#firefighter!au

Sam’s the first one over, of course. “If these are anything like last week’s lemon bars, I’m declaring you honorary station chef,” he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glance—barely half a second—but it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didn’t see you at all.

You tell yourself you imagined it—the way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back, tray after tray.

The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someone’s got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoever’s around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easy—exactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Bucky’s reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; he’s watching the tray.

It’s subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on you—on the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually, “you sure you don’t want to try one? These got your name written all over them.”

“Don’t trust other people’s cooking,” comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You don’t miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and it’s enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.

After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Bucky’s still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasn’t been printed in years. You don’t try to talk to him—you’ve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. It’s not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.

You’re halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest sound—a fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Bucky’s still reading, still silent, but the brownie’s gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.

You don’t say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.

When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. “See you next week, sunshine!” You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore you—he usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.

“Thanks for the… whatever that was.”

You turn, surprise flickering through you. “Brownies,” you say, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”

He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didn’t say anything at all. But you see it—the faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.

And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, you’ll make something just for him.

By the next Saturday, you’ve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it—that the brownie probably just looked good, that he might’ve been hungry, that it didn’t mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

You tell yourself you’re doing it for everyone. For Sam, who’ll inhale anything with sugar; for Joaquín, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, who’s too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. You’re doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.

The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantly—coffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Sam’s voice, low and teasing, followed by Steve’s steady calm trying to reel him in.

“Morning, teacher,” Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. “You’re about to save our Saturday again, I hope.”

You hold up the container. “Blondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.”

Natasha snorts from the couch. “That’s an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.”

You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention like static in the air—muted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isn’t.

Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as he’s biting into it, says casually, “Bucky told me your brownies were good.”

You nearly drop the lid. “He what?”

Steve’s eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but I’ve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.”

You glance over again, Bucky’s pretending to read something on his phone, and there’s no chance he can’t hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.

It’s a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. Joaquín’s sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natasha’s nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Sam’s story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thing—Bucky doesn’t leave. The last few weeks, he’d always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.

He doesn’t say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.

Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.

Behind you, there’s a shuffle of movement. “You don’t have to clean all that,” Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. He’s standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.

You smile, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. I made the mess.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. “You make a mess every week.”

The words might sound gruff, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like he’s trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. “You keep inviting me back.”

“That’s Sam.”

“I don’t remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.”

That earns you a look—one brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, “you caught that, huh?”

You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. “It was hard to miss.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just right—soft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. “You bake every week?” he asks.

You nod, setting another cup in the rack. “Usually. It’s how I unwind after teaching. My kids are… a lot. It’s nice to do something that doesn’t talk back.”

He huffs out a short laugh—barely a sound, but genuine. “Can’t argue with that.”

The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel he’s holding, your fingers brush his. It’s nothing—just the lightest contact—but his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesn’t pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.

Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. “Thanks,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Sure.”

When you finish, he walks you to the door. It’s unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. “See you next Saturday?”

He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. “You bring those blondies again, maybe.” It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen on him yet.

And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk home—that maybe this time, you’re not the only one waiting for Saturday.

The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like it’s been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your hands—one with your usual dessert, the other with something new. You’d made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his mom’s recipe, and because you’d caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. You’re not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.

When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Sam’s voice echoing down the hall—loud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. “Morning, sunshine!” Sam calls, appearing around the corner. “Tell me you brought somethin’ good.”

“Always do,” you say, lifting the containers. “Cinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.”

“Brown butter’s never a mistake,” Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.

Steve’s at the stove making another pot of coffee—he always makes the second one too strong—and Joaquín is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Bucky’s there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.

You pretend not to notice, but you do.

You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. Joaquín jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite “thank you” that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, too—eventually—and hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.

Bucky doesn’t move. He never does, not right away. But he’s watching.

You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you don’t. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. “What’s the trick this time?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.

“Brown butter in the icing,” you say, smiling a little. “And extra cinnamon.”

He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a show of it—just cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesn’t stop, the room doesn’t go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.

He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitches.

You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.

“Good?” you ask, when you can’t take the silence anymore.

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to yours. “Not bad.” It’s the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when he’s done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. You’re pretty sure that’s the closest thing to a thank you you’re ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. “You teach third grade, right?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.

You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. I do.”

He nods once, still not looking at you. “That’s… brave.”

You laugh, startled. “Brave?”

He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I couldn’t handle that many eight-year-olds. One of ‘em would start talkin’ back, and I’d lose my job before lunch.”

“Occupational hazard,” you say, grinning. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I would.”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.

The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. Joaquín heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Sam’s napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Bucky’s there.

You find yourself sitting across from him with your own mug of coffee, talking about small, ordinary things. The town fair that’s coming up. The school’s bake sale. His very strong opinions about the superiority of homemade coffee over anything from a café. It’s not deep conversation—it’s easy, simple. But for Bucky, it’s a start.

You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.

Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full second—but long enough.

His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. It’s nothing, really, just contact, but it’s the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like it’s fragile. “Got it.”

You murmur thanks and smile—gentle, easy. “See you next week?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, “bring those rolls again.”

You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hoped—it wasn’t just about the food anymore.

You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that moment—bring those rolls again—more times than you’d ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before you’re even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.

These rolls aren’t for the whole station this time. They’re for him.

You still make a second dessert, because you don’t want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast you’d never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the group—easy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also liked—and you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they won’t get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You don’t want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.

When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and Joaquín are arguing about who should get credit for winning last week’s pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steve’s by the coffee machine again, he’s always by the coffee machine.

They all greet you, except Bucky. He’s there—but he doesn’t look up right away. He’s sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.

But there’s a second moment happening under that. You move to Bucky’s table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightly—not irritated, not cautious, but expectant.

You set the smaller container down in front of him. You don’t open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way it’s packaged—different container than the blondies—like he knows immediately.

“These are the rolls,” you say softly.

He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. “You made extra icing,” he says, tone unreadable.

“You asked for them again,” you answer, smiling. “Felt right to get it perfect.”

He doesn’t comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, Joaquín still pretending he’s above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffee—but it feels like time pauses around that single bite.

Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. “This is…” he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. “It’s really good.”

You don’t tease him. You don’t downplay it. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m glad you like them.”

He eats another bite before speaking again. “You didn’t have to make these just for me.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. “You asked me to. That was enough.”

His throat works like he wants to say something else—like he wants to say a dozen things—but instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesn’t move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.

The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like he’s silently screaming in victory. Joaquín smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.

But they don’t say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.

You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.

It starts with the smallest things. It isn’t cinematic. It isn’t some dramatic shift. It’s quiet. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until it’s already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.

You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isn’t lazy anymore—it’s tuned in, like he’s cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesn’t look away when you talk now. He actually listens.

And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way that’s brand new.

The first time it happens, you don’t even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that won’t dissipate. He stands there after you’ve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.

That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.

He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didn’t short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but it’s the only thing he thinks about when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.

By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. It’s small, almost invisible, but you feel it.

When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like he’s convincing himself it was an accident.

You don’t call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice… that tiny, shared permission… is how the fixation begins.

One afternoon, you’re leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster “learning math,” which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. You’re laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His hand—hesitant yet pulled by instinct—settles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.

It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people don’t think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didn’t flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.

He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because he’s barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.

He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You don’t see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like it’s obvious that’s where he belongs.

And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.

The station doesn’t tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when he’s finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone else’s, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when it’s right in front of her.

And you… you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You don’t chase them, you don’t force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.

And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last week’s rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasn’t allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.

And Bucky learns—one soft brush of skin at a time—that he wants more.

The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximity—like the space between you is its own gravity field and Bucky’s learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.

One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.

He doesn’t even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chair—not wrapped around you, but behind you.

He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.

He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesn’t.

You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You don’t call it out, you don’t flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you are—and you watch the moment he realizes you’re not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.

Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though you’re almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But he’s there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degree—not even enough to cause chaos—just enough for your feet to shift.

Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than support—but the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. “You good?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. “Just misjudged how far back they shoved this.”

He doesn’t drop your arm right away. His thumb shifts—just once—in a tiny, unconscious sweep. It’s barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that he’s gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.

He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amount—but the air between you stays charged. You don’t push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.

When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. It’s just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automatically—like he’s going to take it from you—like he’s ready to help you carry it without thinking—but he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. It’s so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. “See you next week?”

There’s no hesitation anymore. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm in a way that’s new, edges less sharp. “I’ll save you a seat.”

You don’t know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else you’ve shared—but you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.

By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before you’ve even parked your car outside. He doesn’t tell anyone that, of course—he sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending he’s been there all morning, pretending he doesn’t check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of you—something delicate and steady that didn’t need noise.

You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the station’s gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.

He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. “Hey,” he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk in—not because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while you’re carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.

“Got your favorite,” you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. “Cinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.”

He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. “You really don’t have to—”

“You said to bring them again,” you interrupt, teasing. “You can’t take it back now.”

“Didn’t say I was takin’ it back,” he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. It’s there and gone in an instant, but it’s real.

You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesn’t let anyone else near them until you’ve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. “Oh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?” Sam says, eyeing the container like he’s preparing for a heist.

“Yeah,” Bucky says simply, not even looking up. “They are.”

The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. You’re half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesn’t even seem embarrassed about claiming them—or you—in that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like it’s his ritual.

When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like it’s already decided. “Made sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.”

You take it with a small laugh. “Thank you.”

The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing important—school stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kids’ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say you’ll be helping there too. He doesn’t comment, but you see the flicker in his eyes—interest, curiosity, something softer you can’t quite name yet.

After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and Joaquín leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.

You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Bucky’s hand finds your forearm before you can move. It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. “Leave it,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.

He’s methodical when he cleans—careful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit you’ve never heard from him before. It’s low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug he’s drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesn’t freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the mug.

“Anytime,” he says quietly.

You finish cleaning in silence, but it’s comfortable—the kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, he’s leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You always bring something,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Even when you’ve got a long week. Even when you look tired.”

You shrug, smiling a little. “It’s my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,” you add with a laugh.

He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. “I appreciate it more than I say.”

That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. “I know,” you say softly. “I can tell.”

He nods once, then takes a breath like he’s going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesn’t move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. “See you next Saturday?” you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.

His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When you’re gone, he looks back at the kitchen—the empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit in—and for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.

Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.

You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already… set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like they’d been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.

It’s Bucky. Obviously.

He pretends he didn’t. Pretends that’s just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.

You hide your smile in your sleeve.

When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hang back like he needs to “pretend to think about it.” He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesn’t bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration you’ve come to adore—like food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.

No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then… he actually speaks before anyone else does. “These are even better than last week.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends he’s not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way he’s smiling too hard.

And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didn’t say it begrudgingly. He didn’t say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praise—volunteer level, willingly.

You hand him a fork but he doesn’t take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.

You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you don’t want to end. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t armor himself from the world. He doesn’t isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with you—like this is where he fits.

At one point you’re telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how you’re worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactions—lips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.

It’s this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.

He isn’t just listening. He’s attuning.

When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You don’t even have to ask. You don’t even have to offer. That’s just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. It’s the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever built with someone.

On your way out hours later, Steve and Joaquín are arguing about grill season, Natasha’s flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. It’s loud but warm. Familiar but safe.

Bucky walks you out like always.

And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesn’t hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gently—just hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. It’s nothing dramatic. It doesn’t send shockwaves. It’s just… soft. “You drive safe, alright?” he says, quiet but earnest.

You nod once, smiling. “I will.”

He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, you’ve become part of his weekend. You’ve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.

And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didn’t want to spend anymore. Sam doesn’t tease, Natasha doesn’t smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.

Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.

By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, you’ve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. They’re warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacred—like everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You don’t say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. You’re organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says “FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZES”—all glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.

You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.

It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it would’ve felt like a stretch… like worlds couldn’t possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kids’ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. That’s the part you can’t let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.

Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your face—that soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. “You’re thinking about something,” she says knowingly.

You blink. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,” she says with a little smirk. “And you only do that when you’re overthinking something.”

You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. “I was just thinking… maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. It’s going to be chaos and—”

Wanda doesn’t even let you finish. “You should invite Bucky.”

You inhale sharply. “I didn’t say it was Bucky.”

“You didn’t need to.” She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. “Every time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says don’t insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. “It’s different with him,” you admit quietly. “I don’t… want to push him. He’s slow. He’s careful with everything.”

“And you already match him there,” Wanda says gently. “You’re not rushing him. You’re just… letting something grow.”

You chew your lip for a moment. “Do you think he’d even want to go? It’s a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.”

“Maybe that’s exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,” she counters, eyes soft. “It’s safe, it’s you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. I’ve literally seen it happen.” You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell she’s whispering just for you. “Invite him out of his world… and into yours.”

You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just… existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels… right. You exhale, steadying your voice. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll ask him on Saturday.”

Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. “Good. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesn’t feel terrifying anymore.

It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn you’ve been building together—one cinnamon roll at a time.

Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending it’s casual. You’ve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.

You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this time—simple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself you’ll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, you’ll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, you’re already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.

The station hums like always when you walk in—low music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. You’re met with the same warmth that’s become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.

But Bucky’s the first person you see. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. He’s cooking—actually cooking—something in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. It’s not because he’s cooking, though that’s impressive enough, but because it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him share that space the way you do. “Morning,” he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you tease, smiling. “Didn’t peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.”

He smirks faintly. “I’m not, but Sam’s been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought I’d remind him what good actually tastes like.”

From the table, Sam yells, “you’re using my recipe!”

Bucky’s smirk grows. “And somehow still making it better.”

You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Those for us?”

“Always,” you say. “Figured you might need something to go with your… culinary competition.”

He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. It’s something you’ll never stop noticing—that small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. “Good,” he says simply, like it’s law.

You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit you’ve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.

When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. It’s become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.

The conversation flows as it always does—banter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that won’t stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. “Hey,” you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.

He glances at you, eyes steady. “Yeah?”

“So, my school’s having its spring fair next weekend,” you start, picking at your napkin. “It’s kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaos—good chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but it’s a lot of running around.”

He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell he’s trying to picture it.

You take a breath, deciding to just jump. “I was thinking… maybe you could come? You don’t have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wanda’s volunteering too—you’d like her, she’s great.”

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “You want me to come to a school event?”

There’s no teasing in it—just genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. “I do,” you say simply. “You’re good with people, even if you think you’re not. And I think you’d enjoy it. Plus, you’ve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.”

His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. “You really want me there?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t pity or obligation. When he finally nods, it’s slow, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure, I’ll come.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Good. I’ll save you some cotton candy.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not sure I trust fairground food.”

“Then I’ll bring snacks,” you counter easily. “My snacks. You trust those.”

His eyes linger on you, and something flickers there—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.

And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. “Thanks for saying yes,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. “Couldn’t let the kids down, could I?”

You grin. “Or me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Or you.”

When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way that’s new and familiar all at once.

He’s coming into your world next week.

The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the air—kids’ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. It’s chaos, and you love it.

You help Wanda set up the game booth—ring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. She’s wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like you’re a celebrity. “They worship you,” she says, adjusting the rings on her table. “You know that, right?”

“They’re eight,” you laugh. “They worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.”

Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you can’t stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if you’re expecting someone—hoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. “You’re looking for him,” she says without even pretending it’s a question.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “He said he’d come. He doesn’t have to, though. I wouldn’t blame him if—”

Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. “He’ll come. He’s a quiet one, not a liar.”

You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.

And then—there he is.

You don’t see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Bucky’s there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed differently than usual—still simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.

You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. “You came,” you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Told you I would.” He holds up the paper bag. “Brought backup snacks, just in case fair food’s as bad as I think it is.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. “You really didn’t trust my cotton candy plan?”

“Didn’t say I don’t trust you,” he counters, and the way he says it—steady, quiet, completely earnest—makes your chest tighten.

Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacher’s-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. “So you’re the infamous firefighter,” she says, extending her hand. “She’s told me about you.”

Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look that’s equal parts suspicion and amusement. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” Wanda says, smiling. “You’re taller than I pictured.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, “I’ll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,” before wandering off.

The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzes—kids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like it’s just the two of you. “Want me to show you around?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”

You walk through the fair together. He doesn’t talk much at first—he doesn’t need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your students’ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. It’s a collage your class made—a field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! It’s uneven and smudged and perfect.

Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. “They really love you,” he says quietly.

You shrug, embarrassed. “They’re good kids.”

He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “You’re good with them,” he says simply. “It shows.”

The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isn’t the words—it’s the way he says them, steady and sincere, like it’s not even a question, like it’s a fact.

You move on, showing him everything—your favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.

The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. “You’ve got, uh,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Sugar in your hair.”

“Tragic,” you say, your voice a little too soft.

“Catastrophic,” he agrees, mouth twitching.

You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.

Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You don’t talk much, you don’t have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.

“You were right,” Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. “Told you.”

He looks at you then—not the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like he’s finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.

For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he can’t name. It’s not attraction—he’s already been living in that. It’s something deeper, more domestic. It’s the feeling of home.

You notice the look but don’t name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. “Thanks for coming,” you say quietly. “It meant a lot.”

He shrugs, but there’s no deflection in it this time. “Anytime,” he says, voice low. “I liked seeing your world.”

You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his hand—not out of obligation, not because it’s polite, but because it’s instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just… together.

The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:

He doesn’t just like your Saturdays anymore. He likes you everywhere.

He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. You’ll be in your classroom after school prepping next week’s math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and he’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He pretends he’s dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the station—not because he just wanted to see you.

But the second he steps into your room and sees your kids’ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like he’s inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. “You deal with this every day?” he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like he’s trying to translate children in their natural terrain.

“And willingly,” you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. “Some people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and ‘please stop licking the book’ diplomacy.”

He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he does—the one at the edge of softness—and helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And it’s the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didn’t come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesn’t drain him—it restores something.

He starts noticing when you’re tired now, too. Not in a pitying way—he doesn’t talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like it’s not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.

And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connection—even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightly—not tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.

Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesn’t say a word—she watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.

And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesn’t call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways he’s comfortable with.

The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbow—barely pressure at all—but you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. “You okay?” you ask softly, turning toward him.

He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. “Just… making sure you don’t get lost on the sidewalk.”

The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesn’t undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You don’t call him out, you don’t burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. “Guess I’m lucky you’re here to keep me on track,” you say.

And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because that’s the part that’s melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. It’s the fact that when he reaches for you—however small, however hesitant—you reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasn’t let himself want in a very, very long time.

The kids were wild because it’s almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got lucky—this week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song “use it wisely” before disappearing to the teacher’s lounge.

You’re sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You don’t even look up at first—expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.

Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. “You free?”

You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble that’s good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. “Natasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought I’d steal you.”

You stare for a second and it’s embarrassing how warm your face gets. “Steal me?”

“Borrow,” he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaos—markers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still a little startled. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. “I brought the bike,” he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. “Hope you’re not scared of motorcycles.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I’m not.”

Something flickers across his face then—something predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before it’s spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longer—small, steady contact—and your pulse kicks up instantly. “You ready?” he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.

You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gently—not pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.

The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for you—careful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. “Trust me?” he asks.

You don’t look away. “Yeah. I do.”

The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.

He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. “Hold on,” he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.

And then you’re moving.

The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something you’ve been waiting for without knowing it.

He takes you to a small diner on the edge of town—quiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like he’s testing another version of contact he’s still learning he can have.

You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like he’s cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.

When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says don’t. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesn’t need to say hold on this time—you just do, arms sliding around him naturally.

The ride back is slower. He’s not showing off this time—he’s savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.

“That was nice,” you say quietly.

He nods, voice low and certain. “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.” A beat. “Not just Saturday.”

You feel it settle warm in your chest—this gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. “I’d like that.”

He steps back reluctantly, like he doesn’t actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. “Go teach the tiny chaos gremlins,” he says, almost smiling. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didn’t steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.

He doesn’t tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when you’re not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bag—one he’d seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of “someone left it at the store cheap” but Sam wasn’t born yesterday.

Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a run—not because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesn’t tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just spend his entire break doing it. “Just needed tightening.”

You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesn’t make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesn’t announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.

One afternoon after school, you’re sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. You’re telling her about the lunch day with Bucky—the motorcycle, the diner—and you’re trying to say it calmly, rationally, like it’s not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. “You’re already in it,” she says.

“Already in what?” you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.

“The middle of it,” Wanda says. “Whatever this is with him. You’re already there.”

You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. There’s no dramatic “aha moment.” It’s just the quiet acknowledgment that she’s right. You’re already in it.

Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at night—quiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. “You really like her,” Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.

Bucky doesn’t look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.”

“It’s different,” Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. “She’s… soft. And steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t expect anything from me I can’t give.”

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s good for you.”

Bucky’s jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. “I think I want to be good for her too.”

Steve doesn’t tease him for it. He doesn’t smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. “Then let it happen. Don’t think your way out of it.”

Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bed—hands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothing—realizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs… he already stepped out of it.

And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.

This isn’t an almost-crush anymore. This isn’t “something’s maybe happening.” This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of you—without ever saying it out loud—finally understand it.

One Saturday morning at the station, you’re helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.

Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about “the universe shifting” before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because she’s been waiting for this exact evolution.

Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, you’re leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands close—close enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesn’t shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.

Your breath catches—not because you weren’t expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You don’t even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. “You got any plans later?” he asks, voice rough from the cool air.

“Just grading and laundry,” you answer. “Not exciting.”

He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. “I could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.”

You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. “I’d like that.”

He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. It’s not accidental. It’s not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.

A few days later, it happens again—this time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. You’re busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention he’s only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it there—not just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. “Take a break,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t either. The stare lasts longer than it ever has—no one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.

And then, one night after dinner at your place—he’s fixing that shelf just like he said he would—you end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.

At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books… and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesn’t release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freeze—not in panic or shock—but in sudden, quiet awareness.

The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something he’s been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yours—open, calm, quiet.

No one speaks first because this moment doesn’t need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hair—like every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.

This isn’t guiding. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isn’t afraid to show that he wants you.

It’s a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and you’re surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. There’s a lunch spread in the library—half sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, “real food,” he called it, so you’re in good spirits.

That’s when Adam—the new P.E. teacher—walks in. He’s all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; he’s nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who haven’t been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.

You chat politely—just small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. It’s perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the “mystery glitter epidemic,” his hand brushes your elbow in a way that’s friendly but too familiar. You don’t think twice about it, laughing it off.

Except that’s the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.

You spot him over Adam’s shoulder instantly—dark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adam’s hand lingers near your arm before you move away.

It’s barely a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his body—but you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.

You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as you’re close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. “Hey,” you say gently, smiling. “You found me.”

He nods, voice low. “Yeah. Library wasn’t hard to guess.”

You glance down at the thermos and laugh. “You brought lunch.”

“Stew,” he says simply. “Didn’t want you living off whatever those are.” He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.

“You’re my hero.”

He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but it’s there. The jealousy isn’t ugly in him—it’s quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says you’re mine, right? without words.

You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until it’s just you and him. He doesn’t bring up Adam, doesn’t say a word about what he saw, but it’s in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. It’s in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.

“Thanks for this,” you say, blowing on your spoon. “I’d be starving without you.”

“Can’t have that,” he mutters.

The silence after that isn’t awkward—it’s thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what he’s thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and you’re walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. “You okay?” you ask.

He glances at you, startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… didn’t like seeing that guy touch you, that’s all.”

You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isn’t sharp—it’s hesitant, almost sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. “It wasn’t anything. He’s just friendly.”

“I know.” He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. “Still. Didn’t like it.”

You study him for a moment—this big, careful man who’s spent years keeping everything locked up tight—and your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. “You can tell me stuff like that,” you say softly. “You don’t have to swallow it.”

His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”

You shake your head. “I think it’s kind of sweet, actually.”

That earns a small, reluctant grin from him—half relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. “Guess I’m bad at playing it cool,” he admits.

You smile. “I like you better when you’re not trying to.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesn’t just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “Just so you know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. Even if there’s a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.”

You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. “I think I’ll stick with the guy who brings real food.”

That earns you his real smile—the one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”

It’s not possessive, not sharp. It’s gentle, warm, threaded with affection that’s been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certain—Bucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.

His place is small, warm, and lived-in in a way that feels startlingly intimate without being messy. You notice instantly that the kitchen is the heart. Sharp knives hung neatly, cast iron pans seasoned black from years of use, spice jars lined and labeled by hand.

He hands you a wine glass the moment you shrug your coat off and hangs your cardigan himself—casual, like he’s always done that. The steady domesticness of it hits you like a soft weight in the chest.

“What’re we making?” you ask, leaning against his counter, watching the way he moves around his kitchen.

“Something simple,” he says, pulling out vegetables like it’s second nature. “Roasted chicken thighs, potatoes, salad. Nothing fancy.” Then a tiny ghost of a smirk. “Don’t wanna scar you with my seasoning ratio math first round.”

You laugh, take a sip of the wine, and step beside him. “You seriously think I’d be scared?”

“You saw Sam try to replicate my marinade,” he says dryly. “It traumatized him.”

Cooking together becomes its own language. When he hands you ingredients, his fingers linger along yours instinctively. When you reach for a bowl beside him, his arm brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away. You chop alongside him at the butcher block and there’s something about the quiet, rhythmic slide of the knife and the way he nudges your hip lightly with his own that feels almost like dancing.

He moves around you with this ease that tells you he memorized your presence already—adjusting without thinking, making space for your elbows, brushing his knuckles against your arm occasionally as if grounding himself. The silence isn’t empty. It’s that warm kind that fills the walls with comfort.

Halfway through seasoning the chicken, you catch him watching you. Not intensely like he does sometimes when he studies you… but soft. Affection written plain across his face. He realizes he’s staring and blinks, looking down like he’s embarrassed, but you reach out and touch his wrist gently.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

When the food goes into the oven, he pours you both fresh wine and you settle on the couch while the kitchen timer ticks quietly in the background. The moment you sit down, he hesitates only a second before sitting beside you—not at the other end like he might’ve weeks ago. He sits close. Knee against your thigh. Shoulder brushing yours.

The TV hums some sitcom rerun neither of you actually watch. You talk about small things—your terrible indoor plant survival rate, his disdain for store bought marinades, a kid from your class who insisted Jupiter is a portal to a toy dimension. He listens, relaxed and open, eyes slipping lower and lower the longer you talk.

Then, not suddenly but naturally, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch closer to you. He’s angled toward you, body soft, guard down. His hair brushes your shoulder and you feel this tug—this impulse that you’ve been resisting for months.

You lift your hand and brush a stray strand behind his ear and he goes still immediately. You pause. “Okay?”

He swallows once, nods once, slow. “More than okay.”

So you let your fingers slowly slide through his hair—soft, deliberate, carding through it gently. He exhales like it pulled breath from somewhere deep inside his sternum. His eyes flutter shut, jaw slackening, posture melting deeper into the couch as if his body doesn’t remember how to hold tension with you touching him like this.

He leans into your touch. Not subtly. Fully. His head tips closer to your shoulder, his hand finds your knee lightly—just resting there, warm and steady. There’s this magnetic, quiet honesty in the way he seeks contact now. He’s not shy about wanting more time in your hands. “This feels… good,” he murmurs, voice rough with something vulnerable, something unused. “Haven’t had someone touch me like that in… I don’t even know.”

You slow your fingers slightly, cupping the back of his head gently. “I like doing it,” you whisper. “You can ask for this anytime.”

His hand tightens a fraction on your knee. He turns his head a little toward you—not kissing you, not rushing anything—but close enough that you feel his breath soft against your collarbone. And when he opens his eyes again, the softness in them is so intense it makes your heart stutter.

The oven timer breaks the moment—but even when he stands to go check the food, he does it reluctantly, like he’s leaving something warm and important behind on that couch.

Dinner is cozy and quiet and shared from the same side of the table like that closeness is the new normal. And afterwards, when he walks you to the door and helps you into your coat, his fingers slide up your arms, gentle and warm and slow—like he’s memorizing the shape of you again before you step away. “You coming by Saturday?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your wrist one last time before he lets go.

You nod, leaning a little closer because you don’t want to leave that softness behind yet. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He opens the door, but before you step out, he brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek. The smallest gesture. But it feels like he just placed something inside your ribs that’s going to keep burning all week until you see him again.

The station usually rotates who does the big supply run for the week—mostly because Sam buys random snacks he wants, Steve buys everything organic like a betrayed suburban mom, Joaquín buys the weird cereal no adult should ever want, and Bucky considers grocery ingredients sacred resources not to be compromised by chaos.

This week, Sam insisted it was a “team building group outing” and for reasons unknown to humanity… they all agreed. And you ended up coming along because Natasha texted you casually that morning: bring Bucky snacks and come entertain me, I don’t want to shop with these idiots alone.

You show up to the station first, in soft jeans and a sweater that Bucky immediately notices because he looks up from tying his boots and does a slow blink like his brain took a picture of you before he remembered to breathe. He doesn’t say anything—he just gives a barely-there smile and murmurs, “hey,” like the word feels different when it’s directed at you.

The grocery store is busy the way Saturday late morning always is—families, couples, old women with coupon binders, teenagers attempting independence with energy drinks and frozen pizza.

Natasha pairs off with Joaquín because she doesn’t trust him not to buy “experimental spicy cereal” and Steve and Sam argue over protein shakes. Which leaves you and Bucky in produce.

You’re holding the list Sam scribbled and reading out loud, “two bags spinach, bell peppers, potatoes, berries, sourdough—” He’s already grabbing things methodically, moving with quiet focus. And you follow along beside him, gently teasing him about being aggressively efficient. “You plan grocery trips like tactical missions,” you comment, watching him inspect potatoes like they might carry classified intel.

“Bad produce ruins meals,” he says simply, shrugging as he rolls a potato in his palm. “Can’t risk it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re such a snob.”

His eyes flick toward yours and warm slightly. “You like that I’m picky with food.” Your heart does that absurd jump again. Because he’s right—you absolutely do.

At one point, you reach up to grab something from a higher shelf, coffee beans that Sam wrote three underlines under, and Bucky steps behind you automatically—not hovering, not crowding—but close enough you feel his presence like a shield. His hand settles briefly at your waist as if steadying you. Just a moment. But long enough for warmth to spread through your body.

You don’t rush away from the contact this time, you lean back slightly into it, and he doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he used to. Instead, he lets it linger. His thumb brushes, deliberately gentle, like a silent word.

When you turn toward him again there’s something new in his face—soft certainty. You move further down the aisle together, the list half done, and somewhere between yogurt and granola bars, a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie barrels past you both and nearly knocks into you. Bucky’s reflex is instant—he reaches out, steadying your elbow, guiding you smoothly aside before the tiny chaos tornado continues screeching toward frozen waffles.

You laugh, a little breathless. “Wow. Good reflex.”

He hums, unconsciously stroking your arm once before letting go. “Years of dealing with Sam.”

You start walking again, your fingers brushing his at your side. And this time when they touch… he turns his hand palm-up.

Offering.

Not an accident, not a hesitant brush disguised as movement. He wants you to take it.

And you do.

You slide your fingers into his slowly, threading them together, palm against palm, skin warm and certain. His grip tightens—not forceful, but firm. Intentional. Claiming in the quietest, softest way. He looks down briefly, as if memorizing the sight of your hands together, then looks forward again like he’s grounding himself in this moment.

There’s no panic in his breathing. No tension in his shoulders. Just that gentle steadiness he’s slowly letting himself have with you.

And he doesn’t let go the entire rest of the store trip.

Not while you check out. Not while you help load groceries in the cart. Not even when Sam comes back and does a double take so dramatic Steve smacks him in the back of the head and says, “don’t scare it, let it happen naturally.”

Natasha doesn’t even react. She just gives you this tiny knowing smirk when she sees your joined hands like she’s been waiting for this exact beat for weeks. When you all walk out of the store, Bucky carries the heavier bags and keeps your hand in his free one like it’s just what his body does now. Like this is a new base state.

When you get to the cars, before anyone else climbs in, he shifts closer, thumb brushing along your knuckles as the morning sun warms the pavement between you. “That alright?” he asks quietly, nodding toward your hand in his. “This?”

You squeeze his hand once, soft and certain. “Yeah. More than alright.”

And the look he gives you then—open, relieved, a little overwhelmed and entirely devoted—tells you everything you need to know, hand holding wasn’t a milestone for him. It was him choosing you openly, without fear.

It’s late, the station’s been busier than usual that week, and Bucky’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. You’d stopped by with dinner—homemade soup, still warm in the container—and stayed to help clean up after the team’s shift meal. The others trickled out one by one, voices fading upstairs or into the night until it was just you and him left in the kitchen.

The lights are low, humming quiet. The sink runs with a steady rhythm while he dries a pan, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You’re leaning against the counter beside him, sipping tea from one of the chipped mugs they all use. It’s comfortable, easy silence—the kind that fills up a room instead of emptying it.

He glances sideways at you occasionally, eyes softer than the dim light should allow. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says finally, setting the pan on the rack.

You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Didn’t want you cleaning up alone.”

He hums in quiet agreement, folds the towel carefully. “You always stay.”

“Guess I do,” you murmur. “You mind?”

Bucky turns toward you then, leaning against the counter with his hip, one arm resting loosely over the edge. “No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think I’ve started counting on it.”

The air thickens—not heavy, but aware. You set your mug down, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to keep them busy. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat off him, the faint smell of cedar and smoke that always clings to him. Your heart beats a little too loud for the quiet in the room.

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, then to your mouth—and that’s when something in your chest breaks open. He doesn’t move closer yet, but you feel the intent in him. The restraint, the quiet question that’s been there for months.

You don’t answer with words. You step forward, just a fraction, until you’re standing directly in front of him. His hand, resting on the counter, twitches once. His throat works in a slow swallow. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice barely carrying.

“Yeah?” he answers, the word soft and hoarse, like it’s dragged up from somewhere deep.

“I think I’ve started counting on it too.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels like it’s holding its breath with you. Then his hand lifts—hesitant but deliberate—fingers brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. It’s reverent, almost uncertain. You can feel him trembling faintly, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting and the fear of breaking the moment.

You lean into his touch, just enough to let him know it’s okay.

That’s all it takes.

He leans forward, slow, eyes flicking between your eyes and lips until the space between you collapses. The first touch of his mouth is so soft it barely registers as a kiss—more like an exhale, a testing of pressure, a question whispered against your skin. He starts to pull back, unsure, but you chase him forward, catching his bottom lip between yours and answering the question he didn’t dare ask.

The second kiss isn’t hesitant.

It’s slow, yes, but sure—like something he’s been building toward for months. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly at his chest as if to steady yourself against the quiet, dizzying rush of it all. He tastes faintly like coffee and something darker, something entirely him. He kisses like he touches—gentle but grounding, all patience and careful strength.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. You stay like that, neither of you ready to break the fragile stillness. He’s the first to speak, voice low and rough at the edges. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.”

You smile, still breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating where his chest meets yours. His thumb traces a slow path along your jaw, memorizing. “Didn’t think I’d get here. Not really.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those tired, storm-blue eyes that have softened into something that feels like home. “You’re here now,” you say softly. “That’s what matters.”

He nods once, eyes still locked on yours, and you can see the truth settle into him. Whatever walls he’s spent years holding up, they’ve finally stopped being barriers between you. Now they’re just background—the ruins of something that doesn’t need rebuilding because what you’re creating together is better.

He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, longer, his hand splayed against your back, anchoring you both in that quiet, golden kind of certainty that doesn’t need words. And when you finally part, the clock ticks softly in the background, the world outside the station hushed and distant.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, voice barely more than a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

You nod, heart full enough to hurt. “Then you’ve got me.”

He doesn’t say thank you, he doesn’t need to. He just smiles—small, real, a little dazed—and presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling you gently against his chest.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself simply exist in the quiet peace of being held.

One Year Later

The first thing Bucky notices when he wakes is the space beside him. It’s warm but empty, the sheets folded back, the soft indentation still in the pillow where you’d been. His hand finds that spot instinctively, fingers brushing over the cotton like maybe you’d only just left. He breathes in once—slow, easy—and the faint smell of something buttery and sweet reaches him before he even opens his eyes.

He knows where you are. He always does on Saturdays.

The clock on the nightstand reads a little past seven, sunlight already spilling through the curtains in pale ribbons. He stretches, lazy and slow, rubbing at the back of his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he stands, tugging on the flannel pants he left draped over the chair last night. The air smells like sugar and pastry, something faintly tart beneath it—raspberry, he realizes—as he heads down the short hallway toward the kitchen.

You’re there, exactly where he expected, standing at the counter in one of his old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. The radio hums softly from the windowsill, some old song you probably found in one of those “weekend morning” playlists you love. The kitchen is alive with the sound of it—metal trays clinking, the gentle hum of the oven, your quiet hum matching the music as you drizzle chocolate over neat, golden pastries cooling on a wire rack.

He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, watches the way your body moves so easily in this space that used to be only his. The way the light catches on your hair and the corner of your smile when you hum along to the song. The way this apartment smells like home now, like you.

“Smells dangerous,” he finally says, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You turn, eyes lighting up instantly when you see him. “You’re up.”

“Couldn’t sleep through that.” He gestures toward the pastries, walking over until he’s close enough to rest a hand on the small of your back. “You’re making the station spoiled.”

“They asked for raspberry this time,” you say, grinning up at him. “And I couldn’t say no.”

“You never do.” His thumb brushes along your spine, slow and absent, a quiet kind of affection that’s become as natural as breathing.

You lift one of the pastries carefully from the tray, holding it toward him. “Quality control,” you offer.

He leans in to take it but stops halfway, eyes glinting as he murmurs, “you sure this isn’t bribery?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit.

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, and takes a bite. The pastry flakes against his lips, sweet and tart, the chocolate melting just enough to coat his tongue. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, voice thoughtful. “That’ll do.”

You roll your eyes, laughing softly as you turn back to the tray. “High praise, chef.”

Bucky steps closer behind you, hands sliding around your waist until his chest presses lightly against your back. You let yourself lean into him, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like sleep and warmth, and his voice when he speaks next is soft enough that it feels like part of the morning air. “You gonna take all these to the guys?”

You nod. “Most of them. I promised Natasha a box but I thought I’d save a couple for us.”

He hums approvingly, lips brushing against your temple. “Good plan. Joaquín’ll inhale his before you even park.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “That’s why I make extras.”

For a while, neither of you speak. The oven ticks as it cools, the radio shifts to another song, and his hands stay splayed comfortably against your stomach, fingers tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing. When you finally turn in his arms, your palms slide up his chest until they rest against his shoulders.

He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, the kind of soft he only ever gets with you. You rise onto your toes and kiss him—nothing rushed or desperate, just the familiar, grounding kind of kiss that feels like a language you both invented together. When you pull back, he follows slightly, just enough that your noses brush. “Morning,” you whisper.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice low, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You got flour on your face.”

You laugh, rubbing at your cheek. “Do I?”

He leans in and kisses the spot instead, the faintest graze of lips against skin. “Got it,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, grinning, and reach up to ruffle his hair—something you do every time he gets too serious. He catches your wrist gently before you pull away, turning your palm so he can press a kiss into the center of it. Then he lets go, stepping back just enough to look around the kitchen. “Need help packing these?”

“Yeah, actually,” you say, reaching for the containers. “If you can box up the ones for the guys, I’ll do Nat’s.”

He nods, already moving toward the counter. “You sure you trust me not to eat ‘em?”

“I’ll count them before we leave,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours.

He chuckles, grabbing a pastry anyway and taking another bite before you can protest. “You didn’t count this one,” he says around a mouthful.

You swat at him with the edge of a towel and he laughs—really laughs, the sound filling the whole apartment until it feels like the walls themselves are smiling. It’s easy, this life with him. Easy in the way mornings like this feel endless. The light through the window. The smell of raspberries and coffee. His hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same pastry box.

When everything’s packed and you’re slipping your shoes on by the door, he comes up behind you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting in the crook of your neck. “You sure you don’t wanna stay here?” he asks softly. “We could keep the raspberry ones hostage.”

You tilt your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Tempting,” you say. “But I already promised. And besides—” you turn, smiling up at him, “—I like bringing them something sweet.”

He smirks, kissing your forehead before letting go. “Yeah. They’re lucky to have you.”

You pick up the pastry box, glancing back at him. “You ready?”

“Always,” he says, and means it. He takes the keys from the counter, holds the door open for you, and when you step out into the hallway, he reaches for your hand without even thinking—his fingers finding yours like they always do.

And as the door closes behind you both, the scent of raspberry and sugar lingers in the air, curling softly through the quiet apartment that’s no longer just his, and never will be again.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

His brain is whirring and overheating, misfiring as it tries to recall any moments of discontent between the two of you, whether he’s ever seen you take it off since he proposed (he hasn’t), whether or not you’ve given him any signs that you’ve been at all unhappy. 

He called you last night before you got into bed. He thinks you sounded worried but he figured that was typical; you often express a certain longing – a loneliness – when he takes on 48-hour shifts at the station, but he’s lucky enough that he only has to do that once a month. You hate the idea that he could get called away in the middle of the night, worrying you’ll wake up to terrible news.

But what if it wasn’t worry he heard in your voice last night? Or, what if it wasn't a worry at his expense, but rather because of him? What has he done?

And what can he do?

This is ultimately the thought that motivates him to abandon his work bag in the middle of the bedroom floor and go out in search of you, still in his work clothes, still desperate for a proper shower in his own bathroom, but neither of those were nearly as dire as righting whatever wrong he has caused with you.

He has to fix this; he’s going to fix this.

But his heart stutters and falters when he finds you in the kitchen, kneeling on the counter – despite the step ladder that James had purchased for you in hopes that you’d stop climbing the counters and save his poor, weary heart the worry of you falling – as you pull every single mug down from the highest cabinet.

Oh God, he’s too late, you’re moving out. You’re separating the mugs – the house’s prized collection – into his and hers. 

“Angel.” He nearly whimpers; the moniker escaping his lips on an exhale as he catalogues the scene before him. “Wha- what happened?” 

You startle at his sudden appearance, though your face quickly crumples int0 a terribly guilty and ashamed expression that has James’ stomach doing somersaults in anxiety and pre-emptive grief. 

“Oh, James. You noticed…”

“I noticed?!” He huffs as he gestures at you vaguely as though the nakedness of your ringfinger was glaring to even the most casual observer.

“What happened?” He presses again, urgent this time as he wars with the prospect of pulling you off of the countertop to safety (solid ground) and wondering if that’s his place anymore. 

He’s going to throw up.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie, honest.” You insist, sliding off the edge of the counter to stand in front of him; you wring your hands together in front of you looking terribly small and contrite. 

“I…I don’t want you to be sorry, Y/N, I want to understand what happened?”

“It was an accident!” The confession seems to burst out of you, shocking you and devastating James. “It was an accident, Jamie, I’m so, so sorry. I know, I know I should’ve been more careful, but-”

“Careful!?” James nearly shrills, his mind running away from him as it concocts images of all the possible accidents and reckless behaviours you could possibly be apologising for. The protein shake he had at the end of his shift churns unpleasantly in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, James.” You murmur quietly, hands pressed together in a silent prayer migrating to your chin as tears threaten to fall from your lashes. “I thought there was room for them all up there but, clearly we have too many and when I turned around it just came crashing down.”

James' brain – and heart and lunch threatening to evacuate through his esophagus – stutters to a halt. 

“Room for what?” He manages to get out, rubbing his chest with one hand as though he can convince his heart to return to its normal cadence. 

“The mugs.” You admit miserably. “I know it was your favourite mug, but-” 

“The one with the polkadots and hand painted heart?” James confirms breathlessly. You nod your head yes, a single tear finally escaping your waterline and leaving a treasonous streak in its wake. 

“I know it’s not the same, but I stopped by the ceramic studio downtown and they helped me make a new one, but the drying and firing process takes a lot longer than I thought so I pulled every mug we had down so you could find one to use in the meantime and maybe we could display some of these somewhere else or pack them up but I didn’t mean to break it, James; I’m sorry.” 

The silence following your spiel sits in the room like a physical weight as the pieces slot together in James’ mind; his stomach slowly comes to a rolling stop. 

“You’re apologising to me because…my mug broke.” He confirms, the end of his sentence lilting up with a silent question mark. 

“It was an accident, Jamie, I promise.” You whisper, eyes navigating James’ face as though trying to deduce whether it might be safe to approach.

His shoulders fall suddenly, both in relief and acquiescence; you seem to accept that as a sign that you could manage a cautious step in his direction. 

“Are you mad?” You query. 

“Not even a little.” James admits, though he does take a moment to mourn the mug he’s loved for years. He doesn’t know if you remember, but you had pointed it out to him on one of your very first dates, laughing at the sheer size of it and calling it ‘absurd’. The sound of your laughter when he insisted he was going to buy it is what pushed him to the conclusion that he loved you, that he loves you. He loved that mug.

But he’s happy to lose it if he was keeping you. 

“No?”

James laughs; a breathless, disbelieving and relieved sound that has your brows rising and the corners of your lips threatening to turn up hopefully. “Angel, I saw your ring in the bedroom and, well, I-”

He doesn’t have a chance to explain to you the anguish he felt at the thought of you leaving him when you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him in shock. 

“No!” You holler, the denial muffled behind your hands which then migrate to your chest as though you’re convincing your heart to stay put beneath your breast bone. “Oh my God, no. No, I took it off before I went to the studio! I knew I’d need to take it off at the wheel and didn’t want to put it down somewhere and forget about it! I got home and showered and, well, apparently forgot about it anyway. But at least it was at home and, oh Jamie.” 

You’re equal parts fond, equal parts chiding, and equal parts sympathetic at your poor, lovesick, dramatic fiancé. Your fiancé, for his part, is beaming at you. 

Flooded with relief at being wrong and chuckling at his own expense, James opts to close the distance between the two of you and holds you tight to his chest like he’s been longing to do for the past forty-nine hours. 

“I can’t believe you thought I was leaving you.” You laugh into his chest; James rubs his cheek into the crown of your head like he’s trying to infuse his love for you through your roots. 

“I can’t believe you went to a pottery class without me.” He volleys in turn, rewarding him with the bubbly, tinkering laugh that solidified his love for you all those years ago. 

“The lady took pity on me on account of my red-rimmed eyes and gave me a discount; I’m sure she’d be very happy to hear my plan worked if both of us showed up for a class together.” 

“I’d love that.” James agrees, rocking you to-and-fro at the thought of his poor sweet girl showing up anywhere distressed at all let alone on his account. 

“We can make you a whole set of mugs with polkadots and hearts.” You continue, lips brushing against his collarbone like a guileful kiss. 

“Thank you, angel.” He smiled, scanning the collection of mugs for one he might be happy to use until he gets his hands on your specially made one, “I can’t wait.”

Biting the inside of your lip, you can’t help but take him in, here in the raw light of day as he lays peacefully on his back. His head lolls to the side on your usual pillow. Your eyes roam over the bow of his lips, the dark eyebrows, lightish brown hair that's softer than it should be between your fingers.

He’s painfully handsome. There’s a slight hesitation in your touch, but you softly trace the cut of his jaw and the stubble spread across it. That roughness feels familiar, and not just under the pads of your fingers, though the thought makes you blush. You begin to remember the night before, almost like a movie reel through your mind… 

Ooooh, right. That’s what happened.

It starts at Sam Winchester’s joint bachelor-bachelorette party at a nice hotel downtown. He and Eileen aren't the "strippers and coke" kind of party couple. They're more the "wine and brie en croute with pickled olives" on the expensive crackers you can't afford—kind of couple.

They look perfectly in love, if a bit long-suffering while Dean gives a hilarious, somewhat inappropriate, but still ultimately heartwarming toast to their happiness. After lowering the glass of champagne from his lips, his gaze catches on yours in the crowd. You suck in a subtle breath. 

Technically you’ve met him already, being one of Eileen’s bridesmaids, but there’s something about his green eyes that pin you to the floor. When he hands over the mic to Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, his head turning away from you to offer her a smile breaks the spell. It allows you to breathe.

Dean later finds you by the bar. You’re drinking a rum and coke with your slice of cake, trying not to get a single crumb on your dress. You've put a lot of work into affording it, let alone fitting in it. He leans his elbows casually on the counter and looks over at you.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he nods at you with a smile, subtly taking you in first. Then, his eyes go to your plate. “Ooh, red velvet. Gotta get me some of that.”

You smile back at him. “It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, looks good in your hand,” he says, adding a teasing wink for good measure.

You don't know why that does it for you, but a half-flattered, half-nervous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Sam has warned you before about Dean. Apparently his older brother is a bit of a flirt; a ladies’ man.

A man whore, are the words Eileen used.

You’re honestly surprised he’s talking to you when Eileen’s other bridesmaids, Lisa and Jo, are sipping martinis together down at the other end of the bar. Guess they didn’t want cake.

They look beautiful in their lithe, strapless little cocktail dresses. You’ve had to give up chocolate, bread, and cheese for three months straight to fit into this dress, something slinky and red that drapes over your thicker, curvy figure. But you’re proud of the fact that you’re letting yourself eat cake tonight, even though you’ve often felt like Mrs. Doubtfire while standing for pictures next to Lisa and Jo.

They’re Eileen’s friends, not so much your crowd. No matter how much you’ve tried to get to know them while helping the wedding planning in whatever way you can, you still get a high school clique vibe from the women, if with more “polite smiles.” Then they’ll typically go back to talking about crystal centerpieces—or whatever in-depth conversation they were having before you were there. 

But right now, Dean’s focus is on you. When he asks you more about yourself, you tell him about recently earning an elementary education degree.

“Ah, but you already knew that, because Sam told you we just graduated college together,” you realize, with warmth tingeing your cheeks. That subject came up pretty quickly when he introduced you to his brother.

Dean’s smile confirms your suspicions, so you just keep filling the silence on reflex.

“Well, I actually just started teaching my first ever semester of second graders. They’re a bit of a handful, but overall, they’re really sweet.” Your smile falters. “Except for this one kid who likes to put little tacks on my chair. He’s kind of a menace, but I think if I bribe him with enough lollipops, he’ll give it a rest. I mean, it’s a behavioral issue and I should probably call his parents. But it's kind of hard to tell them their son is trying to make my ass into a pincushion."

Dean's laugh comes out in a sharp burst, like he wasn't expecting what just came out of your mouth. You didn't either, honestly. You giggle more out of embarrassment, ducking your head.

"He’s in second grade, you know?" you say, in between laughter. "I don't think that little footnote needs to end up on his permanent record. But then there's Micah. He's so friggin' smart. He can read at the fifth grade level already. Can you believe that? And I know I'm not supposed to have favorites, but his grades on his spelling tests get him a spot in the comfy bean bag chair pretty much every Friday. Honestly, I think that's what I like about working with kids. I get to see that spark on their face when something just finally clicks for them. Their little faces get all bright and happy and…ugh. God, I'm sorry. I'm rambling, right?”

You stop yourself with a hand sliding over your mouth, not quite covering your smile of embarrassment.

Dean’s grin just widens, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

"It's okay. I kinda like it," he teases.

You duck your head, biting your lip against a groan. He chuckles and reaches out for your hand, earning your nervous glance. He quirks his head.

“Hey, you're passionate about what you do, helping kids. That's nothin' to be ashamed of,” he says, brushing his thumb over your hand. “But sweetheart, I gotta ask. Am I making you nervous or something?”

God, yes, you think, especially at that sweetheart thing. It’s making your heartbeat tick up a syncopated rhythm, but you shake your head, biting the straw of your rum and coke.

“No, not at all,” you say, in a hopefully “breezy” kind of way. You touch your fingers to his wrist. “Tell me about you though. Sam mentioned that you’re a firefighter?”

“Ah, yeah. Firefighter in training,” he says, with a more genuine smile.

He just started at the Fire Academy, and he tells you about all the drills he’s had to learn and all the training he’s had to do to be able to keep up with his classes. He's a few years older than you and Sam, if you remember right. 25...26? Yeah, 26 sounds right.

You subtly eye him while you sip at your drink, and you notice the crisp cut of his buttoned-down shirt and leather jacket, the definition of muscle across his thighs under the slacks, even while he casually sits.

Your gaze subtly travels down his long bowed legs, smart dress shoes. His cologne is woody and masculine, but not overpowering; maybe bergemot and sandalwood. It pleasantly wafts under your nose every time he gestures with his hands while he talks.

“Aw man, I can’t hold out anymore. I think I need to get me some of that cake before it’s gone,” he says, getting up from his chair.

You’re a bit disappointed that he’s leaving, until he stops short.

“You want another piece?” he offers, gesturing at your empty plate that’s been resting on the counter.

You blink in surprise, but you shake your head. “Oh, no. I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s a party,” Dean reasons. His grin is too damn infectious. It has you smiling, and begrudgingly agreeing.

Not only does he bring you more cake, but you watch him eat three whole slices before he asks you to dance.

The rest of it flashes through your mind like strobe lights—the way he’d started small and respectful with his larger hand closed over yours and the other along the curve of your waist. He guided you closer and closer, until you were turned around into his arms, and you could feel his warm breath on your neck.

You felt his lips teasing your skin. Then those hands tantalizingly drifted down your every soft curve, as if showing you a preview of everything he could do to you, and every way he’d make you come apart. You believed him.

And when he whispered in your ear, asking if he could take you home, you let him.

You let him drive you in that big black piece of history he drives. Used to be my dad’s car, he said. A Chevy something. You couldn’t really remember much when his hand was drifting up and down your thigh like that.

His presence burned hot at your back when you two eventually got to the front door of your apartment, your hands just barely shaking as you got the key in. Twist and click—

He waited until you flipped the lights on. Then he turned you around slowly in his arms and pulled you in close, all the while asking you with his eyes and raised brows. This okay? You want this?

“Do I still make you nervous?” he asked, his lips twitching at a smile when yours do.

You nodded, uttering a small giggle. “In a good way.”

That was when he finally kissed you, hot and slow, like he meant to devour you whole. He moaned at the taste of you, at the feel of your ass squeezed in his hands. You clung onto him strong, breathing into his kiss and trying to meet every single demand of his lips.

It soon became a fiery tear to your bedroom, one lamp flicked on, hot breaths and nice clothes crumpled to the floor. You didn’t feel self-conscious even once when he guided you under him on the bed, because he wasted no time in taking you apart, inch by inch.

His lips kissed and licked and sucked a burning trail down your neck, over your collarbone and between your breasts. You felt his hardened length trapped between your bodies while his hands explored you, teasing your breasts and sensitive nipples, and he mapped his way down with his lips.

You explored every part of him you could—every dip of muscle, firm shoulders and the slopes of his back, and then back up to tangle in his hair. Your heated gasps and whimpers filled the room when his sinful mouth found what it was looking for between your legs.

It wasn’t often that you had a strong pair of shoulders to rest your thighs on, but Dean’s grip was hard enough to leave deep fingerprints of pressure on each thigh while he slipped his tongue through your folds and feasted on you.

“D-Dean, oh God,” you gasped. Every sound you made was a sensuous symphony in his ears, washing over his skin and making the well of his desire churn hot in his lower belly. He had to roll his hips into the mattress for some relief for his aching cock, even while he moved his mouth up to your clit, circling the swollen bud with his tongue. He had enough room to slip two fingers deep inside your sopping wet channel, exploring you deeply, stroking and twisting to find what you needed.

Your thighs trembled and squeezed tight on either side of his head. When he sucked your clit tight between his lips, you uttered as gasping moan as that coil snapped its release. Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers. Yours clenched tightly in his hair, threatening to rip out a few strands.

Dean stroked you all through your first orgasm, giving slower licks to your clit. He seemed to sense when you couldn’t handle anymore though. You tugged more sharply on his hair, and he finally pulled away, moving back up your body to gauge your reaction.

You’d collapsed boneless against the bed, but you still managed to smile up at him as you caught your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked. But his self-satisfied grin almost made you laugh. You took his glistening face between your hands and pulled him down for a grateful kiss.

After a moment to savor your lips, he broke away for a second to catch his breath himself. You stroked his back all the while.

“You know, for a minute down there, I thought you might not let me come back up,” he teased.

You choked on a laugh, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Honestly wouldn’t have minded if you did suffocate me,” he chuckled, accompanied by a slap to your left ass cheek. You squealed, and blushed hotly at the way he was grinning down at you.

“Ready for more, baby? Or you want to call it a night?” he asked. His tone was playful, but it was actually a serious question. You blinked in surprise. You’d never had a guy be this, well…generous, and not expect anything in return, especially not for just a hookup.

But you shook your head and sat up, slipping a hand behind Dean’s neck. After a beat of hesitation, you guided him down to you for a slow, sensuous kiss.

“No, I don’t want to call it a night,” you whispered. Your hand drifted down his bare chest, and lower still. You showed him just how well you could return the favor.

And now, come the morning, you’re blushing down to your neck as each scene flashes through your mind. You feel the ghost of his hands all over your body, and how you’d never quite felt quite as bold and sexy and beautiful with a near stranger as you had with Dean effing Winchester. Your best friend’s brother.

You begin to worry your bottom lip with your teeth. How the hell are you going to tell Sam? Especially after he warned you about exactly this. Plus, there’s a reason you don’t typically do the one-night stand thing, and this has the potential to become something very complicated.

You know what, it’s fine! you think. We’re two consenting adults. We’re both single. And maybe…maybe it could be more than a hookup. Maybe we can see each other again, see where it goes.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Dean says, his voice croaking with sleep.

You look down at him in surprise. His eyes have cracked open and he has your hand captive, stopping you from continuing to idly trace patterns on his bare chest. You smile in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you say. Again, you bite your lower lip. “Um, good morning.”

“Morning, sweetheart,” he grins lazily. “You sure wore me out last night.”

Your smile becomes more genuine, even if you turn your face away somewhat shyly.

“Aw, don’t do that,” Dean says. He slides his hand up your arm and behind your neck, tangling into your already tangled hair when he guides you down to his lips for a kiss. “You were awesome.”

You giggle against his lips. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says, kissing you again.

You shake your head a little. “You were…”

Amazing. Unbelievable. Probably the best night I’ve ever had.

“Perfect,” you decide. Because it’s the truth. The word comes out of your mouth before you can filter yourself though, making you pause. Dean does too, but after a beat, he slowly smiles.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.

You lick your lips, and you nod. “Definitely.”

“Well, then,” he says. His hand moves down to squeeze your hip. “You down for a repeat performance?”

You smile. “Only if I get a turn.”

Bracing your hands on his chest, you slide your thigh across his lap so you can straddle his hips. Dean grins and goes along with your idea. He gets a nice healthy handful of your thighs and helps settle you on top of him. But first, he reaches over into your nightstand drawer and finds another condom, ripping it open with his teeth.

Just like you did for him last night, you take the packet, as well as his generous length in your hands. You gently stroke him to full mast, smiling pleased at his groan of pleasure. Then you carefully fit the condom over him.

“You’re so gentle with me,” he teases. 

“Just returning the favor,” you quip, just before you position him at your wet entrance. Slowly, you sink down over his cock.

You both moan at the feeling of him stretching you again, warm and thick and fitting perfectly nestled deep inside. There had been moments last night where he wasn’t all that gentle, actually, but his passion had only spurred yours on more. You know you’ll probably find fingerprint marks on your thighs and ass, but it’s fucking worth it, you think, as you begin to bob a rocking rhythm that serves you both.

Dean arches his back underneath you, his knees coming up to press against your ass.

“Goddamn, baby. Givin’ me quite a show,” he says, in a panting voice that’s deep as sin.

You utter a breathy laugh.

Dean means it though. He’s enjoying the way you brush your hair out of your face, your beautiful tits in his face while you truly let loose for him. He guides you by the stronghold he has on your hips, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh as he ruts up into you, meeting your thrusts.

Your breath quickens, your nails digging into his chest on reflex, and your heart races as that delicious pleasure builds. But when Dean snakes a hand between you and further parts your folds to massage tight circles over your clit, your vision flashes white. You utter a scream of pleasure on his name, your inner walls choking him tight as you throb around his cock. His release hits him like a goddamn freight train.

“Aw, fuck,” he grunts.

He slams your hips down hard, making your thighs slap against his. A ragged groan escapes him in a rush. His hands move to your thighs just under your ass, where his fingers press into flesh hard enough to leave forensic ID, giving him leverage to bury himself deep into your pussy as he spills a hot release into the condom.

Goddamn…

He can almost imagine that he’s coming free inside you, that you’re milking his cock for every drop, until there’s nothing left for him to give.

The thought surprises him. It almost takes him out of the moment, honestly. That’s not a thought he’s ever had before—not with a woman he barely knows (which is most of his hookups, if he’s honest).

In that delicious, fractious moment just after it hits, it’s like those few seconds are suspended in zero gravity. Your arms are shaking, and your forced to collapse against his chest. Dean welcomes you there for a little while, letting you come down while he smooths a hand over your hair.

Though he can't help the urge to let his big hand drift down over your dewy skin, down the gentle slope of your back and over the curve of your generous ass. He gives one cheek a teasing slap. The sound echoes in the room.

"Goddamn perfect ass," he says roughly, smirking at your squeal. You end up grinning hard against his neck.

"'S that my new nickname?" you quip.

He chuckles deeply, moving you along with his chest. "Hell, sweetheart, if you want it to be."

Eventually, you lean back to give him a smile and one last kiss before you pull away from him. You slip off his lap to find your robe, at least. You definitely need a shower.

“So I’m thinking, after we get cleaned up, I could make us some breakfast,” you offer. “Or if you want, maybe we could go somewhere. I know a little diner down the block.”

“I like the sound of food,” Dean agrees with a smile. Ge reaches over for his phone on the nightstand, to check the time. His eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”

He has to get his ass over to the Fire Academy. He has class in barely twenty minutes.

He tears out of bed and nearly trips on the coiled sheets.

“Sorry. Gonna need to take a raincheck,” he says. He hurries to find his clothes strewn all over your bedside floor.

“What’s the matter?” you ask with wide eyes. You cross your arms under your breasts, but it’s more like you’re hugging yourself over your robe. You watch him tear through your bedroom in a tempest of movement.

Dean spares you a glance, but not much else as he yanks up his slacks and belt and dress shirt.

“Gotta get to class,” he confesses. Thank God he has his uniform in the trunk of his car for exactly these kinds of emergencies. He grabs his phone, wallet, and keys, and quickly kisses you on the cheek. He gazes down at you apologetically. “Sorry I gotta cut and run, sweetheart, but it’s been fun.”

Your smile barely reaches your eyes. He’s pressed for time, but he still notices.

He slows himself down and cups your cheek. “Hey.”

He gets your pretty eyes looking up at him, and he gives you a real kiss, nice and slow. He cradles your cheek and brushes his thumb across your skin.

“Thanks,” he says. His now familiar grin manages to make you smile. “And I mean that.”

You shake your head at him. “Okay go, Mr. Future Fireman. Be safe out there, okay?”

He gives you a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

You can’t help but laugh. This guy’s too much. But you don't think you've had this much fun having sex in...

All right, let's not put a timeframe on it.

You watch him leave your apartment, even though you have a sinking feeling in your chest. You knew this was just a hookup for him, for both of you. Part of you just couldn’t help hoping that it could’ve led to something more. 

Dean means to call you.

He really does.

After that truly awesome, you shook me all night long, kind of a night, he thinks about you more than he’d like to admit over the next few weeks. However, he finds himself locked into his training. He’s so close to finishing strong and earning his badge, he just can’t afford any more distractions.

Still, he should’ve known that Sam would find out—either through Eileen, or through you directly. He also should’ve expected the way his brother let him have it.

“And you didn’t even fucking call her. See? This is why I don’t set you up with any of my friends anymore,” Sam bitches at him from his side of the small two-seater dinner table. They still share an apartment, though in just a month and a half, Sam’s going to be moving out. He and Eileen already found a house that they’re moving into after the wedding.

“Look, I was going to call her, man. They’ve just been bustin’ my ass at the Academy!” Dean argues.

“Bullshit.” Sam levels him with the same finger that holds his beer.

Dean’s brows raise, high and annoyed. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. Because if you really liked her, respected her, and respected me, you would’ve made the time,” Sam says.

That falls heavy between the brothers for a moment while they eat their pizza.

“Look, I know her. She doesn’t do hookups that often, which means…she probably liked you,” Sam adds. “And honestly, when are you going to give it a real try with someone? You can only visit that free clinic so many times.”

Dean shoots him a glare. He’s had a clean bill of health from said clinic for six months straight.

“Jesus Christ. Enough, all right?” he grouses. “What’re you, Mom?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, lowering his crust to the plate. He levels his brother with a more earnest look, lightening up from his anger. “Look, if it’s about what happened to Dad—”

“What, you mean the way he drank himself to death after Mom died?” Dean says. His voice cuts through whatever softball glove Sam is trying to handle him with. “You think that’s the kind of thing I should be looking for in my life?”

“Oh, and what, do you think I’m making a mistake marrying Eileen?” Sam counters.

Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Damn it, don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I’m saying, it’s just…I don’t know. Maybe that kind of life—the house, the wife, the 2.5 kids and the dog. Maybe that’s just not my life, okay?”

Sam gives him a long look. He lets go of a deep breath, and he shrugs.

“Okay,” he says. “If you think hooking up night after night for the rest of your life is going to make you happy, then fine.”

Dean nods, glad that they can put an end to this little After School Special.

“Okay.”

Still, he can’t finish his third slice of pizza. He keeps picturing your face when he left you that morning. No matter how you tried to hide it, he still saw the tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It brews something uncomfortable in his stomach, and a sting in his chest.

You’re eating lunch alone in your classroom, finally on your break, when an unfamiliar number flashes across your phone screen. You look down at it in confusion, but with all the caterers and florists and things you’ve helped Eileen with on the wedding, you figure it could be important. You pick up the call and greet whoever’s on the line.

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

You drop your ham and cheese on your keyboard, gaping in surprise.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he chuckles slightly. “Sorry, I know it’s been a minute.”

You frown, because you’re confused more than anything.

“Yeah, like almost a month,” you reply. You put the call on speaker so you can grab up your sandwich and quickly brush off the crumbs from your keyboard. You struggle to say something cool, clever, sexy even. “I’m okay. Just, um…what’s up?”

Smooth, real smooth. You cover your eyes with your hand.

“Nothin’, I was just thinking of that night,” he says. “I had a good time.”

Your frown deepens, despite the beginning of a blush warming your cheeks. If he’s calling you just for another hookup…

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.”

And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition.

“I could make us some burgers, toss in a couple of beers and a movie night,” he adds.

That part throws you though, you’re not going to lie. What, is this a Netflix and chill situation—with a side of fries?

You consider it. You weigh pros and cons at a frightening speed in your mind, almost like Sherlock Holmes contemplating the layout of a dead body and deducing within moments that his wife committed the murder, despite the man no longer wearing a ring.

You want to let yourself be bold and spontaneous and carefree...but it's just not who you are at your core. You're a planner, a cautious person who looks three ways before crossing the street. Letting Dean take you home that night was certainly one of the most spontaneous, wild things you've done since your friends took you out to a strip club after you aced your final round of exams back in college.

(Sam hadn't been there that night, but he did get an embarrassing drunken text from you at 3:00 a.m., along with a few shame-ridden pictures fueled by questionable substances. Yes, he still had the evidence.)

You just don't know if it's smart to let yourself hookup with Dean again. Mostly because you know your heart has the tendency to get attached, no matter how much you warn it not to.

“You know, Dean, I’m pretty busy with my job right now. I just started here a couple of months ago, and I think I just need to focus on that right now,” you say. Part of it isn’t a lie, even though your soft heart is stinging.

“Ah, okay. Yeah. I get that,” he says. You hear his disappointment too. “But I just need to say, I really am sorry for not calling you sooner.”

Your lips tug at a smile. “It’s okay, Dean. Look, you’re Sam’s brother. I just feel like, maybe it’s better if you and I stay friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Dean says wryly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t have three rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends.”

Your blush comes swiftly again, burning in your cheeks.

“Be that as it may,” you say, “I just don’t want to do anything that will distract from Sam and Eileen’s wedding.”

“Oh, I’m a distraction, huh?” Dean says flirtatiously. 

You begin to smile in earnest. “I think you know damn well what you are, Dean Winchester.”

His deep chuckle practically resonates through the phone and into your chest, going straight down to your pussy. You clench on nothing just at the sound of his voice, making you cross your legs under your skirt. Dear God…

How are you supposed to be even remotely normal around this man now? 

But for Sam’s sake (and your own), you’ll have to try. 

Two months later, Dean has taken Sam’s dating advice to heart. A week or so after you turned him down, he ran into Lisa Braeden, Eileen’s Maid of Honor, while he was at the grocery store buying beer and Twizzlers. She was a smart, sharp, sexy brunette. A yoga instructor, he soon found out. So he took a chance on asking her out. They’ve been going slow and steady ever since. 

Dean hasn’t heard from you since the rehearsal dinner, but he sees you again at his brother’s wedding. All the bridesmaids are wearing long, royal blue dresses that drape off the shoulders and hug the bust and waist, flaring gently at the skirt. Lisa and Jo wear it beautifully, their hair perfectly smooth and coiled. 

But when you step out into the hall outside the church ballroom to join them, Dean actually pauses in what he’s saying to his brother. He nearly double takes when you enter his line of vision—mostly because he hasn’t seen you in a dress since that night. You were sexy as hell then, a lady in red. 

Today, you’re absolutely stunning. 

After greeting Sam with a warm hug, you turn to him with a nervous kind of smile. “H-Hey, Dean.”

With that, he snaps out of it. Dean smiles, eyes crinkling, and goes over to give you a hug as well.

“Good to see you,” he says, trying not to inhale too much of your nice perfume. It’s even in your hair.

“You too,” you reply. Your smile is a little brighter, more genuine. Though there’s something behind your eyes that he can’t quite place.

What he doesn’t notice is the way Lisa is watching you and her boyfriend, a hint of suspicion on her face.

You do though. You pull away from Dean and assemble into a line with Lisa at the helm. As the Best Man, Dean stands with her, followed by Jo and Brady, another one of Sam’s buddies. You and Benny bring up the rear. Benny’s dad used to work with John, Sam and Dean’s father, on the police force.

According to Sam, John Winchester worked a beat for twenty-six years before his liver finally gave out on him. Dean almost went to the Police Academy to follow in his dad’s footsteps, but Benny, already working his way up to Lieutenant, suggested Dean become a smoke eater instead. The suggestion stuck.

Benny Lafitte is slightly shorter than Dean, but just as broad-shouldered, his auburn beard neatly trimmed. Even though you might’ve thought he was rough around the edges at first, his kind blue eyes spoke the contrary. He offers you his arm like a gentleman.

“Well aren't I lucky, getting the prettiest girl on my arm,” he says, with a charming smile.

You smile, and even begin to blush at the way he subtly takes note of you from head to toe.

“Well, thank you. You’re very handsome yourself. Although, hold on.” You slip your arm out of his for a moment so that you can fix his tie. It’s slightly crooked. You make sure that it lays flat under his collar, smoothing down all the edges and picking off any small dust particles that landed on his collar. Benny watches you with an indulgent smile.

“Am I good?” he asks.

“Very,” you reply.

“I appreciate it, thank you,” he says. You don’t know if he means to sound flirtatious, but his voice is a deep drawl that washes over you pleasantly. You find yourself blushing down to your neck as you slip your arm back around his.

You also don’t notice how Dean glances at you and Benny over his shoulder.

As much as you love Sam and Eileen, it’s difficult for you to keep your mind from spinning into fractals as the ceremony goes on. You can’t help but glance at Dean. He stands there behind Sam dutifully, but you see brotherly pride in Dean’s eyes, in his smile. It makes you smile too. You too love Sam like a brother, and it brings a well of happy tears to your eyes to watch him have his moment with his new wife.

It just also reminds you of what you need to do.

After the ceremony ends and the bridal party files out behind the bride and groom, you excuse yourself from Benny apologetically. You wait until Lisa and Jo go off to take pictures with Sam and Eileen, and you grab Dean’s wrist, pulling him aside.

“I need to talk to you,” you whisper.

Dean gives you a confused look. “They’re gonna need us for the pictures.”

“I know, but this is important,” you say. Your voice trembles with nerves, and so do your hands. Dean notices, frowning in concern. He grasps your arm to try and steady you.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Just come with me,” you implore him. You take his hand and lead him into the women’s dressing room attached to the church sanctuary you all just came out of.

Dean raises his brows at the mess you and the rest of the bridesmaids have made of the room—pantyhose and makeup and clothing litter the floor and most available surfaces, while leftover breakfast sandwiches, grapes, salami, and cheddar cheese cubes are splayed out across one of the vanity counters. Dean is tempted to steal a morsel, but he focuses on you first.

You close and lock the door, which makes his brows raise high again. You know he has a girlfriend now, right?

“Uhh, look, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but—”

You heave a sigh. Again, you take his hand and guide him to sit with you at the vanity. The old stools squeak, the overhead lights a bit too bright. This is not where you want to do this, but you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Dean, I’m pregnant,” you confess.

He freezes. His breath stills in his lungs. His eyes slowly widen as the words click in his brain.

“What?” His head tilts, as if he didn’t hear you right.

You squeeze his hand; to ground him or yourself, you’re not sure.

“I’m about three months pregnant. I found out last week.”

Dean swipes his free hand over his mouth while he tries to compute. He squeezes your hand, tighter and tighter. He points to himself.

“It’s…it’s me? It’s mine?”

You give him a weary smile. “You’re the only one I’ve been with in the last few months. It could only be you.”

Oh fuck. The man’s face begins to pale as he descends into shock.

“But we…I used a condom,” he reasons. “All the—all the times!”

You bite your lip. If you weren’t freaking the fuck out yourself, you’d probably be laughing right now. Granted, you’ve had a bit more time to process this than Dean.

“I know, I was there,” you reply, releasing yet another sigh. “One of them probably broke. That’s all I can think of… Honestly, Dean, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just didn’t want to disrupt the ceremony or cause a scene before the wedding. But now you know.”

Dean falls silent then. He hasn’t let go of your hand, which you think is a decent sign. He’s likely forgotten that you’re still holding it as he stares off into the middle distance for several seconds.

Eventually, he shakes his head and returns his gaze to yours. He looks uncertain, his handsome face the true epitome of holy fucking shit.

You know the feeling.

But he asks the most important question.

“What do you want to do?”

Briefly you close your eyes as you take a breath. You squeeze his hand before you let go of him.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, and…I’m keeping the baby,” you tell him, though you raise placating hands. “I don’t want money, or anything like that. I just wanted you to know that it’s yours. How much you want to be in his or—or her life, that’s up to you.”

Dean takes a beat before he answers, but you don’t have to wait so long holding your breath.

“Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll help you. Don’t worry,” he says.

And just like that, all the time you spent giving yourself pep talks for this, telling yourself that you’ll need to be strong no matter what he says, all of it crumbles into relief. Your lower lip trembles, and your body shudders as you break into tears. You try covering your face to hide your shame, but Dean grasps your shoulders.

“Hey, hey. It’s all right,” he says. He tentatively pulls you into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You nod into his dress shirt, probably staining him with your running makeup.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you so much.”

He holds you a bit tighter in response.

You and Dean agree to keep this to yourselves for now, at least until Sam and Eileen get back from their honeymoon. It’s difficult to explain why your eyes are all red and your makeup is smudged, but you promise Sam that you’ll tell him later. You know it’s pointless to lie to him though. As a future lawyer, his bullshit meter is far too high.

However, you also know that he’s half guessed it by the time you all make it to the reception. When you and Dean came out of that dressing room to join the bridal party for pictures, you're sure that you looked emotionally wrecked. Dean had looked pale as a sheet, his body coiled and tense, as willing himself to seem normal. Sam had clocked both of you with a raise of his brow, but he didn't say anything then, especially after you gave him a pleading look.

While Eileen greets her family without him for a moment, Sam pulls you aside. He notes your glass of diet coke, in a moderate sea of guests drinking champagne and cocktails.

“Are you okay?” he asks knowingly.

Tears well up in your eyes again. You don’t know if it’s your damn hormones going haywire, or just the way Sam asks you, with the love of a friend in his eyes. He squeezes your shoulder gently, prompting you with your name.

“Yeah, I think I will be,” you say.

"Is it the same reason you're not drinking?" he asks. "You and Dean earlier..."

You hesitantly confirm with a nod. Sam blows out a harsh sigh, raising folded hands to his mouth as he processes. You begin to look around on reflex, trying to see if anyone's watching you and Sam have this conversation in the middle of the reception. To your relief, everyone around you seems occupied with drinks, hours d'oeuvres and conversation.

“What did he say when you told him?” Sam asks. His gaze is firmer. You get the idea that if he doesn’t like what you tell him, then he’s about to go grab his brother by the ear himself.

You grab his wrist and give a placating squeeze. “He said he's going to help me, be there for me.”

“Damn right. So will I,” Sam nods, and glances back at Eileen, his new bride, with a smile. “We both will.”

“I know,” you nod as well. “I’ll be okay, Sam. You don’t have to worry so much. Just enjoy your wedding day. It’s the only one you’re gonna get. Well, you know…hopefully.”

You tease him with a wink.

Sam laughs, cupping your cheek. He kisses your other cheek.

“I love you, you know that right?” he says.

You give him a trembling smile through your tears.

Meanwhile, Dean has a beautiful woman in his arms. He turns Lisa on the dancefloor, trying not to trip on his own dress shoes, all the while knowing that his brain isn’t here in his body. It’s across the ballroom, watching you talk to Sam. Dean can tell that he knows, just in his Big Bird body language. He’d also recognize that accompanying Bitch Face anywhere.

“Dean, what’s wrong,” Lisa asks him, and not for the first time. She’s getting annoyed, he can tell. She finally looks over to where he keeps glancing, and she notices you with a frown. It’s also not the first time she’s caught him staring at you tonight.

“What was that earlier in the dressing room? She didn’t really get food poisoning, did she?” she asks pointedly. “What, did you two used to date or something?”

He gives a wan smile. “Yeah, kinda. We…had a thing once.”

“What kind of thing?”

Dean closes his eyes and tries to keep himself calm. He’s pretty sure if he tells her the truth right now, she’s going to find the nearest cocktail and dump it over his head.

But shit, here it goes.

“Well…”

After a long day at school, you drive over to Dean’s apartment. You’d agreed to meet there and wait for him to get off his shift at Firehouse 83, where he just started as a full-fledged firefighter on probation. When he gets home, he’s supposed to go with you to an important appointment with your OB-GYN. 

You were hoping he’d already be done with work by the time you got to his place, but Lisa's there to open the door for you. Apparently, he’d already given her a key.

Moving kind of fast, but okay, you think. A second later, you could’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. Pot, kettle, me. Got it.

Lisa greets you with a “polite” smile at best, but she does offer you water at least. You really can’t blame her for not liking you though. She found out her boyfriend got another woman pregnant right before he started dating her. Really, she has more balls than you for staying with him. You wouldn't put it past Dean to somehow have smooth-talked her into giving him a chance.

Or she really loves him. The thought sobers you as you lower yourself down to the couch beside her. Both of you sit there in silence for a moment, trying to figure out something to talk about.

“So, you’re what, six months pregnant?” she asks.

You correct her in thinly veiled annoyance. “Three months, actually.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I thought it was six.”

You have a feeling her awkward chuckle is fake, however. She knew good and damn well that you’re not six months pregnant. In her eyes, you must be the size of a parade float. 

“If you want, I can recommend a holistic diet to help you get your body back after the baby’s born,” Lisa offers. “No pills, no chemicals. Just good clean weight loss.”

You feign interest. Honestly, you’d like her to cram that offer right up her hooch.

“I can even give you a discount if you want to try out yoga,” she says. “It’s low impact, but you burn plenty of calories. I have a beginner’s class, not too strenuous. Even my least flexible clients manage to do the poses.”

Is that why Dean likes you? Because you’re bendy? Bet if I sat on you, you’d pop like a fucking balloon.

You hide all of these thoughts behind a “polite” smile of your own.

“That’s really nice of you, thanks,” you reply. It’s non-committal enough, but hopefully it’ll get her off your back.

No such luck.

“You know, maintaining a healthy diet is really important for the baby’s health too,” Lisa adds. “It’s not just about avoided raw fish and dairy products. Oh, and processed food is obviously a no-go. Like, I’m sure you haven’t been hitting Taco Bell and all that stuff, right?”

As a matter of fact, you’ve been eating clean since long before you got pregnant. Not that it’s any business of hers whether you enjoy the occasional quesadilla or not.

Your temper snaps at its leash. You open your mouth to reply, when the front door unlocks and opens to Dean, stepping in through the threshold.

Thank God, you and Lisa both think. She gets up quicker from the couch than you, greeting her boyfriend with a kiss. You avert your gaze while you begin to get up yourself.

Dean reaches out to help you, grasping your arm in support. You shoot him a smile.

“I can still get up by myself,” you snip.

“Yeah, all right. Just in case,” he says with a smile. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s rock and roll,” you say, trying to hide your worsening mood. You’re exhausted, and irritated, and probably more than a little hangry. Except now, the idea of food just has you feeling guilty for even being hungry.

“Bye, hun. Hope you have a good appointment,” Lisa says, giving your shoulder a pat. You give her the most genuine smile you can muster as you thank her. It's possibly that she's one of those women who don't realize when they're being cunty, but you find it highly unlikely. She's too smart for that.

You follow Dean out the door and over to his car, big and black and sleek as you remember. You settle into the passenger seat with your arms crossed in silence. Dean switches the cassette to one of his favorite Led Zeppelin albums, though he notices your grumpy face.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

You give him some side-eye, but you’re reluctant to say anything. You just shake your head. As irritated as you are, you don’t want to be the friend who badmouths his girlfriend.

God, are we even friends? You wonder. Or am I just his knocked-up baby momma?

And again, you realize that this whole situation is probably hard for Lisa. You just don’t know if she’s jealous, or if she just…doesn’t like you.

“I’m okay,” you tell Dean.

He raises a skeptical brow. Looks like Sam isn’t the only one with a finely tuned bullshit meter.

“All right, how about this,” Dean says. “Let’s grab some burgers after this, huh? From your favorite spot. Shake Shack, right? Side of fries, frozen yogurt. I think I’ll get chocolate this time… Hmm, I doubt Lisa will want anything. She’s gone on an all-vegan kick or something.”

For one shining moment, you were happy and touched at his consideration. But now your body stills in your seat when you remember Lisa’s words. Tears well up in your eyes with a hot sting, and a sob escapes your throat.

Dean is cut off from thinking about getting extra bacon on his burger. He looks over at you in alarm.

“H-Hey, what’s the matter?”

You scoff at him through your tears. “Are you kidding me? I can’t eat burgers anymore, Dean. I was already fucking fat. Now it’s just gonna get ridiculous.”

“What?” Dean’s brows knit together in confusion, along with his deepening frown. It gets worse as he tries to watch the road ahead, while at the same time, watching you continue to crumble.

“And after the birth, I’m just going to be an even fatter slob who can’t take care of her baby,” you sniffle and weep, trying in vain to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself.

Dean shoots you an incredulous look. The more upset you become, the worse he feels, not knowing where this is coming from or what to say to you. His lips press together tight, his jaw twitching.

He decides to switch lanes and pull the car over onto the side of the road, ignoring the honking SUV behind him.

"Wait, what're you doing?" you ask, still sniffling.

He shifts into Park and shuts off the radio—a big red flag, in your opinion. You begin to feel embarrassed for your outburst. He’s upset too, and fucking serious, more so than you’ve ever seen him. You stare back at him with uncertain eyes.

“I’ve never once heard you say that you’re fat,” he says.

You blink at that, but eventually, you’re able to get your tongue to unstick from the roof of your mouth. You brush away the remnants of tears from your cheeks; they're flushed even warmer as embarrassment settles in.

“You haven’t known me very long,” you say quietly.

It doesn’t help. Dean’s jaw ticks again.

“Well, I’ve never thought it. Not even once,” he says. His jade green eyes are firmly set on yours, and he gestures between you and him with a pointed finger. “The reason you and I are here right now, is because the minute I saw you, I wanted you.”

One corner of his lips kicks upwards. “And that night, you didn’t disappoint.”

Your mouth falls open slightly. You don’t know how to respond, but you do know that a full blush is warming your face and neck. His words have power, and unbidden, they bloom a similar warmth between your legs. You swallow a bit nervously as you bite your bottom lip.

Dean glances down at your mouth when you do. He can remember what your pretty mouth did for him that night. Oh, he remembers all too well. He even had the shade of your lipstick streaked across his skin until he showered up at the firehouse.

He locks that all away when shifts the car back into Drive. If you’re going to make it to this appointment on time, he needs to get going.

And you both have to leave whatever that was right here by the side of the road.

AN: Woo! 😮‍💨 Yep, this is only Part 1, friends. Lisa is a bit different in this. My take was that without Ben in her life, she might be less mature and a bit more catty. As we get into Parts 2 and 3, it'll become clearer why she decides to stay with Dean, and perhaps more importantly, where the reader and Dean can go from here as co-parents. 🤔

If you enjoyed Part 1, please let me know!~

Next Time in Part 2:

“Hey, you okay?” you say, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Dean shakes his head. “Look, I…I’m sorry for tossing a giant friggin’ monkey wrench into your life. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

If possible, your heart softens even more. You slide your hand down to grasp his.

“Dean, this baby wasn’t planned, but he’s not a mistake,” you say. “I don’t regret anything.”

Dean stares back at you incredulously. He can’t believe you could really say that to him. He doesn’t know what to say. He only knows what’s in his mind, and what he feels compelled to do in that moment.

He leans over and kisses you. It’s a firm meeting of his lips to yours, and achingly familiar.

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 2

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaleldobrev

@globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdeanwrites @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78

@waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @cheynovak @jollyhunter

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

You felt like you were going to throw up. You didn’t know how bad it was, and you weren’t trying to be dramatic, but how could you not be worried? 

The man you love is hurt and you couldn’t do anything about it. Your mind immediately went to Sarah, wondering if she was already here—then it shifted back to all of the scenarios running in your mind a million miles a minute. 

A sob escapes your throat as Maria parks the car, giving you a tight hug before getting out of the car with you. 

“It’ll all be okay. It’s Joel we're talking about here, hm? He’s a resilient man,” she tries her best to console you, but all you can do is meekly nod before you walk into St. David’s. 

You’re shaking like a leaf as you approach the front desk. Maria clears her throat and the receptionist looks between you two, furrowing her brows. 

“You’re not hurt, are you honey?” She asks you, and you shake your head. Not physically, anyway. 

“No,” Maria tells her, “We’re here to see someone who got checked in probably not too long ago,” she says, and the receptionist nods in understanding. She twists her bright pink lips to the side, typing something into her computer. 

“Who’s the patient you’re visiting today?” She pushes her glasses up her nose, looking at Maria intently. 

“First name Joel, last name Miller.” 

The receptionist types something into her computer once again, and she nods. 

“Looks like he’s popular today. He has a lot of visitors,” she says, and you know it’s to lighten the mood, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. You give her a small smile before she prints out two visitor stickers and hands them to you both. 

“Here you are ladies. Fourth floor, and on the left is the waiting room.” 

“Thank you ma’am,” Maria says, pulling your arm gently as you both put the stickers on and head to the elevators. 

A few stray tears roll down your cheeks on the quiet ride up to the fourth floor. Maria won’t let go of you; a silent plea to say I’m here for you without saying a single word. 

The elevator doors open and you turn to the left, seeing nearly everyone in the waiting room sporting an Austin Fire Department uniform. Your eyes search the room for Tommy and Sarah, and when you spot them, you make a beeline for them both. 

You give Sarah a tight hug, rubbing her back in consolement. You’re the adult here, so you have to be strong and put on a brave face for her until you find out Joel’s prognosis. 

Tommy hugs you next, and you can hear the stuttering in his breath as he tries to take a beat to calm down. He wraps Maria in his arms once he lets go of you, and you go back to hugging Sarah, to which she accepts in a heartbeat. 

She’s hugging you tight and won’t let go, and you look around the room and give a weak smile to all of Joel and Tommy’s coworkers as they wave at you with sad smiles. 

“What happened, Tommy?” You whisper, trying to brace yourself for the worst. 

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“We were on a call and Joel needed to get to the third floor of a building, so he was climbing the ladder of the truck. I guess he slipped or lost his footing because he fell off the damn ladder, and his harness didn’t hold his body weight up right and it fucking snapped. He fell three stories to the ground,” Tommy said, tears coming out of his eyes. 

You could barely even process his words. Your blood was pulsing in your ears and your body went still. You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to cry and panic, but you were in a room full of his colleagues and his daughter’s arms were wrapped around you tightly. 

You look at him with glossy eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “Have the doctors said anything yet?” 

“They’re doing scans and tests on him right now,” Tommy says. 

“Was he at least wearing his helmet?” You can’t help but gnaw on your lip, body starting to tremble again in disbelief and fear. 

“He was, but he took a really hard fall. He kept coming in and out of consciousness on the way here,” he says, and you shut your eyes to steady yourself. Maria gave you a look of sympathy before coaxing the four of you to sit down. 

It became a waiting game at that point. Everyone was talking quietly amongst themselves, and Sarah leaned in to you and rested her head on your shoulder. 

“How are you holding up?” You ask her, voice soft and concerned. 

“He’s been hurt before, but not like this. I’m really scared,” she confesses, and you sigh and wrap your arm around her shoulder. 

“Me too, sweetheart, but your dad is a strong man. He’ll get through whatever the outcome is,” you try to reassure her, but even you heard the worry in your own voice. 

After what seemed like hours, a doctor comes out, looking down at her clipboard. 

“For Joel Miller?” She says, and everyone looks up. She blinks in surprise that nearly the whole waiting room’s eyes are on her. 

“Who’s his next of kin?” She asks, and Tommy stands up. He looks down at you and Sarah, nodding his head toward the doctor. He grabs Maria’s hand and you all walk up to her, waiting for her to tell you what’s going on with him. 

“How is he?” Tommy asks, worry written all over his face. His brows were furrowed, eyes glossy, and his body language was stiff—he was on edge. 

“We need to keep him here for a few days to keep a watchful eye on him and observe, just to make sure he’ll be okay. He hit his head really hard. He’s concussed and he has a couple of broken ribs with some bad bruising in various locations, but I’d consider him a seriously lucky fella. This could’ve ended a lot worse for him, but his heavy gear and helmet took a big amount of shock absorption from the fall,” she explains, and it feels like you can breathe a little better. 

Of course, his injuries are still nothing of the sort that you wanted to hear, but knowing they aren’t worse than what they are fills you with a tiny bit of relief. 

“When can we see him?” Sarah asks, and the doctor gives her a soft smile. 

“Now, actually. He’s asleep and heavily medicated, so he probably won’t be up for awhile. Four visitors are allowed at a time,” the doctor says, and you all nod. 

“You girls go ‘head. ‘M gonna inform the guys on what she just told us,” Tommy says, and you three nod before you follow the doctor past the doors labeled restricted. She takes you down a long hallway and into a room on the right hand side. 

Your eyes land on Joel, wearing a hospital gown with an IV in his arm. He looks peaceful while he sleeps, breathing steadily on his own. You notice the bruising starting to form on his arms and you can’t help but get teary-eyed again at the sight of him like this. 

You obviously know his job comes with many, many dangers—you just never in a million years thought he’d get hurt like this. You three pull up chairs to his bedside, making sure to stay out of the hospital staff’s way in case they need to get in around Joel or his bed. 

“This man really is resilient,” Maria says, smiling at Sarah. She returns a weak one back with a small nod. 

“He is. I know he’s a hero and he’s great at what he does, but sometimes I wish he and Uncle Tommy had a profession less… dangerous,” she confesses. 

You can’t even begin to imagine the anxiety she’s faced practically her whole life, knowing her dad is doing a job that’s strenuous and physically demanding, not to mention the danger he has to face every time he’s out in the field. 

“Have you ever talked to him about it?” You ask softly, genuinely curious and not-too-shocked about her confession. It seems like this thing would be normal for kids to think about when it comes to their loved ones performing a dangerous job such as this one. 

She shakes her head. “No,” she says with a sigh, “He loves this job and it makes him happy. The last thing I want for him is to leave what makes him happy because of me.” 

Sarah has to be the most level-headed, mature fourteen-year-old, you think. You’ve never met anyone as wise as her at her age—hell, nobody was this wise when you were around her age—and yet, her bravery and wits was tell-all about how she was raised. Joel really did a great job. 

“I get your point,” you say eventually, meticulously calculating your next choice of words. “Maybe you should have that conversation with him, though—in your own time. His job makes him happy and it’s important, of course, but you make him happier and you will always come before his job.”

She offers you a small smile as she leans her head on your shoulder. You wrap your arm around her shoulders once more, giving her a loving squeeze of reassurance. 

“You know, you’re an important part of his life now, too,” she starts. “He talks about you a lot. Admires you a ton. He’s crazy about you,” she giggles, green eyes looking up at you. 

You can’t help but softly laugh. 

“I’m crazy about him, too,” you confess, and Sarah’s smile widens. 

“I’m really glad my dad finally found someone that makes him genuinely happy. You’re the perfect fit for our small lil family, so uh, thanks for being here. For him. For me. For all of us.”  

Her words make your chest tighten and bloom with warmth. You can’t help it this time—tears spring to your eyes and you kiss her hair, smiling at her with pure endearment. 

“There’s no place I’d rather be. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your lives.” 

“Well damn, it’s about to be a sob fest in here,” Maria says, eyes welling with tears too. 

All three of you laugh, wiping away the few tears that managed to escape. The door opens a few seconds later, and Tommy walks in. He looks exhausted, and he smiles sadly when his eyes land on his brother who was still in a deep sleep. 

He sits in the empty chair next to Maria, watching as Joel’s chest rises and falls at a steady pace. 

“Thank god he’s responsible and wore his gear correctly,” Tommy chuckles, shaking his head. “Doctor said he might be a little loopy when he wakes up from the medication.” 

“He’s always been the responsible one, Uncle Tommy,” Sarah chastised him, causing everyone to laugh. 

“Yeah yeah. I owe your old man big time, kid. Now I got this lovely lady here to keep me in check,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he leans in to kiss Maria’s temple.  

“Damn right, Miller. Don’t you forget it,” she pats his knee twice, an unmistakable happy grin adorning her lips. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, and she nudges his side before everyone’s attention shifts to Joel who groans softly. He doesn’t wake up, but his brows furrow for a few seconds before the tension leaves his face. 

“Well, ‘m goin’ down to the cafeteria before it closes for the night. Anyone care to join me?” Tommy asks, gaze flitting from Maria to Sarah to you. 

“Actually yeah, I haven’t eaten dinner tonight,” Sarah says, twisting her lips to the side. “I’ll go with you.” 

“I’ll join you two,” Maria says as they all get up from their chairs, and you furrow your brows at her before she gives you a soft smile. “Just so you can get a little alone time with him,” she whispers, and you mouth thank you. 

The door snaps shut behind them as they leave the room, and your focus hones in on Joel. You grab his hand and lace your fingers with his. You bring his hand up to brush your lips on his knuckles, leaving soft kisses there. His hand is warm. He is warm. He’s always warm; the most comfortable and loving presence you’ve ever been around. 

You admire how strong this man is. How loving, how loyal, how he’s the type to give someone the shirt off his back if they needed it most. He’s selfless in every way possible. He’s the man of your dreams, and you’re so lucky to have found him when you did. 

For once in your life, being confident and not pushing someone you care about away in self-sabotage has worked out endlessly in your favor. 

“I love you, Joel,” the words slip past your lips easily, giving his knuckles another sweet kiss, “I love you so, so much. I’m so beyond lucky to be with you. I ain’t going anywhere, cowboy, so I hope you don’t get tired of me.” 

Joel’s hand tightens around yours and you gasp, eyes darting to his face. He purses his lips before his hand goes limp again and you sigh, leaning over to kiss his forehead before you let go of his hand. 

You decide to call your family and let them know what happened, just to keep them in the loop. You start with your mom and dad, standing in the corner of the hospital room as you look out at the plethora of lights of Austin that illuminate the night. 

“Hey honey! We were just thinkin’ of you,” your mom chirps, and you laugh softly before you sigh and answer her in a hushed tone. 

“Hey mama, I’ve got some bad news,” you start, chewing on your bottom lip. 

“Oh no. What is it babygirl?” Her voice is laced with worry and overprotectiveness. 

“Joel got injured pretty badly at work. He’s in the hospital right now, but he’s okay.” 

Her gasp was unmistakable on the other line. “What? How did he get injured?” 

“He slipped off of the truck ladder due to the rain, and his harness snapped,” you say, looking back at Joel.

“My god, how badly is he injured?” She’s frantic, and you hear some shuffling in the background. 

“He’s got a pretty bad concussion, a couple of broken ribs and some bruising. Doctors said he’s very lucky considering the circumstances.” 

“Oh, sweetheart. Is there anything we can do?” 

“Do you mind texting the family group chat? I feel bad, I don’t want to bug Emi or Josh on their honeymoon but I wanna keep them in the loop.” 

“Of course I can. And you know Emi, she’d want to know regardless,” your mom says, and you nod with a sigh. 

“Thank you mom. I’ll keep you guys updated, okay?”

”Alright baby girl. Let us know. Love you lots,” she says, and you smile. 

“Love you too, mama. Bye,” you hang up your phone and shove it in your back pocket, facing Joel again. He inhales sharply and squeezes his eyes shut, and you rush to his side and grab his hand. 

“Joel?” You try to level out the anxiousness in your voice, biting your lip and furrowing your brows as he squeezes your hand. 

He groans softly, eyes fighting to open. He eventually blinks them open the tiniest bit, furrowing his brow as he takes in his surroundings. 

“What the hell happened?” He asks, voice cracking as he shuts his eyes again and swallows harshly. 

“You were in an accident at work, my love. You took a pretty big fall,” you say, bringing his knuckles up to your mouth so you can softly kiss them. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, eyes cracking open again. 

“Everyone’s waiting for you in the waiting room. Sarah, Maria, and Tommy went to get food in the cafeteria. ‘M gonna go get a nurse to check up on you, okay?” You try to keep your voice soft and light in hopes of keeping him at ease. 

He nods slightly, wincing when he tries to take a deep breath. You kiss his knuckles one more time before letting go of his hand, walking over to the nurses station not too far from his room. 

“Excuse me?” You say, getting the attention of a nurse. He looks up at you with a smile, and you easily return one. 

“The patient in room 411 just woke up.” 

The nurse—whose name tag says Jeremy— nods at you and walks with you back to Joel’s room, and Joel squints his eyes open again. Jeremy grabs the clipboard off of the end of Joel’s bed, beaming down at him with a smile. You text Tommy that Joel’s awake and they should head back to the room soon in the meantime. 

“Hey Mr. Miller, how are you feelin’?” Jeremy checks a couple of his vitals on the monitors, jotting something down on his paperwork. 

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Joel says, wincing again as he tries to sit up more. 

“It might feel like that for a couple of weeks, unfortunately. You had a pretty bad accident at work. You have a concussion and a couple of broken ribs,” Jeremy explains to Joel, and Joel’s face deflates. 

“Shit,” he says, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows. 

“We’re goin’ to keep you a couple ‘a days just to make sure your concussion isn’t too serious,” Jeremy says to Joel, clipping the clipboard back on the end of the bed. 

The look on Joel’s face tells you he wants to argue, but it’s apparent the exhaustion he’s feeling has drained the fight in him. You can hear it in your head: ‘Couple ‘a days? I’ll be good t’go home by tomorrow.’

Joel just nods and murmurs a thank you to Jeremy as he leaves the room. His eyes find yours, and you can easily clock his frustration. 

“I know you don’t wanna stay here baby, but it’s for your health,” you reason, sitting down next to him again. He reaches out for your hand and grabs it, bringing it to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. 

“Y’know, I heard you talkin’ to your mom,” he says, eyes softening as you scoot closer to his bed. Your knees were touching the mattress now, and you were so close to him that you could feel the warmth radiating off of his body. 

“Oh, yeah,” you start, huffing a laugh. “She’s worried about you, but I told her you were fine. My family will probably want to come visit you sometime after they release you.” 

He smiles at that. “I’d love that. And, if I’m bein’ honest here…” 

He looks at you with a certainty you’ve never seen before. Then it clicks—how much did he hear before? Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you wait for his next words, the anticipation nearly sending you spiraling. 

“I heard what you said before your mom called you too, and sweetheart, I love you too. Kinda a weird place to say it for the first time to your face,” he chuckles, inhaling sharply at the pain. He still has a grin on his face that you’ll never get tired of seeing, and you can’t help but smile brightly at him. 

“Joel, I—wait, did you say to my face?” You ask, raising a brow at him.

“Yeah uh, I kinda said it right after our first night together at the hotel. The night of your sister’s weddin’. I think you’d already fallen asleep, though.”  

“No fucking way,” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. He looks confused and frowns before you lean forward and press your lips gently to his, feeling the absolute emotion and passion behind such a simple, much needed kiss. 

“I wanted to tell you then, too—that amazing morning we spent together before we went down to breakfast with my family. I’d been thinking about it all morning, and this whole week, actually. I wanted to tell you when I got to see you next.” 

“‘M glad you feel the same way, darlin’. ‘M absolutely crazy about you,” he says, and you can’t help but gush at his confession. 

“I love you, Joel,” you say with finality, and he grins widely. 

“I love you too, baby,” he squeezes your hand and tugs you toward him for one final, searing kiss before the room door opens. You and him separate and turn to see Sarah, Tommy and Maria all entering the room. 

“Dad!” Sarah exclaims, giving him a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hey there pumpkin,” he says, wrapping his arms around her the best he can. 

“Had us all scared there for a minute, brother,” Tommy chimes in, nudging his bed with his boot. 

“I’ll be fine,” Joel grumbles, sighing. 

“Glad you’re okay, Joel,” Maria says, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Thank you. And thank y’all for bein’ here,” Joel says. 

“There’s no place else we’d be than right by your side, Joel,” you smile at him endearingly, and the other three nod their head in agreement. 

“I appreciate y’all,” Joel’s gaze shifts to Tommy, “Can’t wait for Cap to put my ass through the wringer for this one.”

It elicits a laugh from Tommy, and he shakes his head before pointing his thumb at the door. 

“Nah. Poor bastard was scared as hell. Whole crew is waitin’ out there for ya,” 

“Shit, really?”

Tommy nods. “Mhm, but the doctor said only four people at a time can be in here to visit ya.” 

“We should give the others a chance to see him,” you suggest, looking at the three. 

“Took the words right out my mouth, lil lady,” Tommy chuckles, and you flash him a grin. 

You look at Joel and grab his hand, giving it one more gentle squeeze. He gives you a lopsided smile and you lean down one last time to kiss his forehead, and he murmurs those three words that make your heart unabashedly skip a beat. 

“I love you sweetheart.” 

“I love you too, cowboy,” you wink at him and he huffs a laugh, slowly letting go of your hand. He gives Sarah one last hug and a kiss on the cheek before you all head back out to the waiting room. The rest of the team looks at you four as you all walk out, and three of them get sent back to see him. 

Their captain stops to talk to Tommy for a bit before he heads back as well while you, Sarah and Maria take a seat again.

“So you finally said it, huh?” Maria nudges you, wiggling her brows. Your face heats and you look down at the frayed part of your jeans, trying to hide a shy smile. 

“Yeah,” you confess. 

“I’m so happy for you. You deserve this so much,” she says, and you smile and lean into her side hug. 

“Thank you for encouraging me to stop being afraid of what I really feel. It’s about time I just stop cowering away and just let myself…feel,” you say. 

“That’s what friends are for. You ever need a pep talk, I’m your girl.” 

You both laugh at that, settling into a comfortable silence before Sarah taps you on the arm. 

You look her way and offer her a smile, which she mirrors right back to you. 

“Would you, uh, mind staying the weekend at our house?” She asks, and there’s a shyness to her voice that you instantly clock. You offer her a reassuring smile, silently vowing to her that you’d be there for her no matter what.

“Of course, sweetheart. I’d love to.” 

-

You kept your word and stayed at the Miller’s house for the weekend. Joel was set to be discharged Sunday morning which thankfully came faster than expected. By the time you and Sarah got situated and wrangled him home, he was ushered to the couch to relax his body. 

You were sitting next to him while a Cowboys game was playing on the TV, silently watching the end of the first quarter. Sarah was finishing some homework upstairs and Tommy and Maria were on their way for a Sunday night family dinner. 

Tommy insisted on grilling some steaks tonight while you and Maria made some sides. 

“Can I lay my head on your lap, baby?” Joel’s voice is soft, and he looks at you with those big, brown pleading eyes that make you melt in an instant. 

You almost want to giggle at how cute he looks. 

“Sure honey,” you scoot your body over before he slowly lays himself down, situating his head on your lap. He closes his eyes for a second before inhaling as much as he can without hurting himself, opening his eyes and fixating his gaze on you. You stare at each other like that for a moment before you bend down and give him a chaste kiss.

You try to separate yourself from him, but he puts his hand on the back of your head gently to keep you there. You can’t help but smile against his lips and kiss him again, a little bit longer this time, before you move your head up slightly. 

“Don’t exert yourself too much now, Mr. Miller,” you tease, and he scoffs against your lips. 

“If I wanna kiss my lady, ‘m gonna kiss her until my face turns blue,” he says, and you laugh at his fake stern tone. “‘Sides, it’s the only action I’m gonna be gettin’ for awhile anyway.” 

Your jaw drops as you stare down at him. “Joel Miller!” You can’t help but laugh, “You’re an insatiable man, y’know that?” You take the liberty of running your fingers through his soft locks, and he closes his eyes for a brief second in comfort. 

“What? ‘S true,” he pouts, and you roll your eyes. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, cowboy. Maybe you’ll get a little something from me soon enough.” 

“You gonna give me some sugar, sugar?” He grins proudly at his lame joke and you huff a laugh. 

“Only if you behave. Gotta wait a little while longer, though. Doctor’s orders.” 

“You’re really gonna make me wait?” 

“Mhm. Learn some patience and keep it in your pants,” you giggle, and the irony of it all is that Joel is literally the most patient man you know. His laid back personality is every indication of patience, but it’s funny to see him squirm a little at the prospect of you taking care of him without having to have him exert himself in any way. 

“It’s hard when I got a beautiful, lovin’ lady such as yourself.” 

“Joel Miller, are you flirting with me?” You try to hold back your laugh, and he squints his eyes at you. 

“And what if I was? Is it workin’?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you can’t help but fully laugh this time. Fuck, you really love this man. 

“Maybe. Means I’m not going anywhere, cowboy. You’re stuck with me,” you say, and he tugs you down for another sweet kiss. 

“That’s fine by me. Hey, uh, speakin’ of not goin’ anywhere—” he pauses, looking like he’s trying to find the right words to say. “Would you mind stayin’ here while I heal up? Sarah n’ I would both love it if you’d stay here with us for the time bein’ if ‘s not an imposition, of course.” 

You answer him almost immediately, trying not to sound too eager. “I don’t mind at all,” you say, “I know my boss wanted us to move remotely anyways, so it works out.” Your boss telling your whole department they were going to move strictly to remote work truly couldn’t have come at a better time, you think. 

“I can also take Sarah to school and soccer practice for the time being too,” you offer, and a swirl of excitement settles deep into your bones at the thought of the domesticity of it all. You try not to think about it, but there’s something about spending consecutive days with the person you love that drives your heart into a frenzy. 

“You’d do that?” His voice is soft, hopeful. You nod, brushing your fingers through his curls once more. 

“You’re too good to me, woman,” he groans, bringing you down for one last kiss. You can’t help but smile against his lips, whispering right back to him. 

“And you’re too good to me.” 

-

It didn’t take long for all of you to fall into a routine. Mondays are hectic but manageable as you usher Sarah out of the door just in time to drive her to school. Tuesdays are for school and soccer practice, making a quick and easy dinner to appease everyone. Wednesdays are for school and tutoring, because Sarah is wickedly smart, but geometry seemed to take a toll on her. Thursdays are the same as Tuesdays, and Fridays are the days you all decide if it’ll be takeout or pizza for dinner. 

Tommy and Maria will occasionally pop in and help with dinner once in a while, which is always a nice surprise. Your family visited too, checking in on Joel to make sure he’s okay. Your mom even made a pot of ‘get well soon soup’, as she likes to call it. 

It’s now week three at the Miller household for you and you feel like you practically live here at this point. Well, in a way, you sorta do. 

It’s just until Joel heals fully, though. Then it’s back to the regular routine—something you almost forgot about; what it was like before you brought some of your stuff over to Joel and Sarah’s. 

You don’t know how it’ll feel to go back to a bed with an empty side on it, void of Joel and his comforting scent and warmth. You don’t know how it’ll feel to be back to stark quietness, no morning rushes or scrambling of eggs for three or showing off your pancake flipping skills that elicits excited laughs and rounds of applause. 

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you didn’t want to go back to your apartment. You haven’t constantly been in a house so full of laughter and love since you left your parents to live on your own over a decade ago. 

It’s funny, you think. You were so okay with being alone, so okay with pushing people away to ‘protect your own peace’ as you’d called it, so okay in your own little bubble—when in reality, you were sabotaging every potential relationship that had come your way. 

After Christian, those feelings of doubt and isolation crept in and slowly sank its claws in you, and for a while, you were so content with just being by yourself—so much so that you’d already accepted the fact that you’d probably be alone forever. 

And then Joel came along. This man has single handedly turned your whole world around, and you can’t get enough of him. He’s everything you’ve dreamed of and more. You don’t know what possessed you to make the first move a couple of months back at Rosemary’s, but you’re so fucking glad you did. 

You probably wouldn’t be here in this warm house with the most loving man right now if you didn’t. 

It’s another Tuesday at the Miller household, and Joel squeezes your shoulders to break you from your wandering mind. 

You look up at him from your seat and give him a tired smile, looking back down at the steaming cup of coffee he placed in front of you. 

“Penny for your thoughts, pretty lady?” He asks, kissing your cheek before sitting down next to you. 

You know you were too chicken to tell him your real thoughts, so you made something up. 

“Your birthday’s this weekend,” you state matter-of-factly. Okay, truthfully, it’s been on your mind for days, so it isn’t  something totally made up. It seemed to work though as Joel groans and tips his head back. 

“Don’t remind me,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“Oh c’mon, let me plan a little something for you,” you pout, as if you didn’t already have a plan in mind that his family, your family and his friends knew about. 

“My sweet girl, you don’t have to do that. Not exactly thrilled at celebratin’ turnin’ a year older.” 

“But I want to, Mr. Miller,” you tease, and he groans. “Besides, you deserve to be celebrated.” 

“You know what that does to me when you call me that,” he shifts in his seat and you have to stifle a laugh at how fast this man gets turned on by you. He doesn’t comment on the second half of your statement, which you decidedly let go of. 

The feeling of power and seduction sinks her gnarly little teeth into your very being, and you can’t help but feel proud that you’re the one who makes him feel this way. Maybe slight possession wiggles her way in between power and seduction, nestling herself comfortably between the two. 

“Alright alright, I’ll stop teasing. For now,” you say, quirking a brow as you point a finger at him. He leans forward and nips his teeth gently at the tip of your finger, 

kissing it right after. He’s sporting a boyish grin when you look at him, and you roll your eyes with a smile before the chair scrapes against the floor as you get up, looking at your watch-clad wrist. 

“Time to clock in.” 

“Don’t be too long, darlin.’ I’ll miss that pretty face an awful lot.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible flirt?” You tease him, knowing damn well he isn’t. 

“What I lack in flirting I make up for in other areas,” he smirks, giving your ass a slap as you walk past him. You fake-glare at him and he tosses his head back as a deep laugh rumbles from his chest, and you admire him so. 

Fuck, you think. It’s going to be really hard going back to things as they were before. 

-

A few days later, and you‘re basking in the way the golden rays of the autumn sun hit your skin through the blinds in Joel’s room. You aren’t fully awake yet, but you can feel Joel’s strong chest pressed securely against your back. 

His grip on you is tight—protective, in a sense. It doesn’t waver when he begins to press soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, moving the strap of your nightie down as his kisses trail further up your neck. 

He brings his mouth up to your ear, nibbling on your lobe a tiny bit before moving his hands up your torso to palm at your breasts. 

You hum in response, your brain fuzzy and still trying to catch up to what was going on in reality. He tweaked your hardened buds through the satin you wore, and you instantly melted into the palms of his large, warm hands. 

“Mornin’ honey,” he whispers, dragging his lips down your jugular. You hum again, slowly blinking your eyes open. You squint as the sun directly hits your eyes for a second before you stretch, hands above your head. The movement caused the satin material to slide up your thighs, exposing your bare bottom half. 

Joel groans in response, and he flips you over onto your back before his sweet brown eyes meet yours—except his eyes were riddled with pure mischief. He wore a smirk to match, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck before carding your fingers through his soft curls. 

“Morning handsome,” you say, voice soft and full of sleep. “Happy birthday.” 

“Thank you beautiful,” the tenderness in his voice matches yours, but he takes one glance down your body before you feel his hardening length against your thigh. You stifle a laugh and bite your lip, excitement swirling in your bones. 

You’ve touched Joel in the past few weeks—handjobs in the shower, morning head every so often—but you haven’t gone beyond that while he’s been healing up. You didn’t mind, obviously, but you can tell it’s been bothering him. 

The thing about Joel, well, he’s a giver. And when he can’t provide what he wants to give, it drives him fucking nuts. You could easily see the frustration brewing within his features when he wanted to give you more, but he couldn’t exert himself. Doctor’s orders. 

His lips trail down the satin material and he pulls it down where your breasts lay, exposing them to himself. He hums in delight and envelopes a pert bud into his mouth, closing his eyes as he licks and sucks. 

You sigh in contentment, hips involuntarily bucking up. Guess you’re a lot more needy than you thought. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one taking care of you? It’s your day, after all,” You’re breathless, arching your back off the mattress. 

He releases your nipple with a small pop before his brown eyes meet yours once again. “It’s been drivin’ me crazy not bein’ able to please you the way I want—the way I know you deserve to be pleased.” 

“But Joel, that wasn’t your fault. You were healing up from a terrible accident,” you reason, and he grunts. 

“Still doesn’t mean I didn’t miss doin’ this,” he trails off, moving his lips down your torso as he slides his hands up your body to push the satin up. 

The cold air of the bedroom hits your core and you gasp, eyes falling shut as you loll your head back. 

He runs his hands back down to your thighs, digging his fingers into your hot skin before prying your legs open a bit further. He tosses your thighs over his shoulders and gives you the most devilish grin you think you’ve ever seen from him as you force yourself to look at him again. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he leans forward, kissing your aching, puffy core a few times before finally sticking his tongue out to lick a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. 

Only then does he close his eyes in what seems to be pure ecstasy, groaning to himself as he gets lost in his own words and indulges in you. 

You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep yourself quiet, knowing that Sarah was right down the hall and Tommy and Maria were in the guest bedroom. They did not need to hear this. 

Joel doesn’t relent and his thick muscle works you incredulously. He’s giving your clit kitten licks before sucking it into his mouth, not caring to be quiet with his ministrations. You’re gasping for air behind your hand as you feel that familiar warmth blooming in your belly already. 

You realize you hadn’t even touched yourself in weeks, being too busy with work and taking Sarah to school and her extracurricular activities while simultaneously making sure Joel was okay and healing properly. Your want and desire was shoved all the way down, filed away and forgotten about until this very morning. 

You can’t help it—your other hand goes flying to his curls as you begin to rock your hips against his mouth. God, he’s so fucking good at this. He hums against you with a chuckle and prods his tongue into you, fucking you with it. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull and you have to bite down on your lip hard in order not to scream. Fuck, you wish you were back in that hotel room right now so you can be as loud as you want. 

He continues to lick up and down your slit at a torturous pace after, making sure to tease your clit with the tiniest little flick at the tip of his tongue. 

You’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm, and you whisper behind your hand don’t stop, don't stop, god, don’t stop before your thighs lock around his head and your body starts to twitch under his hold. 

You have to shove your face into a pillow as you moan loudly into it, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. 

And the thing is, he doesn’t fucking stop. In fact, he slides two fingers into you and curls them in a ‘come here’ motion, and your brain goes absolutely blank. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and you’re seeing stars, body shaking so hard you feel like you’re rocking the whole damn bed. Then there’s a strange sensation—you feel like it’s perhaps a stronger orgasm, but with the feeling of needing to pee. 

You toss the pillow off of your face to warn Joel to stop, but it’s too late. You’re fucking gushing around his mouth and fingers, clear liquid coating the bottom half of his face and the sheets beneath him. The squelching sound is so loud that you think this is what’ll get you both caught. 

You’re gasping for air as you toss your head back on the mattress, body now completely limp. Joel slowly slides his fingers out of you before licking one up himself, moving up the mattress to hover over you before he takes his other hand and opens your jaw before slipping his finger into your mouth. You obediently suck, and you can feel his cock twitch in his sweats at that. 

It’s a tangy-sweet taste, and you hum around his finger before peeling your eyes open as you try and even out your breathing. 

“Always taste like a dream, baby,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. You taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth, reaching down to rub his cock through the fabric. 

He all but growls into your mouth, rocking his hips into your hand. You gently force him to lay down after you separate your lips from his, smiling down at him before kissing his nose, then shuffle his sweats down his thighs. 

To your delight, he isn’t wearing boxers. His delicious length is rock-hard, pre-come leaking from the slit. You thumb it and bring it up to your mouth for a little taste before you start to shuffle your body down the bed. 

Joel catches your elbow though and gives you a pleading look. “I need to feel you, baby. Please,” his voice is a desperate whisper. How could you possibly say no to that? 

You move back up again and straddle his hips, grabbing his cock before pumping the silky flesh a couple of times. You swipe his head between your folds and you both moan, all furrowed brows and bitten lips. 

You finally sink down onto him, and Joel’s hands fly to your hips. He keeps you steady there for a second, and you can literally feel him pulsing inside of you. You have to bite your knuckle to keep from groaning his name. 

“God, fuck—goddammit, you feel so fucking good,” he croaks, and you lean down to kiss him. He responds hungrily, hands roaming your body furiously before they settle on your ass. He squeezes your pillowy flesh, kneading it before slowly moving you up on his cock. You sink back down onto him after he nearly slips out of you, and you hiss at the intoxicating sensation. 

“Fucking love your cock, Joel,” you whine, “I love you.” 

“I–I, oh, fuck me, I love you too.” 

His resolve totally crumbles as he gets lost in the feeling of your warmth wrapped so tightly around him, stretching beautifully and taking him so well. Like you were fucking made for him. And you are, you think. 

“Yeah?” You ask, trying to be a tease but you can barely even concentrate yourself. 

“Mhm. So fuckin’ lucky you’re all mine. ‘M the luckiest bastard alive,” he huffs, and you lean down to lick up his neck and suck a little on his pulse point. Not too hard, though, because god knows you two’d get teased to no end by both your families. It’s hard not to get too lost into it, though. You pull yourself back with the very little self restraint you have. 

“I think you got it twisted, cowboy. I’m the lucky one,” you moan into his ear, kissing his temple afterward. “Thank you for loving me the way you do.” 

He can’t help but groan at your words. You pick up the pace of your hips, planting your knees firmly on the mattress so you can start riding him for real. You set a relentless pace as you sit up straight, tossing your head back in pure ecstasy. 

Your head lolls forward again and you look down at Joel who’s looking at you with such desperation in his eyes. 

“Can I—fuck, I can’t believe I’m askin’ this,” he grabs your hips, slowing you down a beat. “Can I take a picture of you like this? On top ‘a me? Won’t get offended if you say no,” he’s cautious with his words, and you have to stifle a laugh. The amount of times you’ve thought about asking him to record you both fucking each other is actually ridiculous, even though this is only the third time.  

“I’ll do you one better. Why don’t you take a video,” you send him a wink, and his cock twitches once more. You raise the nightie over your head, tossing it beside you on the bed. He groans at the sight of your naked body above him. 

You bite your lip and look down at him, and he doesn’t waste another second before fumbling his phone off of the night stand, ignoring the plethora of texts he’s got, probably all wishing him a happy birthday. 

His hands are a bit shaky, but he finally gets situated and hits record. You continue to ride him, putting on a little show for the camera as you move your hips in a seductive way. You smile down at Joel and give him a wink, picking up your pace. 

You’re sure the camera frame is all skin slapping against skin and your breasts bouncing wildly as you ride him, and he can’t help the moans and whimpers that slip past his lips. He reaches up and gropes your breasts, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and forefinger once more. 

You feel more of your slick arousal pool out of you at the sensation, and you know you’ve got him drenched with you. 

“Fuck, Joel, you always feel so damn good,” you whine. 

“Yeah? Who’s pretty pussy is this?” He asks, reaching down to rub your swollen clit. You cry out, biting the back of your hand to try your best to stay as quiet as possible, which you’re sure you’re doing terribly at. 

“Yours, baby. All yours,” you confess, switching to a grinding motion. You both moan in unison as you circle your hips while giving yourself that extra friction. You feel the familiar bloom in the pit of your core, and you don’t know how much longer you’re going to last. 

He needs to come first. 

“Fuck, please don’t stop. I’m close,” Joel grits, and you do exactly as he says. “Where do you want me?” His voice sounds so small, so strained. 

Your head snaps up and you look him in the eyes as you shoot him a wicked grin. 

“In me.” 

And that’s that. He comes instantly, body stilling as he pumps you full. You moan as you grind against him a few more times before you’re coming, too. 

You’re both breathless and dazed as he stops recording, tossing his phone back onto the nightstand. You slip off of him and he instantly pulls you into him, covering you both with the comforter. He lifts his hips and tucks himself back into his sweats, nuzzling his face into your neck as he breathes you in. 

“Best way to start my birthday,” he says, and you grin and nudge him gently. 

“What the birthday boy wants, he gets,” you say, tipping his chin up for a chaste kiss. 

“What he wants is to stay in bed with you all day.” 

“I wish I could give you that too, handsome, but I’ve got a party to throw and you’re the guest of honor.” 

He quirks a brow. “Guest of honor in my own home?” 

You nod with a grin. “Mhm. So c’mon,” you tap his arm, “Up n’ at ‘em.” 

“Five more minutes,” he groans, burying his face into your chest. He leaves soft kisses there, and you bring your hands up to cradle the back of his head and scratch his scalp. 

“Fine. Five more minutes.” 

-

That five minutes turned into forty five, with Tommy knocking on Joel’s door to shout “Happy birthday you old fucker! Get up!” 

And now you’re all prepping for the party, telling Joel to sit and do nothing. He can’t have that, though, so he helps Tommy prep the grill for the burgers and chicken vegetable kabobs. 

Sarah decorates the backyard while you and Maria dance around each other in the kitchen to prep some side dishes. Joel also requested that you make your chocolate chip cookies he loves so much, so you were eyeing them in the oven while you chopped up some iceberg lettuce for salad. 

The doorbell rings, and you halt your chopping. You glance at the door before setting the knife down and wiping your hands before making your way over to open it up. 

Your whole family stands there, and you immediately smile and hug them one-by-one before ushering them into the house. 

“Maria, this is my mom Alexandria, my dad Michael, sister Emily, my brother-in-law Josh, and my brothers Andrew and Cole,” you point to everyone as you go down the line. “Everyone, this is my good friend Maria,” Maria beams a bright smile at them. 

“Nice to meet y’all, I’ve heard lots of wonderful things,” she says, and Cole snorts. 

“Shadow was just probably tryin’ to be nice,” he teases, and you roll your eyes. 

“Dude, shut up,” you say, and Maria laughs. 

“Oh, he’s funny. Tommy’ll love him,” she says. 

“They already have a ‘bromance’ going with Joel,” you shudder at the words, “I’m sure they’ll get Tommy, too.” 

“Not our fault we’re all funny and good looking,” Andy ran a hand on the side of his head in a slick-back motion. 

“God, you two are idiots,” Emily chimes in, and your mom and dad laugh at the childish banter. 

“Okay, okay, enough all of you,” your mom steps in, putting the tin foil pan on the counter. 

“Go say hi to your boyfriend. He’s in the backyard,” you tease Andy and Cole, and Andy holds up a twenty-four pack of Modelo. 

“Glady,” he’s got that smug smile on his face, and you huff a laugh. “C’mon Josh,” Andy nods his head out to the backyard where Joel and Tommy stand. 

“Don’t corrupt my husband please!” Emily calls out as they step through the sliding glass door, giving Joel a wave as him and Tommy turn their heads. 

“No promises!” Cole calls back, and they all follow them out to the backyard like a pack of wolves. Your attention is torn away as the oven beeps. You pull the cookies out, resting the tray on the counter before looking back outside. 

You sigh and give Maria a nudge. “Let’s go rally the troops,” and she laughs as she follows you out to the backyard. 

“I feel like I need to do a line-up military style to introduce all of you,” you say, and Joel and Tommy chuckle. Sarah sidles up beside you, giving you a grin. 

“Hey sweetheart,” you say, looking around the backyard. “Everything looks amazing.” 

She takes a half-bow. “I try, I try,” she says, and everyone laughs. 

It takes a few minutes for you to introduce everybody to Sarah and Tommy, but once everyone is familiar with one another, they all get to mingling. Joel, Tommy, your dad and brothers crack a bottle open and gather around the grill while the women head inside, finishing up the last of the food. Sarah went up to her room to freshen up, which just left you, Maria, Emily, and your mom. 

“So, Emi, how was Costa Rica? It looked beautiful,” you ask, plating the cookies before putting Saran Wrap over them. 

“Oh my god, it was wonderful. The pictures I sent y’all didn’t even do it justice,” she swoons, putting her chin in the palm of her hand as she rests her elbow on the countertop. 

“Am I getting grandbabies anytime soon?” Your mom asks, and you and Emily share a look.

“Mom, really?” You laugh, shaking your head. 

“Hey! I ain’t getting any younger here, and it’ll probably be a couple of years before you and Joel start having any—”

You cut her off. “Mom, please. Don’t even go there.” 

She huffs and puts her hands on her hips. 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, mom, Josh and I didn’t use any contraceptives on this trip,” Emily says, and your mom’s eyes go wide. 

“I’m gonna get a grand baby!” She dances in place, making the three of you laugh. 

Emily shrugs with a smile. “Guess we’ll find out.”

A few hours later, the party was in full swing as everyone you’d invited was gathered in the backyard, laughing and talking amongst themselves. You made it a point to invite people at the firehouse he was close with, thanks to the help from Tommy. 

“There’s my pretty lady,” Joel says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder before bringing you into his side. He kisses your temple gently before smiling at you. “Thank you for,” he gestures with his hand that was holding a Modelo, pointing the neck of the bottle into the crowd. “All of this. It means a lot that you’d do this for me.” 

You offer him a soft smile. “Of course, Joel. You deserve to be celebrated.” 

He leans down to give you a kiss. You wrap your arm around his waist, pulling him tighter into you. You pull away before prying eyes can catch you getting carried away because you know you get so caught up in the moment with him. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” You ask, putting a hand on his chest. 

He nods and flashes you a soft grin. “I am, but y’know what I wish I was doin’ right now?” His voice lowers a couple of octaves, and that tone shoots straight to your core. 

“I have an idea,” you say, trying to ignore the intense throb between your legs. 

“Wishin’ I was buried between those pretty thighs of yours.” 

He squeezes your hip and your eyes flutter shut for a few seconds, having half a mind to drag him upstairs into his bedroom so he can pound you into his mattress. 

Your delicious fantasy dissipates as soon as you hear Tommy and Andy howling of laughter. 

“Looks like our brothers are hitting it off,” you observantly say. 

Joel nods. “Yeah, actually. The guys wanted to go out for beers next weekend. Told you it was the start of a beautiful bromance.” 

You shoot Joel a look. “The guys? As in you, your brother and my brothers?”

He nods, and you can’t help but huff a laugh. “Well, have fun, and be careful. Don’t let them talk you into anything stupid. Don’t need another broken rib,” you roll your eyes teasingly, bumping your hip to him.

You grab his beer bottle from his hand, taking a swig of it before handing it back to him. He has that boyish grin on his face again and it’s so contagious. 

“Definitely don’t want another one ‘a those. Shit still hurts when I turn a certain way.” 

“I didn’t hurt you earlier, did I?” Your voice is lower now, referring to the lovely morning you two spent in his bed together. 

“Not at all. Would’a said somethin’ if you did. Promise,” he says, kissing your temple. 

“Well it won’t be too long before you’re all healed up.” And you have to go back to your apartment, drowning in the once-loved loneliness. 

You dread it now, and you don’t know how to bring it up to him. 

“Hey sis. Great party you threw,” Andy comes up to you and Joel, giving you a rare grin of appreciation. 

“How drunk are you?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Can’t I compliment you without you thinking I’m under the influence?” He frowns at you, nudging your side. 

“I guess so. Thanks, Andy,” you say, and he waves you off. 

“Yeah yeah. Don’t get used to it.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes right back at him. “Wasn’t gonna.” 

“Anyway, lemme steal my boyfriend back since you so rudely kept him to yourself for a long time,” Andy says, grinning at Joel. 

Joel can’t help but laugh and shake his head, and if it could, his forehead would have ‘dear god help me’ scrawled across it. 

The party went on for a couple more hours after that, the crowd slowly fizzling out. Everyone helped clean the backyard until it was spotless, and by the time everyone left except for you, Joel, and Sarah, it was nearly midnight. 

You’d just finished brushing your teeth and washing your face before you climbed into Joel’s comfy bed, snuggling into his side as he pulled you closer to him. You start to trace small patterns on his warm chest with your fingertips, soaking in every moment you have while being beside him. 

You don’t know how you’re gonna give this up. It honestly scares you how attached you’ve gotten to Joel. 

And, well, for god sakes, you love the man—and he loves you. Being beside him these past few weeks has truthfully filled a void in your life that’s been empty for so long. Now that it’s fulfilled and you’re the one experiencing what love is really supposed to feel like for the first time in your life, you’re struggling with the prospect of being alone again at your own place. 

You know you can come to Joel’s house at any time and vice versa, but it’s just not the same as being able to wake up in his arms every morning. It’s not the same as being able to go to sleep and the last thing you see is his beautiful face, smiling at you tiredly as his brown eyes droop closed. It’s not the same as having hectic but amazing mornings as you brew coffee for two, getting Sarah out of the house in time to take her to school. 

God, you sound so clingy. Maybe you’re just overthinking this, like, a lot. Maybe Maria or Emily can give their input on this—

“Thank you for the party today, baby. Made my day so special and I can’t thank you enough for doin’ this for me.” 

Joel’s deep, velvety voice pulls you from your thoughts. You smile at him tiredly, reaching a hand out to run through his curls before settling it on his cheek, swiping your thumb back and forth. 

“I’d do anything for you, Joel Miller,” you lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. 

“What did I do to deserve you?” His voice is a mere whisper as he moves his face closer to yours. 

“You’re unapologetically yourself and you let me love you the way you deserve to be loved,” you answer as if it’s the most simple and obvious thing in the world.

“My dream woman,” he grins, giving you a kiss. “I love you.” 

You’ll never get tired of hearing him say that. 

“I love you too.” 

And while he’s drifting off to sleep, you’re left with your anxious thoughts swirling your mind—ones that make you want to cower away and push push push, but you won’t allow it. 

Not this time. 

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"Yeah, of course!" Rudo answered without hesitation.

"Perfect, I'm pulling up now."

"Wait - shit, okay. Gimme a sec I gotta grab my shoes!"

"Put 'em on on the way please!" You hung up and dialed Riyo.

"I'm already heading over." She said when she answered. "You've got a key, right?"

"Thank you and yes! I'll be there with Rudo in ten or so. It's Riyo." You shot Rudo the answer to his unspoken question when he slid into your passenger seat.

"What do you want us to do first?" Riyo asked.

You gave them a quick rundown of what you wanted to have done before Enjin showed up with Gris. Fruit cut, sides prepared though some of those were basically done already, tables set up, chairs out, and grill on.

"I'll take care of the tables and chairs," Rudo decided. "You've got table cloths, or no?"

"They're in a bag somewhere." You waved a hand towards your back seat. "Riyo, could I have you start with getting the coolers ready? Gris has two in his garage, I was thinking one each for alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks?"

"Makes sense, what else? I'm here by the way."

"Follo and Zanka will be there around noon with yard games. Until then I'll need help with food. I can man a grill well enough but I was just gonna let Enjin handle that."

"He just wants to wear that apron again, doesn't he?" Rudo groaned. "He's so embarrassing sometimes."

He was referring to the one you and Riyo had gotten for Enjin as a joke for his promotion a couple years back that said "stand back daddy is cooking" in big bold letters across the chest.

"Tell me that man doesn't give off grill dad vibes." You snorted. "Besides, he'll just hover around the grill so why not let him cook since he'll be there anyway?"

By one almost everything was up and ready. You were finishing cutting up the last of the fruit while the others were out back enjoying the sun and games. As hectic as the morning had been, things were looking great and now Enjin just needed to get back with Gris so the party could truly get underway.

The sound of car doors a few minutes later made your pulse jump. You set the knife down and hurried to the back door, poking your head out long enough to offer a quick heads up to your crew before ducking back inside. Trembling fingers reached for Enjin's apron as the front door opened.

"-can't be serious?" Gris was hardly paying any attention to where you stood not twenty feet away.

"See for yourself." Enjin gestured behind Gris with a lopsided grin.

For a moment Gris only stared at you before he moved through his home and peered into his backyard. His lips parted in silent shock at what you knew was before him. Two folding tables set up with food, the yard games spread out in the grass, coolers full of drinks, and the crew of course.

"Beer's cold," you informed Enjin, holding his apron out towards him, "and the grill is warmed up, if you don't mind."

"Say no more! Great job by the way." He snagged the apron from you before dropping a friendly kiss to the crown of your head. When he passed Gris he clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, man."

"Is this why you've been dragging me all over town today?"

"If you want to blame anyone for that, look over there." Enjin snickered and pointed back at you before dipping outside.

Gris turned to you, arms raised as if to ask 'what just happened?' "You did all this?"

"Surprise!" You said in a sing-song tone as you barreled into him, hugging him. He caught you easily enough, your smaller frame doing nothing in terms of making him lose his footing. "Happy birthday, Gris."

"You planned all of this?" He asked again.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep this whole thing a secret?" You retorted, leaning back to look up at him. "I nearly slipped up twice over the last couple of weeks."

Gris looked outside again at their friends who were well into their drinks and having a good time. "Why do this?"

"Besides the fact that it's your birthday?" You poked him in the chest to regain his attention. "You deserve to be celebrated, why else?"

The look he gave you said enough as he shook his head. For a moment he hesitated then he brought his hands up to cradle your face. "You're something else, you know that?” He murmured. “You didn't have to go through all this trouble."

"It was no trouble at all," you argued. "Besides, I wanted to do this. Now, if you'd please-" you started shooing him towards the door "-go have fun. I'll be out as soon as I'm finished here."

"Okay, okay," Gris relented. "But if you aren't out in five minutes, I'll come back to get you."

"You'll do no such thing!" You followed him to the door. "Enjin - you keep him out here no matter what, you got that?"

He waved a noncommittal hand over his shoulder that made your eye twitch. "You're hopeless sometimes." You berated him before looking to someone else. "Follo?"

"I'll keep an eye on him."

Soon enough you were outside with the rest of them rotating between yard games, eating, and lazing around in chairs. Taking a break from it all you were slouched in a lawn chair with a cold drink dangling from your fingers. Your face was turned into the sun, basking in its warmth while Zanka and Rudo argued over whose lawn dart was closest to the target.

You lifted your sunglasses just enough to look over at their game then glanced at Enjin. "Gonna put a stop to that, Lieutenant?" You wondered.

"I'm off the clock." He spoke around a cigarette.

That made you smile and you conceded without argument. "Thanks for y-"

"Don't mention it," he cut you a lazy grin. "It was worth it to see the look on his face when he saw all the cars out front."

"Definitely not because you're a good friend or nothin'."

Enjin thought for a moment, taking a long drag of his beer before looking at you. "Finally bucking up the courage to tell him how you feel?"

"We're just friends." Your reply was quick. Too quick.

"Please," Enjin scoffed and reached over to nudge your shoulder. "You've had eyes for the guy since you met him."

"I have not!" You shoved him back. But it was a lie. Sort of. You still couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had started but you knew when you realized it and it wasn't that far back. “Why do you even care so much?”

“Because you both deserve to be happy.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your gaze strayed to the yard again, this time to where Eishia, Riyo, Follo, and Gris were playing ladder golf. Riyo and Follo were the first to notice your attention and waved, which caused the other two to turn around. It was nearly impossible not to meet their smiles with one of your own as you waved back.

“I am happy, Enjin,” you decided. “Much happier than I thought I would be a year and a half ago.”

It had been weeks since you’d said anything about that day and what happened with your sister but if Enjin was tripped up by the suddenness of it he didn’t let it show. "You should tell him,” he pressed instead. “Quit pussyfooting around your feelings.”

"Ugh," you pulled a face and turned back to him. "Do you have to be so crass?"

"Wouldn't be me if I wasn't."

"Just…mind your business and keep your thoughts to yourself, would you?" You pushed out of your chair, kicking his booted foot before heading off into the yard to inspect the darts Rudo and Zanka were still squabbling over. "Mind if I play the winner? Blue's closer by the way. But only by a hair."

"What?" Rudo balked. "You aren't serious!"

"Third party impartial judge,” you shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

Hours after the party had wrapped up you were still there enjoying the last of the sun's dying light and the quiet stillness that night brought with it. Quiet murmurs came from the house where Gris was walking Enjin out while you tended the fire pit.

It hadn't been your intent to stay so late but time always slipped away when you were with Gris and Enjin. Conversation flowed easily as you reminisced about academy days and seeing your current crew come together to be the well oiled machine it was today. You were immensely proud of the talent both on your shift and within the station as a whole.

When you were satisfied with the fire you straightened, breathing in the scents of the burning wood and citronella. As strange as it was given your line of work it was soothing. Relaxing even. Contained chaos, Corvus had explained once when you asked about it.

"You could have told me you were cold."

Turning you saw that Gris had one of his sweaters in hand as he approached. "How'd you know?"

He gave you a disappointed look while he sat and held out the sweater. "You haven't exactly been subtle when you've moved closer to the fire over the last half hour."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. He wasn't wrong. So you put on the sweater, thanking him.

His fingers toyed with the fabric that pooled at your wrist. "Looks better on you than it does on me," he murmured.

Heat rose to your cheeks when his eyes found yours slowly. "You're just saying that."

Gris took your hand, drawing you nearer to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles. "I don't just say things when it comes to you."

"What-" you were pulled down into his lap with a quick tug that startled a yelp of surprise out of you. You started to protest, to push out of his lap, but a heavy hand landed just above your knee while his other arm wrapped around your back.

Denying how right it felt, how easily you fit against him would be a lie. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes, not with the heat blooming across your face. So you focused on the fire instead and told yourself it needed to be watched anyway.

"Thank you for today." Gris' breath ghosting across the skin of your neck sent a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of his embrace. He was so close you were certain he'd hear your heart beating against its cage.

"You don't have to keep thanking me." You smiled, teeth flashing in the light of the fire. "I was happy to do it."

"You're so stubborn sometimes."

"Am not!" You snorted.

"You're only proving my point."

With a sigh you melted into him, adjusting just enough so you could lay your head against his shoulder. "I'm a little stubborn," you allowed. "But only because I think it's silly that you're so surprised we'd do something like this for you."

He didn't say anything for a long time. You felt him rest his chin on your head while his thumb stroked lazy lines along your side. His heart beat a steady rhythm beneath your palm, much calmer than your own.

A log popped in the fire sending embers drifting.

Birds sang their lullabies overhead.

Your thoughts drifted back to what Enjin said earlier about deserving to be happy. It was true that you were happy. Content was probably a better word but there was no sense hashing out the specifics. There was no point in telling him that you still had moments where memories surfaced and squeezed at your heart. Those would never go away completely. It was something you ensured to discuss with the therapist you still met with somewhat regularly.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gris wondered.

You leaned back to look him in the eye with a pinched brow. “Are you happy?”

Gris blinked at you for a moment before chuckling. “Where’d that come from?”

But your frown only deepened.

“Yeah,” he went on when you didn’t say anything. He brought a hand up to draw some of your hair back so it no longer shadowed your face. “Of course I am. Why?”

“Enjin said something earlier, it’s not important what,” you began slowly. “But it made it sound like maybe you weren’t so I wanted to be sure.”

Gris searched your face. For what you weren’t sure. “Are you happy?”

“I am.”

“Still have rough days?”

“I hope they never stop,” you told him. “They’re a reminder of how much she meant to me.”

Gris smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is living in the house getting any easier?”

It had taken the better part of three months for you and your parents to go through and clean out her room in the house you had shared. There had been constant tears as you reminisced with them over the course of a week, deciding on what was to be kept and what could go - what held memories worth remembering and what didn’t.

He let you go when you pushed out of his lap and stood to stretch your limbs. “It’s a slow process. If I’m being honest though, sometimes it doesn’t feel worth it. I’ve considered moving a time or two but I’m not really ready for something like that yet.”

“I can understand that.” Gris stood too. “You know you’re always welcome here if you need to get away for a while.”

“Thank you. I should probably head home though before it gets much later.”

Gris snagged your hand, drawing you in and laying a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Wh - what was that for?”

“You told me I didn’t need to keep thanking you,” he shrugged with a grin that turned up one side of his mouth. “Seemed like a reasonable alternative.”