#ghost.fic

Sunday

You had a feeling that this was going to be a very long week. 

The first time Changbin knocked on your door, he looked offended by Poseidon himself. His hair was still damp with bubbles still in his hair, hoodie slung over on one shoulder, gym bag in the other as his brows pinched like he was contemplating how he got into this mess. “Okay,” he said before you could even say hi, “this is going to sound ridiculous–but is your shower working?”

You blink. “Uh..yeah? Why do you ask?” 

He exhaled like a man who just got a blessing from heaven. “Mine’s not, can I use yours?” 

I’m sorry, what? You think to yourself, stepping aside instinctively, letting him into the hallway while he explained – hands moving everywhere as frustration bled into embarrassment. 

“This thing called the diverter value is completely stuck,” he said. “So the water won’t switch from the tub to the showerhead and it looks like a tiny waterfall of disappointment.” You bite your lip, hard, to stop yourself from laughing as Changbin gestures wildly towards the imaginary crime scene that is now his bathroom.

“And I have tried everything Y/N,” he added quickly, like he can sense your composure slowly slipping. “Everything, from twisting, pulling it, turning the water on and off like that’s magically going to fix it.” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I swear I’ve turned it into a fucking Bop-It at this point.” 

That’s it. 

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it as it echoes a little too loudly in the hallway, you bend forward slightly, one hand braced on the table as you try to regain composure. “I-” you continue giggling “I’m sorry a Bop-It? What did you yell at it too?”. He groans, scrubbing his face with both hands, face red from embarrassment. “Yes!! I did, threatened it, being nice to it, twisting it, pulling it, yelling at it. Nothing works.” 

You straighten, wiping the corner of your eye, still smiling. He looks a little flushed now, partially due to the mixture of gym and embarrassment, as your brain decides this is the moment to notice how broad his shoulders look in that hoodi-

Oh no. That’s…dangerous. 

You shake your head to get rid of the thought before you fold your arms, “So,” you say, pretending that this is purely a plumbing-related discussion and not Changbin standing in your doorway asking for help-kind of situation. “Let me get this straight. You lost a fight with your shower.” 

He points at you “IT ambushed ME.” 

You laugh again, softer this time, and something about his expression shifts--less defensive, more fond, like your laughter doesn’t sting the way he expected it to. “That sounds really frustrating.” You say quietly,  “It is,” he says,  “And humiliating. I just want a normal post-gym shower. Is that too much to ask?” 

A slight pause sits between you, it’s oddly comforting. 

“I just need a place to shower after the gym,” he continues, voice lowering slightly, suddenly earnest. “Just until maintenance fixes it. I swear on my life Y/N I’ll be quick. And clean. And-” He pauses, searching for the right word, “-- Respectful.” 

You step aside, gesturing him in. “Okay. But if my shower breaks too, I’m blaming you.”

This earns you a grin, relief spreading across his face. “Fair. I’ll buy you a new Bop-It as an apology.” 

You snort. And as he slips past you into your apartment, closing the door softly. 

And then it hits you.

It’s just Changbin. Your neighbor turned friend. Using your shower because his is broken. That’s it. No deeper meaning. No reason for your heart to beat a little faster as he pads into your apartment like he belongs there. 

You tell yourself it’s fine. 

Perfectly, completely fine. 

You busy yourself immediately. Straightening a cushion that doesn’t need it. Wiping down a counter that’s already clean. Anything to avoid thinking about how weird it feels to have him here. 

“So, uh,” he says behind you, shifting his gym bag on his shoulder, causing you to jump a little “Where is the bathroom? There’s still shampoo in my hair…” 

Your brain short-circuits. “Oh! Right, yeah sorry first door on the right” you point to the door “yeah go ahead and make yourself at home.” You laugh awkwardly. Pointing to the door with the sea animal stickers and fake nets seaweed hanging from the ceiling. He smiles “Thanks Y/N, I owe you big time!”

As you hear the door close, a pause, and then water running in the bathroom, you lean against the counter and stare at absolutely nothing. 

OK. I need rules, you tell yourself. 

Rule One: Do not think about him shirtless. 

Rule two: do NOT even try to think about what he’s doing in there. 

Rule three: Do not, under ANY circumstances listen to the sound of his shower.

You make tea, although you don’t really remember deciding to do that, but suddenly there’s steam rising from the kettle as you hold a two mugs in your hand - Do I even know his favorite tea? - you ask yourself. Before you can answer, you’re sitting at the table, fingers curled around the warmth of your mug while you stare at the black one watching steam rise, telling yourself that this is normal. Neighbors do this. Borrow sugar. Borrow showers, and bond over broken plumbing and 80’s toys. 

The water shuts off. 

Your spine straightens like you’ve been caught doing something illegal. 

He emerges a few minutes later, hair damp, hoodie sleeves pushed up, smelling like soap and something else, but it smells like him. He thanks you again, easy and genuine, and you nod like this hasn’t completely rearranged your emotional furniture. 

“So,” He says at the doorway, peering over the wall to look at you. “Same time tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” you said a little too quickly. “Totally. I mean–-if you need to. Which you do. Obviously. Because of the Bop-it - er- shower situation.”

You cringe internally. 

Smooth. Extremely smooth. 

Changbin laughs-a low, warm sound that settles into your chest. “You’re really hung up in the Bop-It thing huh?”

“I think it’s important,” you say, grabbing your mug and walking to the door, smiling “For historical accuracy.” 

He smiles back, before thanking you once again, closing the door behind him. 

You completely forget about that second cup of tea. 

“You totally missed me.” You tease, pulling away from him and walking past him to the door. He sends a slap to your ass that makes you jump as you walk by, shoving him away so that you can pick up the bag he abandoned when he arrived.

“Doesn’t look like there’s much in here.” You comment, judging by the weight.

Dabi hadn’t packed much for the mission, just enough to get by in the shitty hideout that Shigaraki had set up for him. But you aren’t meant to know about that, so Dabi lies.

“I dropped some stuff at my place.” He shrugs as you look inside. You pull out a cheap box of black hair dye, looking up at him.

“Your roots are showing?” You question, and he nods.

“You cover them up the best.”

“Oh, yeah? How can you know that? Are there other people dying your roots for you?” You cross your arms over your chest. Dabi wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in.

“Maybe.” He smirks. You let your jaw fall open, pushing on his chest. But Dabi keeps a tight grip on you.

“Then they can dye it!” You resist, but Dabi pushes your arms down at your sides, trapping you there. He shakes his head, placing kisses across your face as you try to stifle the giggles that threaten to bubble from your throat.

“C’mon,” He rasps, resting his forehead against yours, “you know there’s only you. I don’t think I could find anyone else to put up with me.”

“I’m not putting up with anything.” You say, softly. Dabi pulls away to look at you. “‘Course, I’ll help you with your roots.”

The process is easy enough, one you’ve gone through many many times with him, something Dabi considers important to him. It’s that mix of being taken care of and trusting someone enough to allow it. Dabi couldn’t remember what that felt like—until you.

In the beginning, Dabi resisted you. He hated that wanting feeling and tried to ignore the burning in his chest when he looked at you. You came along and threw his priorities all out of whack, and Dabi was furious with himself for even considering you.

But at some point, the want became need, and there was no longer any doubt about keeping you in his life. Even if it meant hiding things from you. He never planned on not telling you about his villainous activities. He thought about getting it out of the way for a long time. He would tell you and maybe you would scream or cry or call the heroes. Or you’d tell him you hated him, and that had always seemed much worse than being locked up. So want was need, and Dabi was not Dabi he was just yours, and you were something he couldn’t stand to lose.

“Are you sure you’re not secretly way older than you look?” You question him, washing his hair over your tub after letting the dye sit in his white roots. Black swirls around your drain as he chuckles.

“I’m pretty sure.” He says, before pausing to look up at you “Unless…do you maybe have a thing for older guys?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, shoving his head back under the running water.

“I mean, I am getting up there. I’ll be twenty-five soon. Does that turn you on?” He teases.

“You are the worst. Wash your own hair.” You groan. You watch him run his fingers through his hair to get the rest of the dye out, thinking about his words again. “How soon?”

“Huh?” He asks, turning off the water and taking the towel that hung over the tub. You watch him scrub his hair with his brows furrowed.

“How soon will you be twenty-five?” A smile stretches across his face, and he wraps the damp towel around his neck to free his hands. He reaches for you, pulling you towards his chest.

“God, you totally can’t wait ‘till I'm old and gray, can you?” You roll your eyes at him, pushing at him lightly.

“I’m asking about your birthday.” You stare at him. Dabi looks away from you for a moment, letting out a sigh.

“Yeah, cause you’re counting the days.” He smirks. You hook your hands around the towel around his neck and pull him down to your level.

“Dabi.” You warn, touching your forehead to his.

“You know, you really can’t get this close to me and expect me not to kiss you.” He speaks, bumping his nose against yours. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you slowly begin to lean in. Dabi leans forward, pressing his lips to yours, but you don’t let him linger for long. He follows after you, eyes still closed, satisfied with moving to your jaw once you’ve pulled away.

“When is your birthday?” You ask him, a little breathless. He places a soft bite at the side of your neck that makes you shudder before speaking.

“It’s Wednesday.” He speaks against your neck. You freeze, moving your hands up to his head to pull him from your neck.

“This Wednesday? As in a few days from now?” You ask, your hands still in his wet hair.

“I don’t want to make a big deal of it.” He tells you. Dabi doesn’t remember the last time he celebrated a birthday. He most likely would have missed it if you hadn’t brought it up.

For Dabi, birthdays are a reminder of time working against him, of the clock ticking on all of his plans, everything he’s working towards. He’s also reminded of how those plans seem so small now, compared to waking up with you in his arms every morning.

“We don’t have to make a big deal of it.” You tell him. You move your hands from his head down to rest on his chest. “Can I just…make you dinner or something? Or I can order from that one place you like?”

“Just dinner?” He questions.

“Well…” You trail off. Dabi squeezes your hips, making you yelp and you jolt in his arms. He smiles at the reaction, “Dinner and one gift?”

“No gifts.” He shakes his head, bringing his hand to the back of your head. You look up at him.

“What if it’s the greatest gift ever?” You ask. He smiles softly and shakes his head, leaning down to kiss you.

You let him deepen the kiss, though you know it’s a way to distract you, pressing you into the bathroom counter as he traces your lips with his tongue. Your hands tangle in his newly dyed hair, arching into him as he moves his lips against yours. He lifts you onto the counter, pulling away from your lips to place kisses against your neck.

“C’mon,” You try, your breath catching in your throat, “just one.”

He bites down on your shoulder hard, earning a soft moan from your throat. He kisses over the mark, leaving more kisses down your chest, “No gifts.”

He runs his hands up your thighs as he lowers himself to the ground. He draws circles on the inside of your thighs, looking up at you. “Yeah?”

“No gifts.” You say, running a hand through his hair. He grins at you, kissing your thighs. “Just come at six okay?”

“I’ll be here.” He promises, biting your skin and making you shiver. “Now shut up. I missed you.”

….

Wednesday arrives quickly. You send a happy birthday text to Dabi paired with a scandalous photo of the blue underwear you’re wearing underneath one of his shirts, and he answers immediately. You remind him of what time he’s supposed to come by before leaving your phone behind on your bed to get ready for the day.

You go to the store for the ingredients you need to cook for him tonight. You pick up the small cake you ordered from the bakery down the street. You wrap the vintage leather jacket you found for him at a thrift store despite his insistence upon no gifts. Everything is going according to plan, for the most part.

That is until you hear his name from the mouth of the news anchor on your television as she describes the events of a villain attack somewhere in the city. From where you stand at the stove, you freeze, listening to the report. You’re too afraid to turn and look at the screen, knowing that if you see him, you’ll break.

The League of Villains, the anchor calls them, a name you find vaguely familiar. You don’t pay much attention to the news at all, but you can recall hearing of the group in passing. You don’t expect to hear your boyfriend's name in relation to them. You, at the very least, have half a mind to turn the stove off before you sink to the floor, bringing your knees to your chest. A villain. Dabi is a villain. For some reason, it doesn’t scare you as much as it should. More than anything, you’re upset about being lied to.

You know that the smart thing to do is call someone, the police, a hero, get someplace safe. You don’t want to do any of that though. You want to stare at the cabinets in front of you, and you want Dabi to come home.

You can’t think of anything but him, not the damage he’s done or the people he’s done it to, just him and the promise of his presence at your door at six o’clock. You can figure out the rest later.

He isn’t there at six, though, or seven or eight or any hour after that. You sit on the floor with the buzzing of voices on your television for hours before you pick yourself up. You pack up dinner numbly, placing things into tupperware that you put in the fridge without thinking. You turn the TV off, and you don’t change out of the dress you wore tonight specifically for him, and you don’t wash your face either. You just pull back the covers to your bed and clutch Dabi’s pillow tight. You don’t fall asleep.

Dabi comes home at around two a.m. He stumbles through your front door and leaves his key in the lock, slumping against the counter. He hears you come out of the bedroom, stopping at the end of the hallway and staring at him. He looks up at you for a moment but averts his gaze in shame. He’s a mess, staples missing and bleeding from his seams. His skin is raw and irritated against his clothes, and he’s sure some of his ribs are bruised.

And you, you look gorgeous, in that dress that Dabi’s always liked on you, your mascara lightly smeared underneath your eyes. Have you been crying? He can’t tell. He hopes you weren’t, not for him.

You walk toward him slowly, a little cautious, caught in between yelling at him or holding him. You can yell later, you think. Right now, you just want to stop the bleeding from his face and ice whatever injury he’s clutching at his side.

Approaching him, you bring your hands to rest at the side of his neck, urging him to look at you. He won’t. You sigh and push yourself closer to him. He doesn't move away. He nuzzles his cheek against yours, blood smearing across your skin, and you bring a hand down to his.

Silently, you pull away, tugging lightly on his hand for him to follow you. He stumbles for a moment before catching himself, walking behind you into the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub and thinks about when you dyed his hair for him, how long ago that feels now, how you might never do it again after tonight.

He watches you pull a first aid kit out from beneath your sink, rummaging through the supplies and setting them on the counter. You wash your hands and dampen a cloth, before leaning down to gently clean up the blood on his face. You do it all in silence, gently pulling away any staples that are near falling out, careful not to hurt him more than he already is. You remove his jacket from his shoulders and pull his shirt over his head, examining the rest of the seams in his skin. The ghost of a bruise is forming on his ribs, and you stand up to find something to ice it. Touya grabs your wrist before you can leave, his grip limp, tired. You could pull away easily if you wanted.

“Why are you doing this?” He rasps. You pause, turning around to look at him.

“You’re hurt.” You tell him.

“I’m late.” He says. “And I’m–”

“I don’t care.” You don’t care about what you saw on TV, or how late he was. You don’t even really care about the lying anymore, not when he’s bleeding on your bathtub.

Dabi stands with a groan, and you reach toward him to steady him. He takes the cloth from you and rests a hand on the back of your neck. He gently wipes your cheek in the place where his blood is smeared. You close your eyes, feeling the tension in your shoulders leave your body.

“Things are never going to be how they are now ever again, you know.” He speaks, setting the towel down on the counter. He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “You’ll know everything because I’m not going to hide it from you anymore, all of the gory details, everything I’ve done, everything I’m going to do.”

“Dabi.” You try to speak, but he doesn't let you. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, keeping you focused on him.

“I’m not a good man, and I don’t deserve you. And if I was better, I would let you walk out of here. But I’m not. I’ve always been weak, and I’m not losing you.” He’s desperate, so afraid that you’ll walk away, leave him, tell him he’s too much. “So you have to tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“I want it.” You speak, almost frantically. “Maybe something is wrong with me, but the only thing that mattered to me tonight was that you’d come home.”

“I am home.” He speaks, pulling you tight against his chest. He winces at the pressure on his ribs, but when you try to pull away, he only squeezes tighter. “I’m home.”

You wrap your arms around him, “Sorry your birthday sucked so bad.”

“We’ll try again next year.”

MONDAY

The second day sneaks up on you. You realize it when you check the time and your chest gives a small, traitorous flutter. 

Changbin knocks at exactly the same time as yesterday – two gentle taps, spaced evenly, like he practiced. You open the door to find him in a different hoodie, gym bag slung low on his hip, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Hey,” he says, softer than yesterday. Like this already familiar. 

“Hey,” you answer, stepping aside without thinking. “How was the workout today?”

He huffs out a small laugh as he steps inside, already reaching down to untie his shoes. “Brutal. Leg day. Which I forgot that it was today until it was too late to back out.” 

You wince sympathetically “that explains the face.” 

“Yeah,” he says, lining his shoes up neatly by the door. “I thought I was being dramatic, but then I tried to sit down in the locker room and my body just…refused. Fully betrayed me.” 

You smile, shutting the door behind him, the sound settling comfortably into the space. “Yikes, That bad, huh?” 

“The worst,” he confirms. “I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to walk properly tomorrow. If you see me taking the stairs one step at time, no you didn’t.” You laugh softly, already turning toward the kitchen. “I’ll keep your secret.” 

“Much appreciated Y/N,” he says, relief in his voice. “And, uh – thanks again. F-for this, I promise I’m not making a habit out of stealing your shower.” Something about the way he says it –careful, sincere–makes your chest warm. “It’s fine Chanbin, truly.” you pause before giving him a shit eating grin “now go shower you stinky. I can smell you from here.”

He laughs as he heads towards the bathroom, nodding and saluting “you got it.” 

—--

As Changbin heads toward the bathroom, he slows down without realizing it. 

He’s been here a few times already, being a good friend of yours he’s been here for board game nights, parties, and more. But he never realized that Y/N’s apartment is quiet in a way his never is. Soft lighting, warm colours, nothing buzzing or humming too loudly. It smells faintly like citrus cleaner and something floral he can’t quite place. Chamomile? Maybe cinnamon? He flies that away without knowing why. Either way it’s comfortable here. Not staged. Completely lived-in. He notices the little things: the way your throw blanket is folded over the arm of the couch, the mug sitting by the sink like was used recently, the faint instrumental music playing low enough that feels more like background breathing than sound. He doesn’t feel like a guest. 

The realization hits him right as the shower turns on. By the time he comes back out- hair damp, movements loose with post-workout relief, you’re already in the kitchen. The kettle clicks softly as it heats. “Didn’t you make tea last night?” he asks. 

You pause mid-reach for the mugs. “..Yeah. Why do you ask?” 

Changbin points to the mug still sitting on the table “You didn't drink it.”  

You blink. Then groan quietly. “Ohhh my god.” he grins “You forgot, didn’t you?” 

“No no it’s not that,” you admit. “It was for you but I absolutely forgot to tell you. “I set it down, sat down on the couch, and then you left and my brain just… shut off.” 

“Woooow Y/N,”  he says solemnly. “And here I thought I was special.” 

“You are special,” you shoot back automatically-then freeze.  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You clear your throat and grab two mugs. “I meant–special enough to be distracting. Which is NOT a compliment, for the record.”

He laughs, warm and easy, the sound settling into the space between you. “I’ll take it.” 

You slide a mug across the counter once the tea is ready. “Black. No sugar. A little bit of honey. Don’t ask how I remembered.” he takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly–just enough to register. 

And as he takes a sip his expression softens immediately. “Okay. That’s…yeah. That's really good” 

“High praise,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “Yesterday you barely noticed it.” 

Something about that makes your chest tighten. 

He stays longer tonight. Long enough to finish the tea. Long enough to help dry the mug and place it neatly by the sink. Long enough to settle onto the couch beside you–close enough that your knees almost touch, not quite far enough to feel accidental. At some point, he contentedly. 

“If my shower gets fixed tomorrow,” he says, voice thoughtful, “I think I’d still miss this.” 

You swallow. “...Yeah,” you say, carefully. “Me too.” Neither of you moves. 

The kettle clicks as it cools.

Chapter One: War

The night hung heavy with tension as explosions punctuated the air, a somber symphony of war echoing through the battlefield. Bucky Barnes, the elusive Winter Soldier, moved with ghostly grace through the shadows, his eyes sharp and senses heightened. His steps were silent, each movement calculated as he navigated the chaos with an eerie calm.

On the other end of the spectrum was Y/N, a skilled agent with a fire that clashed with Bucky's stoic demeanor. Their interactions were a constant clash of wills, the animosity between them palpable in the charged atmosphere. As Bucky silently moved through the chaos, Y/N, determined to prove themselves, followed closely behind, their steps more erratic, filled with a raw determination that bordered on recklessness.

The mission was a high-stakes extraction in a war-torn city, a hotbed of conflict between rival factions. A high-profile target, a political figure with valuable intel, was trapped in the heart of the chaos. The team, consisting of Bucky, Y/N, and other skilled operatives, was tasked with infiltrating the heavily guarded compound, extracting the target, and making a swift exit.

The plan was intricate, relying on each member's unique skills. Bucky, with his enhanced strength and stealth, was designated for covert recon and eliminating potential threats. Y/N, known for their agility and sharpshooting, was tasked with providing cover and securing a safe escape route. The tension among the team was palpable as they moved through the war-torn streets, each step a potential trigger for violence.  Bucky's voice cut through the tense air, sharp and authoritative. "Stay close, Y/N. We need to adapt to the situation."

Y/N gritted their teeth, pain evident in their strained voice. "I'm not slowing down, Barnes. I can still handle myself."

Bucky's metal arm shot out, blocking Y/N's path. "Handle yourself? You can barely walk through the woods without stepping on a branch. You'll get us killed.``

A bitter laugh escaped Y/N's lips. "Coming from the guy with a metal arm and a penchant for playing lone wolf. I'm not backing down now."

The team's leader, a grizzled veteran named Rodriguez, intervened. "Enough. We've got a job to do, and bickering won't get us out of here. Barnes, cover Y/N. Y/N, trust Barnes's lead."

Bucky's gaze lingered on Y/N for a moment, a flicker of concern beneath his stoic exterior. "Stay close, and follow my lead."

Y/N clenched their jaw but nodded, acknowledging the unspoken agreement. As they moved through the war-torn streets, the chaos intensified. Bucky scanned the area, his heightened senses on high alert.

A distant explosion echoed, and Y/N stumbled, disoriented. Bucky's firm grip steadied them. "Keep it together, Y/N. We're almost there."

Y/N's frustration boiled over. "I don't need your help, Barnes. I can—"

Bucky cut them off with a sharp whisper. "Save it. We're not alone."

A group of armed mercenaries emerged from the shadows, weapons trained on the team. Bucky's hand instinctively reached for his sidearm, and Y/N fumbled for their own, hands shaking.

Rodriguez's voice echoed through the chaos. "Hold your fire! We're here for the extraction. We can negotiate."

The tension hung thick as the two groups faced off. Bucky exchanged a glance with Y/N, a silent understanding passing between them. The dynamic had shifted – it was no longer just about the mission; it was about survival in a city consumed by conflict.

The skirmish erupted with gunfire and chaos as the opposing forces clashed in the dimly lit streets. Bucky's metal arm swung with lethal precision, dispatching enemies with calculated brutality. Y/N, fought with a tenacity that could only be proven by years of service. Bullets whizzed past, and explosions reverberated through the air.

Y/N fired their gun, dodging bullets at will. A sudden impact slammed into their side, and a searing pain radiated through their abdomen. They stumbled, disoriented, as they looked at their abdomen, a small syringe logged inside, Y/N swiftly took it out before the enemy closed in. Bucky, sensing the danger, swiftly dispatched the immediate threats.

"Y/N!" he called out, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.

Desperation fueled Y/N's movements. They fought on, gritting their teeth against the pain. The world around them blurred, shadows dancing in an ominous ballet. Another explosion rocked the area, disorienting Y/N even further. Panic set in as darkness enveloped Y/N's vision. They staggered, hands reaching out blindly to find something, anything, for support. Bucky, sensing the shift, abandoned his relentless assault on the enemy and swiftly made his way to Y/N's side.

"Y/N, can you hear me?" Bucky's voice was urgent, a rare note of concern cutting through his usual stoicism.

"I can't see, Barnes," Y/N admitted, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Bucky's gaze tightened, his expression hidden beneath the shadows of his hair. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?"

Y/N nodded, though uncertainty clouded their features. Bucky guided them through the chaotic battleground, his metal arm offering a steady anchor for Y/N to lean on. The sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed around them, a grim symphony of war.

As they navigated the war-torn streets, Y/N's other senses heightened, compensating for the loss of vision. The team's leader, Rodriguez, radioed in, "Extraction point is compromised. Head for the secondary rendezvous."

Bucky adjusted his grip on Y/N. "We're changing the plan. Stick close, and trust me."

Y/N swore under their breath, vulnerable and blinded, she had no choice but to rely on Bucky's guidance. In the shadows of the conflict, the Winter Soldier and the wounded agent moved as one, a testament to the unspoken trust forged in the crucible of battle.

As the dust settled and the team regrouped, the realization struck - their mission had just become exponentially more challenging, and the once turbulent dynamic between Bucky and Y/N took an unexpected turn into uncharted territory. Now, in the shadows of a city torn apart by conflict, the Winter Soldier and the blinded agent faced a mission that would not only test their abilities but also force them to confront the vulnerabilities that lingered beneath the surface.

Tuesday

The text comes in earlier than expected. 

Maintenance: Your shower is fixed. Diverter valve replaced. Thank you for your patience! 

Changbin stares at the message longer than he needs to. He should tell you. He knows he should. This whole arrangement has only lasted two days because of a broken shower, and now that it’s fixed, the decent thing would be to say so. 

Instead, he locks his phone and slips it into his pocket. 

He knocks at your door a little later than usual. When you open it, he looks almost sheepish, like he’s about to confess to something. 

“Hey stranger!” you say, smiling, before your smile fades “is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” he answers quickly. “Uh–maintenance came by, but they said they need to run some tests or something like that. So it may still be a few days.” 

It’s not even a good lie. But you don’t question it. 

“Oh,” you say. “That’s annoying.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, stepping inside like he’s relieved you didn’t push. He doesn't bring his gym bag this time. No towel either. You notice, but don’t comment. 

—---

Dinner turns into takeout without discussion. He remembers what you like and pays without hesitation. You notice that too. 

The movie starts as background noise–something familiar, something you’ve both seen before. At some point, you shift closer without realizing it, legs tucked beneath you. 

Changbin tries not to think about how natural it feels. As your head tips first, resting against his shoulder. He goes still, heart pounding, waiting to see if you pull away. 

You don’t. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

“Mhm,” you mumble, eyes already closed. “Just comfy." 

Comfy. 

Slowly, carefully, his arm lifts and settles around you–loose, tentative, like he’s asking permission without words. You sigh softly and lean in. 

The movie keeps playing. The apartment is quiet. Changbin doesn’t move again. He doesn’t tell you when the credits roll. He doesn’t tell you when your breathing evens out or how cute you look when you sleep. He just sits there, holding you, knowing his shower works perfectly fine and hopes that this doesn’t have to end just yet. 

Changbin doesn’t sleep. Not really. 

He stays awake with you curled against his chest, the blanket half kicked off and on the floor by you moving. Your chest is warm and grounding, your breath slow and even. His arm aches slightly where it’s been holding you, but he doesn’t dare move. Every time you shift or murmur something in your sleep. His heart stutters like it’s forgetting its job.

This is wrong, he thinks. 

Not this instance, the way you fit so easily, not the quiet trust of it. But the lie. His phone buzzes softly against the coffee table. He doesn’t look at it. He already knows what it’ll say. The shower works. Everything’s fixed. He’s the only thing out of place now. The guilt settles heavy in his chest. 

He looks down at you. Your face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against your cheeks, lips parted slightly. His thumb twitches with the urge to brush a stray hair away but he stops himself. 

You deserve honesty. And he’s terrified that honesty means you won’t look at him the same anymore. 

It’s not until sometime near dawn, exhaustion finally claims him.

WEDNESDAY

The soft light of the sun is what wakes you. It’s not harsh, just a pale stripe spilling across the couch, warming your face. You shift, blinking slowly

Not harsh—just a pale stripe spilling across the couch, warming your face. You shift, blinking slowly, and the first thing you register is warmth.

Solid. Familiar.

An arm around you.

Your brain takes a second to catch up.

Oh.

Oh.

You lift your head carefully and find Changbin still asleep, mouth slightly open, brows relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. Up close, he looks softer. Younger. Less like the guy who jokes his way through embarrassment and more like someone who’s been holding himself together for too long.

You freeze.

Did I fall asleep on him?

Memory trickles back—the movie, the quiet, the way everything slowed down.

You don’t pull away right away. Instead, you let yourself exist there for a moment longer, listening to his breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. It feels… safe.

When you finally shift, his eyes flutter open almost instantly.

“Oh—” he says softly, then stops. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you whisper back, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are.

Neither of you moves.

“I’m sorry,” you start. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” he says immediately. Too soon. His arm loosens but doesn’t drop away. “You can stay. I mean—if you want. I just—I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice.

“Did you sleep?” you ask.

He hesitates. Just a beat too long.

“Yeah,” he says. “Enough.”

You study him, something thoughtful settling behind your eyes—but you don’t push. Not yet.

You sit up slowly, stretching, and he mirrors you, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s grounding himself back into reality.

“Coffee?” you ask gently.

His lips curve into a small smile. “Please. I think I’d pass away without it.”

You smile to yourself, measuring out the grounds, moving on instinct. The sound of the coffee machine heating up fills the quiet space, soft and steady. 

Changbin opens the fridge, hesitating a little while deciding on what to make. “You okay with breakfast?” 

“Binnie you don’t have to–” 

“ I want to,” he says gently, already pulling out eggs and bacon like he’s done this before.

Your heart flutters. 

In the kitchen, the routine slips back into place like it never left. You reach for the coffee pot. He reaches for the mugs. At some point, your fingers brush—and this time, neither of you pulls away right away. He moves easily around your kitchen, asking small questions: “is this pan okay?” “How do you like your eggs?”, and somehow you’re answering without thinking, reaching past him for the sugar, and handing him a spatula and seasoning before he asks. 

At one point, while getting plates out, you nearly bump into one another. 

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. Which causes the two of you to laugh. 

“We’re surprisingly good at this.” He says, filling your plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and perfectly browned toast. 

You glance at him, watching the way he  sets the food down with a careful focus, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little messy from sleep. “Yeah, we kind are.” 

You both sit across from each other at the small table, knees almost touching. The first bite is warm and comforting. “Mmm chanbin this is so good,” you say. He ducks his head, a little shy. “Thanks, eat as much as you want. I can always make more for us.” 

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The morning light spills across the counter, the city still slow and quiet. There’s no awkwardness; just the soft clink of cutlery, the hum of shared space and the softness of music playing in the background (per Chanbin’s request). And for now, that’s enough.