," you say carefully, not knowing exactly what she was going to say or accuse you of, but she had every right to.

"Are you happy?" she asks, and the question catches you off guard.

"What?"

"Are you happy?" she repeats, stepping closer. "Breaking up my relationship? Coming back here and stirring up all this shit?"

"I'm not trying to break up anything," you say, but the words sound weak even to your own ears.

"Bullshit," she snaps, her eyes narrowing on you. "I see the way you look at him. I see the way he looks at you, how everyone clearly thinks you're 'great' together. You think I'm stupid?"

"No," you say quickly. "I don't think you're stupid."

"Then don't treat me like I am," she states, and there's pain in her voice now, beneath the anger. "I know what's happening here. I've known since the moment you walked back into that clubhouse."

You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to deny it, to tell her she's wrong, but you can't. She's not wrong. You knew from the time you and Jax set eyes on each other again that it would lead here.

"I didn't come back here to cause problems," you say finally. "I didn't even know if I'd see him again."

"But you did," she states firmly, as if your moving back to Charming was something you'd done to spite her. "And now everything's falling apart."

"Tara, I-"

"Do you know what it's like?" she interrupts, her voice rising. "To watch the man you love look at someone else the way he looks at you? To know that you were always the second choice, that you were just a placeholder until the real thing came back?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I'm sorry," you whisper, and you mean it. "I'm so sorry."

You knew Tara had chased Jax in high school, even when you were just friends messing around, but Jax had never been able to see anyone but you. Not any of the girls who used to giggle and flutter their lashes, but the best friend who'd flip off cops as they outran them.

"Sorry doesn't fix this," she says, and there are tears in her eyes now. "Sorry doesn't change the fact that he's never been mine. Not really. He's always been yours."

You feel tears prick at your own eyes. "I didn't ask for this."

"Neither did I," she states almost angrily, at you? At Jax? For falling for a man whose heart was already taken? "But here we are."

For a moment, you both just stand there, two women caught in the orbit of the same man, and you feel a strange kinship with her—a shared understanding of what it means to love Jax Teller.

"He's going to choose you," she expresses finally, her voice flat. "You know that, right? He's going to choose you, and I'm going to be left with nothing. He'll always choose you."

"You don't know that," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they're a lie.

"Yes, I do," she nods with a sad sigh. "I've always known. I just didn't want to admit it."

She takes a step back, wrapping her arms around herself like she's trying to hold herself together. "You should know something," she says. "About Jax. About this life."

"What?"

"SAMCRO is his priority. It always will be. The club comes first, before everything—before you, before me, before anyone. If you think you're going to ride off into the sunset with him, you're deluding yourself."

"I know what I'm getting into," you tell her, but she shakes her head.

"No, you don't. You think you do because you knew him when we were teens, but this life—it's dangerous. It's violent. It's messy. And it will consume you if you let it."

"I can handle it," you declare, and there's more confidence in your voice than you feel.

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what I thought too. But you can't handle it. No one can. This life breaks people."

"Then why are you with him?" you challenge. You knew Gemma wasn't exactly welcoming to Tara; she kicked the doc down more times than you agreed with, but it wasn't your place.

"Because I love him," she states simply with a small shrug of her thin shoulders. "And love makes you stupid."

You don't have a response to that.

She wipes at her eyes, composing herself. "I'm not going to fight for him," she tells you. "I'm not going to beg him to stay or make a scene. But I want you to know what you're getting into. I want you to know that this won't be easy, and it won't be pretty, and there's a good chance it will break your heart."

"I know," you say softly.

"Do you?" she asks, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice now. "Do you really know? Or are you just caught up in the romance of it all, the bad boy biker and his long-lost love?"

"I know him," you state firmly. "I've always known him. And I know he'd choose me over anything, even the club."

She stares at you for a long moment, and then she nods slowly. "Maybe you're right," she says. "Maybe he would. And maybe that's what scares me the most."

She turns to go, but pauses for a moment, having more grace than you probably would have. "For what it's worth," she speaks without looking back, "I hope you make him happy. I hope you give him whatever it is I couldn't."

Then she's gone, disappearing back into the clubhouse, and you're left standing alone in the dark, your heart heavy with guilt and anticipation and fear.

Because she's right about one thing, this won't be easy.

But as you think about Jax, about the way he looks at you, about the way his touch sets your skin on fire, you know you're willing to risk it.

You're willing to risk everything.

The rain starts just after midnight.

You're in your apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the faint smell of cardboard and dust. The place is a mess—clothes draped over chairs, books stacked haphazardly on the floor, your bed barely made. You've been here for a few weeks, and already it feels like you're drowning.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and sink onto the couch, staring out the window at the rain streaking down the glass. The storm matches your mood—restless, chaotic, unrelenting.

You can't stop thinking about this afternoon. The way you and Jax seem to orbit each other, the look on Tara's face when she caught you together again, the conversation outside the clubhouse.

But now, alone in your apartment with the rain pounding against the windows, doubt creeps in.

What have you done?

You've upended Jax's relationship. You've inserted yourself back into his life after years away. You've let yourself fall back into old patterns and feelings without thinking about the consequences.

And what about Tara? Despite everything, you feel guilty. She loves him, and you've taken him away from her.

But he chose you, a voice in your head reminds you. He's ending it with her. He chose you.

You take a long sip of wine, trying to quiet the warring voices in your head.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and your heart leaps when you see Jax's name.

Jax: You okay?

You stare at the message for a long moment before responding.

You: Yeah. Just thinking.

Jax: About?

You: Everything. Us. How fast this is all moving.

There's a pause, and then your phone rings. You answer on the second ring.

"Hey," you say softly.

"Hey," he replies, and just the sound of his voice makes you feel calmer. "Talk to me. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

"I don't know," you admit. "I just… this is all happening so fast. At first I was just moving back to town, and now…"

"Now you're mine again," he finishes, and there's satisfaction in his voice.

"Yeah," you whisper, holding the phone to your ear as you picture the smug grin on his face. "Now I'm yours."

"You having second thoughts?" he asks, and there's an edge to his voice now, something vulnerable. Like he's worried that you've changed your mind, and you'll leave again.

"No," you say quickly. "No, it's not that. I just… I feel guilty. About Tara. About how this all went down."

"Don't," he says firmly. "Don't feel guilty. What happened with Tara was on me. I should've ended it a long time ago. I should've ended it the moment I realized I was still in love with you."

"When did you realize that?" you ask.

"Honestly, I don't think there was a time I didn't know," he says simply. "I've been in love with you since we were kids, and I never stopped. Not for a single day."

Your throat tightens with emotion. "Baby-"

"I know this is fast," he continues. "I know it's messy. But I don't care. I've wasted enough time pretending I could be happy with someone else. I'm not wasting any more."

"I'm scared," you admit in a whisper.

"Of what?" he asks gently, a sound most wouldn't know Jax was capable of making.

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I feel for you." You take a shaky breath. "What if it doesn't work? What if we're better as a memory than as reality?"

"We're not," he says with absolute certainty. "We're better together. We always have been."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you," he expresses. "I know the way you laugh when you're really happy. I know the way you bite your lip when you're thinking. I know the way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world. And I know that what we have—it's real. It's always been real."

Tears prick at your eyes; he's right. He always is. You remember the heartbreak from when your parents told you that you were moving, the despair of having to leave him behind, "I love you."

"I love you too," he mirrors with a loving whisper, the sound only a person regaining their love can make. "And I'm coming over."

"What? Jax, it's late, and it's pouring-"

"I don't care," he says. "I need to see you. I need to hold you and remind you that this is right."

You try to call out his name and stop him, you didn't want him out there on his bike in this weather, but he's already hung up.

You set your phone down, your heart racing. Part of you wants to tell him not to come, to give yourself space to think, to process everything that's happened.

But a bigger part of you, the part that's been in love with him since you were teenagers, wants nothing more than to have him here, in your space, holding you and making all the doubts disappear.

You stand up, pacing the small living room, your mind racing. The rain continues to pound against the windows, and you wrap your arms around yourself.

This is happening; this is really happening.

And despite the fear, despite the guilt, despite everything, you want it.

You want him.

You've always wanted him.

The knock comes twenty minutes later, knuckles rapping impatiently upon the wood. You cross to the door, your heart pounding, and when you open it, there he is.

Jax.

He's soaked from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes are wild, desperate, and when he looks at you, it's like he's seeing you for the first time.

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice rough and urgent. He steps inside, forcing you to back up, and he kicks the door shut behind him. "I can't stay away from you. I tried. I fuckin' tried, but I can't."

Your breath catches. "What are you-"

"I don't want Tara," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in for too long. "I don't want her. I never did. She was… she was a distraction, a way to forget you, but it didn't work. Nothing worked."

He steps closer, and you can see the rain dripping from his hair, the way his chest heaves with every breath.

"I talked to her," he admits as he watches your expression. "I ended it. I told her it was over. That I couldn't keep pretending when all I wanted was you."

"Jax," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're relieved or terrified or both.

"You're all I want," he says, his voice breaking. "You've always been all I want. And I know this is fucked up, I know it's messy, but I don't care. I can't keep pretending."

Your heart is racing, your mind spinning. You should tell him you need time. You should remind him that this is complicated. Instead, you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, and you whisper, "Then don't."

That's all it takes.

He closes the distance between you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is desperate, hungry, years of pent-up need and longing pouring out all at once. You gasp against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he carries you deeper into the apartment, his lips never leaving yours. You crash into a stack of boxes, sending them tumbling to the floor, but neither of you cares.

"Bedroom," you manage to gasp between kisses, and he nods, his grip on you tightening.

He navigates the chaos of your apartment, his mouth trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you shiver. When he finally reaches the bedroom, he lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he murmurs, his hand cupping your face. "I've dreamed about this. About you."

"Jax," you whisper, your hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest. "I need you."

That's all the permission he needs.

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on you, tugging at your clothes with an urgency that makes your head spin. Your shirt comes off, then your jeans, and soon you're both bare, skin against skin, the heat between you almost unbearable.

His hands roam over your body, mapping every curve, every inch of skin he's been denied for so long. His lips follow, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. When his mouth closes around your nipple, you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

"Fuck, I missed you," he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding between your thighs. When his fingers find you, slick and ready, he groans. "So wet for me already."

"Jax, please," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand.

He doesn't make you wait. He positions himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, and then he's pushing inside you, slow and deep, filling you completely.

You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like they were made for this, for each other. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispers, his voice strained.

"Move," you beg, your nails digging into his back. "Please, Jax, move."

He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in, hard and deep, and you cry out, your body arching beneath him. He sets a relentless pace, his hips driving into you with a desperation that matches your own. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure through you, building and building until you're teetering on the edge.

"Look at me," he commands, his hand gripping your chin. "I want to see you when you come."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his blue eyes nearly undoes you.

"That's it," he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."

The combination of his words, his touch, the way he's filling you, it's too much. You shatter as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, and you cry out his name, your body trembling beneath him.

"Fuck, yes-," he groans, and his rhythm falters. But he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling beneath him.

Finally, he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up, and he's sliding back inside you from behind.

The new angle is deeper, more intense, and you bury your face in the pillow, muffling your cries as he pounds into you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and you love it, love the way he's claiming you, marking you as his.

"Mine," he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice sends another wave of pleasure through you. "You're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Jax."

He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit again, and you're coming again before you can even process it, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, I'm gonna-" he starts, and then he's coming too, his body tensing as he spills inside you, your name a broken prayer on his lips.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, and for a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, your hearts racing in sync.

Eventually, he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into a sense of peace.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs after a long silence. "I don't want Tara. I want you. I should've done it sooner. I should've done it years ago, before I ever got involved with her."

"You couldn't have known I'd come back," you say.

"Doesn't matter," he says firmly. "You were always the one. Even when you were gone, even when I thought I'd never see you again, you were always the one."

Your throat tightens with emotion, and you lean in, kissing him softly. "I love you," you whisper against his lips. "I've always loved you."

"I love you too," he says, and then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he feels into it.

When you finally break apart, he's smiling. "You're mine," he says, his voice firm, possessive. "You've always been mine. And I want everyone to know it. I'm not letting you go again."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you lean in, kissing him softly.

He smiles against your lips, and for the first time in years, you feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. He pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip, and you can feel him already starting to harden again against your thigh.

"Again?" you ask, breathless with laughter.

"I've got years to make up for," he says, rolling you onto your back and settling between your legs. "And I plan on making up for every single one of them."

This time, he takes his time—kissing every inch of your skin, learning your body all over again, making you come twice before he finally slides inside you. And when you finally fall asleep hours later, tangled together in your bed, you know that this is just the beginning.

This is your new life.

This is your future.

And it's everything you've ever wanted.

Weighing down in your chest like an unwelcome weight.

With fear that anchored you—

—Rooting you to the spot.

You glanced around as the beast loomed over you, casting a shadow over your prone form. His weapon was already wedged in the ground, ready to lift and bludgeon you into eternal slumber. The doors around you of those who hid from their eventual deaths were already locked around you: nobody was about to let in a doomed soul. The blinds were already drawn, indeed, and yet, you could still feel so many eyes on you.

Judging you.

There was no pity in these times.

Then, movement—!

The monster grabbed you suddenly, and a muted yelp tore from your throat, already leaving you breathless. His large, calloused hands clamped down around your body, pulling you off your feet and surging you into the air in a way that made you feel strangely light. Then, he found a spot, it seemed, crashing down by a nearby wall. The sound of hurried footsteps escaping from within could be heard ever so slightly.

You gulped, not understanding the idea behind such a strange end.

Then, the monster acted erratically again, lifting you—pushing you down agains the metal slope of his head, forcing you to uncomfortably straddle around it.

“W-what—” you gasped out, not quite following the turn of events.

You were supposed to be dead by now.

Then, he dragged you down the hill of his helmet, grinding you against the corner again in a way that rubbed to a pinched point against your sex through your torn panties. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, the pressure nice against your clit, but it was confusing. This motion repeated a few times: up and down, down then up, until you got the hang of it, until you could move on your own, even if mechanically.

The monster felt around you all the while, gasping slightly.

This was confusing, there was no doubt about that, but also strangely preferable.

You weren’t dead yet—you were chosen for something different—horrible still, yes—but death was still the less desired outcome.

If this monster wanted you for such a purpose, then you would adapt.

Even despite the judging eyes.

Maybe you wanted to show them that you could survive and they couldn’t.

Even if it came down to something like… this.

Suddenly, the beast pulled you away, settling you over his lap. He tugged at your hips and then slammed you back down again, as if to remind you of the movement you needed to remember to replicate.

You understood perfectly well where this was going.

If this meant survival, then you were determined to proceed.

You found yourself scrambling around his shoulders, gripping at whatever tight piece of muscle that had the most traction and braced yourself for the potential pain. His body was huge in comparison to yours, and there was no doubt about it that his cock must have been monstrous, too. You felt it already: straining against the tough leather of the apron he wore, pushing forward until the tip sprang out from the side and seeking your sex with one hurried, unprepared thrust.

A gasp locked in your throat followed by a silent scream, the sensation so brutally raw that it rendered you silent from the intensity. Your walls could barely contain his girth as he stretched you out completely, the head of his cock pushing in so deep that it made you nearly pass out from the pain alone.

Still, you held on, moving from his shoulders to the rim of his helmet. He seemed to like that, too, gentling his grip around your hips as you adapted to him.

Maybe a part of you was imagining his softness that followed, but the rhythm that this monster had set wasn’t as punishing as it could have been: his hips rocked in steady pistoning motions, yes, holding you in place, but no longer was he strained with demand. No, this beast fell back, his form relaxed, as if completely content in having you move to your own accord.

Just like you practiced briefly over his helmet.

You gasped regardless of your enjoyment, or lack of: your lungs repeatedly having the air punched out of them as he impaled your bruised cunt again and again. His grip on you gradually tightened again, though not out of cruelty, but rather from anticipated completion threatening to push him over the edge. His body as a whole grew rigid as he kept on going, until—until—oops—he slammed you down regardless, spearing you down painfully over his erupting cock that left your insides feeling a little too full, a little too sore.

The beast seemed to relax again:

No such effort to remove you, regardless of the pain you must have been feeling, from his softening, spent length.

He seemed content again to just have you there.

You gasped a moment later, finally finding the strength to step off, hoping to yourself that this creature would somehow be asleep. False hope gave you confidence as he didn’t move to stop you, but as soon as you tried to sneak away, did he object.

Rising to his feet and rumbling the earth around him, he grew to tower over you once more, and before you could even think to break away, his hands branched out to hoist you to scramble and hold onto his helmet, however uncomfortable that was. Your legs wrapped around the sharp corners, your arms holding onto something that felt like it could have been traction, but only just about managing to ground yourself to what he had next forced you into.

Then, much to your unease, he began to pad forward, nowhere in particular, but for a reason unknown to you, he seemed reluctant to press ahead without you.

A part of you had a reason behind the idea:

Maybe submission was all it really ever was.

And now you had doomed yourself to such a fate.

Escaping death, yes, narrowly.