#john walker softness

The next day, you decide the compound is trying to eat you alive.

Not literally. The walls are not shifting. The floor is not opening beneath you. No alarms are blaring, no missions are calling, no one is bleeding in the hallway.

Which, somehow, makes it worse. Because silence gives your brain room. And your brain, traitorous little bastard that it is, has decided to use every available inch of that room to think about John Walker.

John in his kitchen. John's hands at your waist. John's mouth against your neck. John saying love like the word had been pulled out of him with teeth.

So you stay busy, you stand in the church parking lot with a clipboard in your hand, staring at a stack of supply crates like they might offer divine intervention.

Your phone sits heavy in your back pocket. You know because you have checked it approximately six hundred times since leaving the compound. You haven't texted him. You haven't called him. You haven't even opened the thread just to stare at his name, which you feel should count as a major personal victory.

Except now you are doing something worse.

You are inventing reasons.

A lot of reasons.

Maybe you could ask if he got home safe last night... No. He texted you.

Maybe you could ask if he ate breakfast... Absolutely not. What are you, his commanding officer in charge of toast?

Maybe you could tell him you forgot something at his apartment... Dangerous. Also a lie. Unless dignity counts, in which case yes, you left that all over his kitchen counter.

You press the clipboard against your chest and shut your eyes.

"Get a fucking grip, Mara," you mutter.

"Talking to yourself again, Trouble?"

You nearly jump out of your skin.

The clipboard slips halfway out of your hand before you clutch it to your chest like it is the only thing standing between you and public humiliation. You whip around and find Lemar standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression far too pleased with himself.

"Jesus, Lemar." You glare at him. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

He holds up both hands. "I said your name twice."

"You materialized."

"I walked."

"You stalked."

"I approached with regular human feet."

"You approached like a government secret."

Lemar's grin spreads. "You know, for someone who claims not to be hiding anything, you were looking pretty suspicious over here."

"I'm working."

"You were staring at canned beans like they owed you money."

"They do."

"Sure." His eyes drop briefly to your pocket. "How's your phone?"

Your glare sharpens. "My phone is fine."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You thought it loudly."

"That's because my thoughts have stage presence."

You point the clipboard at him. "Your thoughts need a muzzle."

Lemar laughs, bright and easy, and the sound chips at some of the tension sitting between your ribs. Annoying. He's annoying. He's also impossible not to love a little for it.

"Where's John?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

Lemar's grin turns slow.

You immediately regret breathing.

He opens his mouth, probably to ruin your entire life, but another voice cuts in behind him.

"Everything okay?"

Your body reacts before your brain gives permission.

Heat moves through you first, then awareness, then that terrible little flutter in your stomach you have no intention of admitting to anyone ever.

John walks toward you from the supply truck, sleeves pushed up, posture easy in a way that's probably fake and still devastating. The sunlight hits the side of his face, turns his hair warm at the edges, catches on the line of his jaw.

You hate him a little for having a jaw. For existing in a parking lot like that should be allowed.

Lemar looks between you and John. Then his entire expression transforms into delight.

"Everything's great," Lemar says.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Is it?"

"Fantastic."

John's gaze flicks to you. Something softens there immediately, quick enough that maybe no one else would catch it.

Unfortunately, Lemar is standing right there with his little emotional binoculars.

John doesn't seem to care. That's new, terrifyingly new.

He steps closer, eyes on your face. "Hi."

One word. Two letters. Somehow catastrophic.

You shift your grip on the clipboard. "Hi."

His mouth curves.

"How are the supplies treating you?"

You stare at him. "The supplies?"

"You looked intense."

"She was threatening beans," Lemar supplies helpfully.

"I was not threatening beans."

"You had murder in your eyes."

"I always have murder in my eyes. That's just my face."

John's smile deepens, and it's so warm, so openly fond, that your brain briefly trips down a staircase.

"You're cute when you're defensive," he says.

The parking lot goes silent, not actually.

But in your tiny corner of the world, everything stops. Your face burns.

Lemar inhales sharply.

"Oh," he says, sounding thrilled. "We're doing this now?"

You look at John. "Really?"

John's eyes stay on yours. "What?"

"You're just adding fuel to the flame."

"Worth it."

Lemar claps once. "I love growth."

You turn on him. "Don't you have supplies to unload?"

"I do," he says, backing away with the grin of a man who has been given a gift basket full of ammunition. "And I'm going to do that because I am a helpful, mature adult who absolutely will not bring this up later."

"You're going to bring this up before lunch."

"Before lunch feels ambitious," Lemar says. "I'm thinking ten minutes."

"Lemar."

"Going!"

He turns, still laughing, and heads toward the truck.

You watch him go with narrowed eyes. "He's going to be insufferable."

John steps closer, not too close, but close enough that the air changes anyway.

"He already was," John says.

You huff. "You're making him worse."

"I know."

"That's your defense?"

His hand reaches for yours.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

He takes your hand gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he has every right and still cannot believe he gets to do it. "It's worth it," he says, voice lower now, "just to see you blush."

The heat in your face becomes unforgivable.

"I am not blushing."

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"Sure."

"You're very smug for a man standing in a church parking lot."

His thumb moves again over your hand. "Only because you make it easy."

You stare at him, heart doing something stupid behind your ribs.

Absolutely not, you need to steer this conversation somewhere safe before your mouth betrays you, before your face stages a confession, before Lemar circles back with popcorn and a legal pad.

"So," you say quickly, pulling in a breath. "You're just here to drop off supplies?"

John watches you for a second, clearly noticing the change in subject. Mercifully, he lets you have it.

"Yeah. Drop-off, check in, then back to base."

Your chest dips before you can stop it. You hope it doesn't show.

It probably shows.

John's expression shifts, soft at the edges. His hand tightens around yours by the smallest amount.

Then he asks, "Do you want to come over tonight?"

Yes, you mind supplies, yes you will abandon every crate in this parking lot and sprint across Brooklyn barefoot if necessary.

You don't say that out loud.

Instead, you swallow and ask, "Is that okay?"

John's brows draw together slightly, like the question hurts him.

"Yeah," he says. "It's okay."

You look down at your joined hands. "I don't want to just... show up in your space all the time."

"My apartment feels more alive with you in it."

There it is, the killing blow.

Your face heats so fast you almost get angry about it.

John sees it, his mouth curves again, quieter this time.

You tug lightly at his hand. "You are a problem."

"I've been told."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

That stills you.

The teasing slips, not fully gone, but softened by the way he looks at you. Like he means every word. Like the apartment had been too quiet after you left. Like your absence had taken something with it.

Your throat tightens.

You should say something careful. Something reasonable. Something that doesn't make this more than either of you are ready to name.

Then John turns slightly, glancing toward the truck where Lemar is currently pretending not to watch you both with the subtlety of a fireworks display.

And that's when you see it.

A tiny freckle on his left earlobe. Small. Almost ridiculous. Barely there.

The world should not tilt over something that small.

Your eyes catch on it, and suddenly you want to touch it.

Not his hand. Not his chest. Not his jaw, though God knows that jaw has been offending you in public for several minutes.

That freckle.

You want to press your thumb to it. You want to know if he makes a sound. You want to find out if that tiny mark can undo him the way his mouth against your shoulder nearly undid you.

Your fingers flex around his.

John notices. His gaze comes back to your face. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing."

"It was."

"You're a terrible liar."

"You're a terrible influence."

His smile flickers. "Yeah?"

You stare at him.

Something inside you shifts.

Yesterday, you were careful. Last night, you tried to be careful and still ended up on his kitchen counter with his hands on your waist and your breath stolen out of your chest.

Careful hasn't saved you from wanting him. Careful hasn't stopped his voice from living under your skin. Careful has only made you ache longer.

So you stop.

You take one step closer, lift your free hand to the front of his shirt, and pull him down.

John reacts immediately.

A sharp inhale. A brief, stunned stillness.

Then his hand slips from yours to your waist, firm and warm, while the other comes up carefully to the side of your neck. The kiss is not wild. Not here, not in the open, not with Lemar absolutely somewhere pretending to organize canned goods while spiritually levitating.

But it's not shy either.

Your mouth meets his with intent, and John answers like he has been waiting all morning for permission to stop pretending he was composed.

His thumb brushes the side of your neck.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

For one bright, reckless second, the parking lot disappears.

Just John.

Warm. Solid. Careful until you give him reason not to be.

When you part, both of you are breathing a little differently.

His forehead nearly touches yours. His hand stays at your waist. Yours stays curled at the back of his neck, because apparently your body has decided this is where your hand belongs now.

John's voice comes out low. "Hi."

You bite down on a smile. "You said that already."

"Thought it deserved another try."

"Better the second time?"

His eyes drop to your mouth.

"Much."

You should step back.

Instead, your gaze shifts again to his left ear.

That tiny freckle. Waiting there like a dare.

You lift your hand slowly, giving yourself every chance to stop, you don't.

Your fingertips brush the side of his neck first, then slide higher, gentle over the edge of his jaw, until your thumb finds that tiny mark on his earlobe.

John goes completely still. Then the smallest sound leaves him.

Low. Surprised. Barely there.

But you hear it, oh, you hear it.

It drops into your chest and locks itself in a little golden box with your name carved into the lid.

Mine.

The thought arrives before you can soften it. That sound is yours.

Your thumb brushes the freckle again, softer this time, testing.

John's hand tightens at your waist.

His eyes darken.

"Hart," he says, and there's warning in it, but not enough of one.

Your stomach flips.

He almost never calls you that. Not unless something in him has been knocked off balance.

Very interesting.

You tilt your head. "What?"

His gaze narrows slightly, though the effect is badly undermined by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

"You're not playing fair."

You smile before you can stop it. A dangerous smile. A delighted one. A well, well, well, look what I found kind of smile.

"You started it."

John lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except rougher. His thumb presses once at your waist, a small answer, a small confession.

From behind the truck, something clatters loudly.

Lemar's voice follows immediately. "I'm fine! No one investigate!"

You close your eyes.

John drops his head slightly, mouth twitching against restraint.

"I'm going to kill him." You whisper

"He'll deserve it."

Lemar calls out, "For the record, I heard nothing, saw nothing, and support everything!"

You pull back from John just enough to glare toward the truck. "Lemar!"

"What?" Lemar appears from behind a stack of boxes, face absolutely full of innocence and lies. "I'm unloading supplies. Like a helpful, mature adult."

John coughs into his fist.

You turn your glare on him. "Don't encourage him."

"I'm not."

"You laughed."

"I breathed."

"You betrayed me."

John leans closer, voice dropping just for you. "I'll make it up to you tonight."

Every thought in your head shuts off.

Lemar, mercifully, does not hear that part. Or if he does, he values his life enough to pretend otherwise.

John watches the effect of his words land, and something smug, soft, and devastating crosses his face.

You point at him, though your finger lacks conviction. "Problem."

His hand finds yours again. "Yeah," he says, thumb brushing your knuckles. "But you're still coming over."

It is not a question.

It should annoy you. It does a little.

Mostly, it makes warmth uncurl under your ribs.

You squeeze his hand once. "I'm still coming over."

John's expression changes.

The flirting stays, but beneath it comes something quieter. Something almost relieved.

"Good," he says.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The church parking lot continues around you, indifferent and holy in its own cracked way. Supplies being unloaded. Volunteers calling to one another. Lemar loudly pretending not to hover.

And you stand there with John's hand in yours, his mouth still warm on yours, his tiny freckle now cataloged somewhere deep inside you like a secret you have no intention of giving back.

Careful has left the building. You're not sure what comes next. You only know that tonight, you are going to his apartment.

And John Walker is looking at you like he already cannot wait to open the door.

By the time you make it back to the compound, your phone feels less like an object and more like a weaponized accusation.

You have stared at his last message like it might hatch into something useful if you looked at it long enough.

The message is not even dramatic.

John: I'll see you tonight.

That is it.

Four normal words. Barely even a sentence with ambition.

And still, you have been staring at it like it kicked down the front door of your self-control and took your dignity hostage.

You stand in the compound kitchen with your hip against the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Natasha is at the table with a mug of coffee and an expression that says she has been watching you spiral for at least three minutes.

Possibly longer.

Natasha doesn't announce herself when she observes someone. She simply appears in the ecosystem, silent and devastating, like judgment with red hair.

"You're looking at that phone like it betrayed you," she says.

You jolt. The phone nearly slips out of your hand.

"Jesus."

She lifts her mug. "Not quite."

You press a hand to your chest. "Does everyone in my life sneak now?"

"I was sitting here when you walked in."

"That's worse."

"How is that worse?"

"Because it means I'm losing awareness."

"No," she says calmly. "It means you're distracted."

You narrow your eyes.

Natasha takes a slow sip of coffee. Her gaze drops to your phone, then returns to your face.

You flip the phone facedown against the counter too fast.

Natasha's mouth moves. Not a smile exactly. Something more dangerous because it's almost one.

You point at her. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking loudly."

"Interesting accusation from someone who just tried to hide her phone from me like it was classified material."

"It is classified."

"Is John classified now?"

Your face burns immediately. Absolute traitor.

Natasha's almost-smile becomes real. Tiny, sharp and merciless.

You groan and drop your forehead against the cabinet beside you. "I'm hopeless."

"I didn't say that."

"I am." Your voice comes muffled against the wood. "I'm hopelessly in too deep with John Walker."

The words stumble into the kitchen wearing no armor at all.

For a second, everything goes quiet.

No hum of conversation in thehallway. Just that sentence, sitting between you and Natasha like a little flare.

You lift your head carefully.

Natasha is looking at you differently now. Her fingers curl around her mug. "I know."

Your throat tightens. "You know?"

"Mara."

The way she says your name almost makes you look away.

"You came back last night with his hands still written all over your silence," she says gently. "And today you walked in staring at your phone like the screen personally wounded you."

You huff a small, embarrassed laugh. "That obvious?"

"To me?" Natasha's face softens by another impossible fraction. "Yes."

You swallow and glance down at the counter.

Your phone is still facedown. Cowardly little rectangle.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you admit.

Natasha says nothing.

That's one of the things that makes her dangerous. She knows when silence will pull more truth out of someone than a question ever could.

You rub your thumb along the edge of the counter.

"I keep waiting for it to feel wrong," you say quietly. "Not complicated. It already feels complicated. It feels like trying to walk through a room full of tripwires while holding something made of glass." You breathe out. "But wrong. I keep waiting for it to feel like betrayal."

Natasha watches you.

Your voice drops. "And it doesn't."

The confession lands softly, but it shakes something in you anyway.

"It feels scary," you continue. "It feels reckless. It feels like I am standing too close to something warm after years of freezing and I don't know if I'm allowed to want it."

Natasha's expression shifts. Her gaze flickers to your chest, to where the wolf charm rests beneath your shirt, unseen but never absent.

Then she looks back at your face. "You are allowed to want to be alive," she says.

Your throat closes.

The kitchen blurs for half a second.

"Nat."

She sets her mug down, carefully, like any sudden sound might crack you open. "I'm glad," she says. "That you're slowly healing."

The words are too much, too gentle.

Too close to the tender, bruised part of you that still doesn't know what to do with kindness unless it's wrapped in sarcasm or emergency medical intervention.

So naturally, you panic.

"I'm going to his place again tonight," you blurt.

Natasha blinks. Then her face does the tiniest thing.

The emotional moment, delicate and dangerous, slips on a banana peel and lands face-first in the kitchen.

You close your eyes. "That was not my smoothest subject change."

"No," she says. "But it was effective."

"Please forget I said anything."

"I won't."

"Great."

Natasha leans back in her chair, the softness still there but tucked neatly beneath a layer of amusement. "You should pack an overnight bag."

Your eyes fly open. "Excuse me?"

"Just in case."

"Natasha."

"What?"

"I am not packing an overnight bag."

She raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because that is presumptuous."

"You slept there last night."

"That was different."

"Because you did not pack?"

You glare at her. "Because grief was involved."

Natasha gives you a look.

You point at her. "Do not weaponize logic against me."

"It's one of my better skills."

"I'm not packing a bag."

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

"I believe you."

"You sound like you don't believe me."

Natasha picks up her mug again. "I believe that you are not packing a bag today."

You stare at her.

She drinks her coffee with the serene cruelty of someone who knows exactly what she has done.

You grab your phone from the counter. "I hate it here."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"You're smiling."

"I'm grimacing emotionally."

"Of course."

You tuck your phone into your pocket with more force than necessary. "I'm going to change."

"And not pack an overnight bag."

"Correct."

Natasha hums.

You take three steps toward the hall, then turn back. "Not today."

Her mouth curves.

You point at her again. "Do not look pleased."

"I would never."

"You are a liar."

"One of my better skills," she repeats.

You leave before she can make it worse.

By the time you reach John's building, your nerves have turned into a small orchestra of poorly supervised raccoons.

You stand outside the entrance with your hand hovering near the buzzer.

Ridiculous.

You were kissing him in a church parking lot hours ago. You had your hands on his neck. You touched that freckle. You heard that sound.

You press the buzzer.

For two seconds, nothing happens.

Then John's voice comes through the speaker, low and familiar.

"Yeah?"

Your stomach does something humiliating.

"It's me."

A pause.

Then, softer, "Come up."

The door buzzes.

You step inside.

The elevator ride feels too long and too short at the same time. Every floor number changes with the slow cruelty of a machine that knows you are walking directly toward trouble and has decided to make you marinate in it.

By the time you reach his door, your pulse is in your throat.

You barely lift your hand before the door opens.

John is there.

Dark shirt. Jeans. Hair still slightly damp like he showered not long ago. Sleeves pushed up enough to show his forearms, because apparently the universe has chosen violence.

His eyes move over you once.

Enough that heat curls low in your stomach and your fingers tighten around the strap of your jacket.

"Hi," he says.

You breathe out. "Hi."

For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.

The old version of this moment would have been careful. A step inside. A polite question. A safe distance while both of you pretended there was not a live wire stretched between your bodies.

Neither of you reaches for careful.

John steps back just enough to let you in, and the second you cross the threshold, his hand catches yours.

The door closes behind you. You barely hear it because John is already pulling you to him.

Certain and immediate.

Like the whole day has been one long exercise in restraint and now that you're here, inside his apartment, with no parking lot and no Lemar and no supplies pretending to be witnesses, he's done pretending too.

His mouth finds yours.

Your body answers before thought can catch up.

The kiss is warm, deep, and startlingly familiar for something still so new. Your hands go to his chest first, fingers curling into his shirt. His hands find your waist, drawing you closer until the line between greeting and confession disappears entirely.

You make a small sound against his mouth.

John breathes in sharply.

That is all it takes.

The kiss changes.

Still controlled, but barely. The kind of barely that makes your knees remember they have never been trustworthy structures.

He turns you gently, walking you back without breaking the kiss, one hand sliding from your waist to your lower back. You feel the door behind you before your brain catches the movement.

John pulls back half an inch. His eyes search yours, dark and careful despite the heat in them.

"Okay?" he asks.

You nod.

His gaze sharpens.

You swallow. "Yes."

"Good," he murmurs.

Then he kisses you again.

Your jacket slips from one shoulder. You don't care. Your phone presses awkwardly against your hip. You don't care. The entire world could politely collapse outside his apartment and you would ask it to keep the noise down.

John's hands stay at your waist, but there's nothing hesitant about them now. They hold, they guide, they confess in pressure what his mouth has not yet said.

You slide one hand up his chest, over his shoulder, along the side of his neck.

He knows what you're doing before you reach it.

You feel the exact second he realizes.

His breath catches.

Your thumb finds the tiny freckle on his left earlobe. That lovely, dangerous little mark. You touch it gently.

John makes that sound again. Low and quiet. Ruined around the edges. A delicious little fracture in all his discipline.

Your entire body lights up. "There it is," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

John's hand tightens at your waist. His eyes open against yours, pupils blown dark. "Hart."

The warning should work better than it does.

Unfortunately for him, it only makes your stomach flip.

You brush the freckle again, slower.

His jaw flexes. "Don't start something you can't finish," he says, voice rough.

Your breath catches.

For half a second, the words hang there, hot enough to burn fingerprints into the air.

Then your mouth curves. "You started it."

John stares at you. Then something in him gives way.

His mouth returns to yours, deeper this time, the kiss hungry in a way that steals the shape of every sensible thought you might have had. Your hands slide into his hair. His fingers press into your waist, warm through your shirt, and you arch into him before you can talk yourself out of it.

The door is solid behind you, John is solid in front of you. The combination is catastrophic.

He kisses like he's trying to stay honorable and losing ground inch by inch. You kiss him like you're done making that easy for him.

Your fingers tug gently at the hair near the nape of his neck. John exhales against your mouth, almost a groan.

It rolls through you, sharp and sweet.

You chase it.

Your thumb returns to his ear, grazing the freckle again, and his hand slides from your waist to brace against the door beside your head.

The apartment narrows to the heat of him.

His chest against yours. His breath mixing with yours. The faint scent of soap on his skin. The sound of him trying not to lose himself.

Then his mouth leaves yours.

You nearly protest but you don't get the chance.

John's lips brush the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw. Slow and careful at first, still asking without words.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. He takes that as answer.

His mouth moves along your jaw, warm and deliberate, and your head falls back against the door before you can stop it. The movement opens your throat to him, gives him more room, more access, more of the skin your body has apparently decided belongs under his mouth.

John goes still for half a breath.

You feel him looking at you. Feel the restraint fighting its final tiny war.

Then he lowers his head again. His lips find the place beneath your jaw where your pulse is betraying you.

The sound that leaves you should be humiliating. It is soft, needy, and wrecked. It belongs to some version of you with less pride and more honesty.

You don't care anymore, not even a little.

John hears it, his whole body reacts.

His hand tightens at your waist, the other still braced beside your head. He exhales against your skin, rough and unsteady, and the feel of it sends heat rushing through you so fast you forget how to stand like a normal person.

"Love," he murmurs against your throat.

Your eyes flutter shut.

That word.

That voice.

That mouth.

It should be illegal for a man to contain this many problems in one body.

"What?" you manage, though it comes out less like a question and more like surrender wearing borrowed clothes.

John's lips brush your skin when he answers. "You keep making those sounds."

Your face burns. "Don't mention it."

His mouth moves higher, back to your jaw. "I'm trying very hard not to."

"You're failing."

"I know."

The admission is so rough, so honest, that your fingers curl tighter in his hair.

He kisses your jaw again, slower now, as if he has discovered a new way to test your composure and intends to conduct a thorough investigation. His nose brushes your cheek. His breath warms your skin. His body stays close enough to make thought difficult, but not so close that you feel trapped.

Even like this, even with your back to the door and his hands on you, John leaves you room.

The realization slides through the heat like something softer.

He wants you.

God, he wants you.

You can feel it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his breath catches when you touch him, in the careful pressure of his hands. But he's still holding himself back for you. Waiting for every yes, listening for every no.

Your chest aches with it.

You turn your face toward his, catching his mouth again.

This kiss is messier.

You are done with being composed. Done with pretending you can stand here with his mouth on your skin and still be some clean, untouched version of yourself who doesn't want too much.

You want his hands. His mouth. His little sounds. His apartment. The way he looks at you like you are both a blessing and a battlefield. You want so much it scares you.

So you kiss him harder.

John answers immediately, a low sound caught in his throat. His hand slips beneath the edge of your jacket, palm warm against your side through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You shiver.

He notices, he always does. His mouth slows. His forehead rests against yours. Both of you are breathing hard.

"You okay?" he asks.

His voice is wrecked but it's also tender enough to break something.

You open your eyes.

He's close. Too close and somehow not close enough. His pupils are dark, his mouth flushed, his hair mussed where your fingers have been. That tiny freckle sits on his earlobe like a secret you have already stolen twice.

You lift your thumb to it again. This time, you don't tease. You touch it softly, almost fondly.

John's eyes close for half a second. There's that sound again, quieter now. Less ruined, more helpless.

Yours.

You smile, small and breathless. "I'm okay," you whisper.

His eyes open. The heat is still there. The hunger, the restraint stretched thin, but so is the softness.

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

His hand moves from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye.

For a second, the apartment goes still around you.

The door at your back. John in front of you. The whole world on the other side, loud and waiting and cruel in all the ways it knows how to be.

But here, in this narrow space, there's only his hand on your face and the faint tremor in his breath when you touch something as small as a freckle.

You tilt your head, brushing your mouth over his again.

A gentle kiss this time. Almost sweet, almost safe.

John pulls back just enough to look at you. "You came back," he says quietly.

Something in your chest twists.

Not because he sounds surprised exactly. Because he sounds like he tried not to hope too loudly.

You swallow. "I said I would."

"I know."

Your thumb traces the edge of his ear, careful over that tiny mark. "Then stop looking at me like I performed a miracle."

His mouth softens. "Maybe it feels like one."

Your breath catches.

The tenderness is too sharp, too sudden. A blade wrapped in velvet.

You should make a joke. You should say something ridiculous before your heart starts speaking without supervision.

Instead, you let the truth sit there just for a second. Then you tug lightly at the front of his shirt. "Are you going to let me stand by the door all night?"

His expression shifts. Heat returns, so does that almost-smile, faint and dangerous.

"No," he says, voice low.

His hand slides down to yours. He steps back, giving you room to move, but his fingers stay threaded through yours.

You look down at your joined hands then back at him.

Ther's no pretending now. No careful distance. No polite little lie either of you can hide behind.

You came here because you wanted him and John knows.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he is trying to decide whether to kiss you again in the hallway or drag himself into better behavior by sheer force of will.

You make the decision harder by brushing your thumb over his freckle one last time.

John exhales, eyes darkening. "Hart," he says.

You smile. "What?"

His gaze drops to your mouth. "You're trouble."

You pause, then your smile widens. "No," you say, stepping closer until your chest nearly brushes his. "That's Lemar's name for me."

John's eyes flick back to yours.

For a heartbeat, something unreadable passes through his face.

Then his mouth curves, slow and warm. "Then what are you?"

Your hand settles against the side of his neck.

You don't have an answer. Not one that doesn't scare you. So you rise onto your toes and kiss him instead.

The weeks don't fix you. That would be too easy. Grief is not a bruise that fades politely because something good has touched it. It doesn't see John Walker's hand in yours and decide to pack its bags. It doesn't vanish because you laugh more, sleep better, or wake some mornings with your chest feeling less like an abandoned house.

It stays.

It lingers in quiet places. In support group chairs. In the space beneath your shirt where the wolf charm rests against your skin. In the sudden ache that comes when someone says Bucky's name, or when Steve's face goes distant in that way you recognize because your own reflection has worn it too often.

But something changes, you change. Not all at once, just small things.

John's hand finding yours when he walks beside you.

Your toothbrush appearing beside his sink.

The extra coffee mug he buys without telling you, pretending it was just there, like mugs spontaneously generate in cabinets when emotionally repressed soldiers fall in love.

The way you start knowing which floorboard in his apartment creaks. The way he starts keeping the pasta you like in the cabinet. The way his place stops feeling like somewhere you visit and starts feeling like somewhere that sighs when you arrive.

He visits you at the compound sometimes too.

Not often at first. The compound still has its own atmosphere, too large and echoing, a place full of ghosts wearing official badges. John walks into it like a man stepping onto a battlefield he has not been briefed on, shoulders straight, jaw set, polite in a way that makes Natasha look amused and you feel dangerously fond.

The first time he meets Steve Rogers there, you nearly choke on your coffee.

John freezes, actually freezes.

It happens in the common area on a Tuesday afternoon, because of course the universe would choose a random Tuesday to humble a decorated captain. Steve walks in wearing a gray shirt and the tired expression of a man who has carried too much history on his back and still says hello like he means it.

"John," you say, trying very hard not to smile, "this is Steve."

John's posture changes by one entire military rank.

"Captain Rogers," he says.

Steve's mouth curves faintly. "Steve is fine."

John nods once. "Yes, sir."

You press your lips together.

Natasha, sitting across the room, slowly lowers her book.

Steve's smile deepens just a little. "Really. Steve."

"Right," John says. "Steve. Sir."

You make a strangled sound into your mug.

John's eyes flick toward you, betrayed.

Natasha's eyebrows lift in exquisite delight.

Steve, who is either kind or enjoying this more than he lets on, offers his hand. "Good to meet you."

John shakes it like the entire concept of America is watching.

"You too," John says, voice very controlled. "It's an honor."

You can't help it, you laugh.

John's ears go faintly pink.

Steve glances at you. "Something funny?"

"No," you say immediately. "Nothing."

Natasha hums from the couch. "Very convincing."

John gives you a look.

You shrug, helpless. "You should've seen Lemar when he met him."

John's eyes narrow.

"He was weird about it too," you say.

"I was not weird," John says.

Natasha closes her book. "You called him sir twice after he told you not to."

John looks at her.

Natasha looks back, serene and lethal.

Steve's mouth twitches.

You sip your coffee to hide your grin.

Later, when John walks you down the hall, he mutters, "That was not my best work."

You lean into his side. "It was adorable."

His hand tightens around yours. "Do not tell Lemar."

"I am absolutely telling Lemar."

"Em."

"You called Steve Rogers sir five times in under a minute."

"I have respect for chain of command."

"He is not your chain of command."

"He's Captain America."

"Not anymore."

John looks mildly offended by the technicality. "That doesn't just go away."

You look up at him, softer now. No, you think. Some things don't just go away.

John catches the shift in your face. He always does. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once.

You say nothing.

He doesn't ask.

That's another thing you learn about him.

John can be forceful with the world, with expectations, with rules, with whatever impossible standard he has nailed into his own ribs. But he's careful with your grief.

He picks you up from support group on Wednesdays when he can.

He never makes a big deal about it. Never asks what you said in the circle before you're ready. Never pushes when your eyes are red and your voice has gone thin at the edges.

He just waits outside in his truck, leaning against the passenger side with his arms crossed, looking like every stern military warning sign ever printed, until he sees you.

Then his whole face changes. Every time. Like he has been holding his breath and didn't know he was doing it until you came out.

The first time, you almost turn around and walk back inside because the tenderness of it is unbearable.

Instead, you walk to him.

He opens the door for you.

You stare at him.

"What?" he asks.

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The gentleman thing."

He looks down at the open door, then back at you. "I can close it again."

"Don't you dare."

His mouth curves. "Get in, love."

You hate how easily you obey. You hate it less when he gets in beside you and reaches across the console, palm open. You put your hand in his.

That becomes a rhythm too.

Support group, John waiting outside, your fingers tangled with his on the drive.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. Sometimes you cry quietly while looking out the window, and he keeps his hand in yours like a promise he has no intention of announcing.

Sometimes, when the grief is lighter, you make fun of his radio presets until he threatens to leave you on the side of the road.

"You wouldn't," you say.

"I might."

"You'd miss me before the next traffic light."

He glances over. "Yeah, I would."

You look at him. His eyes stay on the road, but his thumb moves over your hand. The words land softly. Just truth, set down between you without ceremony. You look out the window before your face can betray you.

You spend most of your time at his apartment after that.

It happens gradually, then all at once.

A sweater over the back of his chair. A book on his coffee table. A bottle of shampoo and conditioner in his shower because the military sadness soap he owns makes your hair feel like straw and regret. A hair tie on his nightstand. Your favorite tea in his cabinet. Your shoes by the door.

Little traces of you everywhere, bright little fingerprints left across the careful order of his life.

John notices all of it. You know because he never moves any of it. Not even the hair tie.

The overnight bag appears after Natasha looks at you one morning over her coffee and says, "You are not fooling anyone."

You look down at yourself. John's shirt. Your jeans from yesterday. "I am fooling several people," you say.

"You are fooling no one."

"I might be fooling Steve."

"Steve is being polite."

You squint at her. "That's worse."

"Pack a bag."

"I have clothes."

"At John's?"

You open your mouth then close it.

Natasha smiles into her coffee.

Two days later, you bring an overnight bag to John's apartment and drop it beside his bedroom dresser like it doesn't mean anything.

John looks at it. Then at you. Then back at the bag.

"Don't," you warn.

"I didn't say anything."

"You are looking at it emotionally."

His mouth twitches. "Am I?"

"Yes."

"I'll work on that."

You point at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Okay."

"I just got tired of stealing your clothes."

John's gaze drops briefly to the shirt you are currently wearing.

His shirt.

You both look at it.

The room goes quiet.

You clear your throat. "This is unrelated."

"Completely."

"Exactly."

He nods, very solemn. "You brought an overnight bag so you could keep wearing my shirts."

"That is not what I said."

"It's what happened."

"You are insufferable."

His smile warms slowly. "You still came over."

You glare at him.

He kisses you before you can pretend you're angry.

The bag stays. You barely use it.

Your own sleeping clothes sit folded inside like a well-intentioned suggestion from a version of you who has never experienced the simple luxury of sleeping in John Walker's T-shirt.

His shirts are softer, warmer. They smell like him, clean soap and laundry detergent and that quiet warmth beneath it that always makes your chest ache.

So you wear them every night you stay.

John never complains.

He does, however, lose the ability to function normally for several seconds each time he sees you in one. You consider that a fair trade.

Still, there's guilt. Not the old guilt. Not the sharp, punishing kind that used to crawl under your skin and make every good thing feel stolen.

This one's quieter.

Natasha sits alone in the compound when you leave.

The building is too big for one person. Too full of empty rooms and ghosts and echoes that never learned when to stop speaking. You know that kind of silence. You hate the thought of leaving her inside it.

"You know I can stay tonight," you tell her one evening, standing near the kitchen doorway with your jacket in your hand.

Natasha looks up from cleaning a knife with the kind of calm precision that would scare a lesser person.

It scares you a normal amount.

"You have plans."

"I can cancel."

She studies you for a moment, then sets the knife down. "Mara."

You shift your weight. "What?"

"I'm not a child."

"I didn't say you were."

"I'm also not lonely in a tragic tower, waiting for you to rescue me from my own dramatic lighting."

You blink.

"That was very specific."

"You were thinking it."

"I was not thinking dramatic lighting."

"You were thinking something close."

You sigh and lean against the doorway. "It just feels wrong sometimes. Leaving you here."

Natasha's expression softens, though she tries to hide it by reaching for a towel.

"I lived alone before you," she says.

"I know."

"And I'll be fine when you spend nights somewhere else."

You look down.

She stands and crosses the kitchen, stopping in front of you. Her hand comes up, quick and gentle, tugging at the collar of your jacket like she is fixing an excuse you are wearing wrong.

"You are allowed to have something that makes you want to leave the house," she says.

Your throat tightens. "Nat."

"And for the record," she adds, "you come back lighter."

You look at her then.

Her face is careful, but not closed. There's affection there, quiet and steady, the kind she rarely puts on display because Natasha's love has always been better at action than announcement.

"That matters," she says.

You swallow hard. "I still worry."

"I know."

"I'll always worry."

Her mouth curves faintly. "Good. Keeps you annoying."

You laugh despite yourself.

She gives your collar one last tug and steps back. "Go."

"You sure?"

"Mara."

"Okay, okay."

You leave before you can make it more emotional, because apparently your main survival tactic is fleeing tenderness like it is an active grenade.

John buzzes you in before you can press the button a second time.

He opens the apartment door with his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, mouth set in concentration, fingers already flipping through a report in his other hand.

You step inside quietly.

He looks up.

The focused line of his brow softens instantly. Relief. Want. That quiet warmth that makes the whole damn world feel steadier. Home, even if neither of you has dared say the word out loud.

"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, eyes locked on you.

A pause on the other end.

"No. Tomorrow is fine." His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then back up. "Yeah. Understood."

He hangs up and exhales like he's been holding that breath since you texted him earlier. The phone lands on the coffee table with a soft thud.

"Busy?" you ask, shrugging out of your jacket and hanging it beside his.

"Report."

"Boring?"

"Extremely." He drops back onto the couch, already skimming through the papers again.

"Important?"

"Unfortunately." His mouth curves just slightly, that half-smirk you love. "Give me ten minutes. Tops."

You walk over, slow and deliberate. "That's what you said twenty minutes ago when you texted."

He glances up, eyes tracing the way you move. "It was true then."

"It's a lot less true now." You stop right in front of him, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh.

His mouth curves, but his gaze drops stubbornly back to the report. "Ten minutes."

You sit beside him anyway, thigh pressed to his. For about thirty seconds, you behave. A personal record, really.

John reads with that familiar furrowed brow, one elbow hooked over the back of the couch. His sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, apparently an act of war against your self-control. Lamplight traces the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, and the small freckle on his left earlobe.

Your freckle. Not his anymore.

You stare.

John turns a page without looking at you. "You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"You're reading. How would you even know?"

His mouth twitches. "I always know when you're staring."

"That sounds like paranoia."

"That sounds like experience." He finally lifts his eyes, just a fraction. "Hart."

The name lands warm in your chest. "What?"

"Let me finish the report."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're thinking about doing something." His voice has that slight rasp now, the one that gives him away.

You smile, slow and innocent. That, apparently, is enough.

John looks at you fully. Big mistake.

Whatever warning he meant to give dies on his lips the second your eyes meet. You lift your hand. His gaze follows it, then snaps back to your face, knowing, already braced.

Before he can protest, your fingers brush the side of his neck. His breath catches, just barely. You slide higher, gentle, reverent, until your thumb finds that tiny freckle on his earlobe.

John's eyes flutter shut for half a second.

A low, soft sound slips from his throat, that tiny fracture in his discipline. The sound that's only ever for you.

It melts through you like warm honey.

You have both learned by now that there are certain things you no longer need to ask. Not because permission has disappeared but because trust has grown in its place.

You know the difference between hesitation and invitation. You know the way John's hands open for you before they touch. You know the way his breath changes when he wants you closer. You know that if either of you says stop, everything stops.

So you don't ask before moving.

You swing one leg over him and settle into his lap, the report crinkling forgotten between you. The new position brings your bodies into closer alignment, hips settling against his. John's eyes open. For one delicious second, he looks completely betrayed by the fact that paperwork has failed to protect him.

"Mara."

"Still reading?" you ask, voice already lower than it was a second ago.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Dark. Hungry.

"No."

"Good."

You kiss him, and it's immediate fire. No slow build tonight. You're already burning, and John reacts instantly, the report abandoned blindly as his hands reach for the coffee table with very little dignity before letting the papers slide onto it. Both of his hands fall to your hips, gripping harder this time, pulling you down against him as his mouth moves against yours like he has been waiting through every phone call, every page, every line of that report just to get here.

The kiss is hungry from the start, mouths parting, tongues meeting in a slow, deep glide that makes you both groan. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging, and he answers with a rough sound that vibrates through his chest into yours.

You smile against his mouth.

He notices. His hands flex at your hips, fingers digging in. "You're proud of yourself."

"A little," you breathe, then roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

John's head tips back against the couch with a low, helpless groan. "Em..."

The sound goes straight through you.

"You're distracting," he manages, voice already rough.

"You invited me over."

"I was trying to work."

"That was your first mistake."

His laugh catches low in his chest, but it dies the second you kiss him again, deeper this time. You leave his mouth to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, and he exhales sharply.

"Jesus," he mutters, the word half-groan.

You reach his ear. Your lips brush the freckle.

John's whole body goes tense beneath you. A broken sound leaves him, low and wrecked, and his hands slide down to your thighs, gripping hard.

"Mara," he warns, voice scraped raw.

You hum against his skin. "What?"

His fingers press into your thighs. "You know what."

You kiss the freckle again, then gently scrape your teeth over it.

John shudders violently, hips jerking up into yours. A rough moan tears out of him. "Fuck..."

You smile against his ear. "I love that sound."

"You're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice shaking.

"Good."

John turns his head and catches your mouth again, kissing you like he's lost the last thread of patience. One second you're in his lap, the next, the room tilts as he moves with careful strength, rolling you beneath him on the couch. His weight settles over you, one thigh sliding between yours, and you both groan at the new pressure.

He stops immediately, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. "Okay?" he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, already pulling him back down. "Yes. John..."

He kisses you before you finish, hungrier now, the kiss messy and deep. The couch dips beneath your bodies. His hand braces beside your head, the other gripping your hip as you arch up into him. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and filthy, and you chase it, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

"God, you feel good," he murmurs against your lips, then kisses you again before you can answer.

Your hands roam over his shoulders, down his back, nails dragging lightly through his shirt. John's mouth leaves yours to trace your jaw, your throat, and you tip your head back with a soft moan.

"There," you breathe. "Right there."

He obliges, lips and tongue working that spot until you're trembling beneath him. His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm and broad against your stomach, then higher, fingers splaying over your ribs. The touch makes you arch harder, a broken sound slipping out of you.

John lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, mouth flushed.

"You keep making those sounds," he says, voice rough with want, "and I'm not gonna be able to think straight."

"Then don't think," you whisper, tugging him back down.

He goes willingly, kissing you deeper, his hand stroking slow, deliberate lines along your ribs while his hips press into yours in a slow, grinding rhythm that makes you both moan. The sounds are quiet but constant now, your soft gasps, his low groans, the wet slide of mouths meeting again and again.

At one point he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"You're shaking," he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek.

"So are you," you answer, voice breathless.

He huffs a laugh that turns into a groan when you roll your hips up to meet him again. "Yeah. I am."

His mouth finds yours once more, slower this time but no less intense, tongues sliding together as his hand keeps exploring under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin he can reach. You kiss along his jaw again, finding that freckle one more time, and the sound he makes is almost pained with pleasure.

"Jesus... Em..."

"I know," you whisper against his ear. "I know."

He captures your mouth again, kissing you like he can't get enough, like every sound you make belongs to him. His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you harder against him, and the low, desperate groan that leaves him makes heat flood through you so fast you forget how to breathe.

You're both lost in it, hands gripping, mouths moving, soft moans and rough groans filling the space between kisses, when his phone rings.

The sound slices through the apartment like a blade.

You both freeze.

John's forehead drops to your shoulder with a frustrated, broken sound that is half groan, half laugh.

"You have got to be kidding me," you whisper, voice wrecked.

He doesn't move for a second, just breathes against your neck, his hand still under your shirt, thumb stroking absent circles on your skin like he can't quite make himself stop touching you.

"If that's Lemar," you say, still breathless, "he has the worst timing in the entire universe."

John huffs against your throat, the sound almost a moan. "I'm going to kill him."

His phone keeps ringing.

He finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, hair completely mussed from your hands. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Yours.

"I should answer that," he says, but he doesn't move.

You slide your hand up to his left ear, thumb brushing the freckle one last time.

John's eyes flutter shut and a low, helpless sound leaves him.

"John."

"Yeah."

"Answer the phone."

He groans, long and low, then pushes himself up on shaky arms.

He reaches blindly for the phone, still hovering over you, and glances at the screen.

The change is immediate. His face closes. His posture shifts. Something in his shoulders locks into place, sharp and practiced. The warmth doesn't leave his eyes entirely, but the soldier steps forward inside him.

"It's not Lemar," he says.

Your stomach tightens.

He sits back slowly, giving you room, and answers the call.

"Walker."

You push yourself up on your elbows, shirt still rucked slightly at your waist, skin cooling where his hand had been.

John stands and walks toward the window. Not far, but far enough.

His back is to you for a moment, one hand at his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. The city light catches against the glass, turning his reflection faint and ghostlike.

"Yes, sir," he says.

Your body goes still. 'Military.' You sit up fully and tug your shirt down, suddenly aware of the room, the report, the way desire can vanish beneath the weight of one phone call.

John listens. His jaw tightens. "No, sir. I understand."

A pause.

His eyes flick to the window, but you can see his reflection. The crease between his brows deepens.

"I submitted that last week."

Another pause.

His hand curls briefly at his side. "Yes, sir."

Then silence, longer this time.

You watch him.

Something shifts in John's face, confusion, then something colder. He turns just enough for his eyes to meet yours over his shoulder. The look hits you like a drop in altitude.

"Yes," he says slowly into the phone. "I know her."

Your breath stalls.

The apartment suddenly feels too big, too quiet.

John's gaze stays locked on you. His voice drops, firm and steady. "She's my girlfriend."

The word lands like a quiet detonation.

Girlfriend.

The first time. Not teasing. Not whispered against your skin. Not under Lemar's grinning supervision. He says it to the military like an unshakeable fact, like something he will defend with or without permission.

Your heart stumbles hard.

John looks away first, jaw tight. "No, sir. There's nothing to report." A pause. His fingers flex around the phone. "With all due respect, I'm not sure what you're asking."

The silence on the other end stretches, tinny and poisonous.

John's posture straightens further, shoulders rigid. "Yes, sir. Understood." Another beat. "I'll be there."

Your stomach drops.

He glances at you. "No. Tomorrow morning is fine." A final, clipped "Yes, sir," and he hangs up.

For a long moment he doesn't move, phone still in hand, staring out the window. His reflection in the glass looks ready to crack.

"John?"

He turns. The mask he tries to pull on is late and sloppy.

"What did they ask you?" you say.

"Nothing."

You stare at him until he looks away.

"John."

He exhales through his nose and drags a hand over his mouth. "They asked about you."

The words drop heavy between you.

"About me how?"

"Name. Background. How long I've known you. What our relationship is." His jaw flexes. "I told them the truth."

Your skin prickles. Old instincts wake up, sharp, familiar, dangerous. Alleys. Bodies. Blood. The years you spent becoming a ghost.

"Why?" you ask, keeping your voice even.

"I don't know." The answer comes too sharp. He hears it and softens, but the worry stays. "I don't know."

He sets the phone on the windowsill with deliberate care. Too careful. That's how you know it's bad.

John is worried. Tactical, protective, angry worry, not the gentle kind he soothes with a hand on your back. This is the kind that makes him stand like he's already between you and a threat.

"Don't worry about it," he says.

You blink. "John. You're standing by the window looking like someone just handed you a live grenade with my name on it."

His expression flickers, almost amused despite everything.

"I'll handle it."

"Handle what, exactly?"

His mouth shuts. That's the part he hates, not knowing.

You stand and cross the room slowly. He watches you approach, torn between pulling you close and keeping whatever this is locked outside the door. When you stop in front of him, you don't push. Not yet. Instead you take his hand.

His fingers close around yours, too tight at first, then deliberately gentler. "Sorry," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "Don't."

His eyes search your face. "I don't like this."

"I noticed." You press your free hand to his chest, feeling the hard, rapid thump beneath your palm. "Hey."

He looks down at your hand.

You don't lie and say it's fine. You both know better. Instead, you shift the subject with the only mercy you have.

"So..." Your voice comes out lighter than you feel. "Girlfriend?"

John stills.

The hard line of his shoulders softens almost comically. His eyes snap back to yours, surprised, a little embarrassed, and warm.

"That's what you're focusing on right now?"

"Yes." You smile. "You called me your girlfriend. To the military."

His ears go faintly pink. You glance at the left one, your freckle sitting there like it belongs to you.

John catches you looking and gives you a warning look that has zero authority behind it right now.

"First time you've said it out loud," you murmur.

"Yeah." His throat works as he swallows. "I meant it." No hesitation. Just steady certainty.

Dangerous man.

"You could have asked me first," you tease, no real bite.

"I know."

"You just assigned me the title."

His mouth twitches. "That's one way to put it."

"Very official." You step closer, thumb brushing over that freckle on his earlobe.

John's breath catches. That soft, low sound slips out again, yours, always yours.

Your smile gentles. "Does this mean I can start calling you boyfriend?"

For a second he just looks at you. Then the fight drains from his face, leaving the man beneath the Captain. Not all the worry, just enough for this.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You can."

"Yeah?"

His mouth curves, small and helpless. "Yeah."

"Boyfriend," you test, soft and deliberate.

John closes his eyes for half a second, like the word lands somewhere unguarded. When he opens them, the look he gives you is warm enough to push the military call farther away.

"Girlfriend," he answers, voice low.

Your stomach flips. You try not to smile, you fail.

John notices, of course he does. He leans in slowly, giving you time, and kisses you. This one is quiet. A seal, a promise pressed into skin. His hand cups your cheek; yours stays over his heart.

When he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, "I'll find out why they asked."

The worry is still there, under the warmth.

"I know," you breathe.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

You don't tell him he can't promise that. Instead you brush your thumb over his freckle again.

His breath hitches.

"Then you'd better get used to having a girlfriend who asks questions."

John's mouth curves against yours. "Bossy."

"You like it."

His eyes soften. "Yeah. I do."

The phone stays silent on the windowsill. The report lies forgotten. The worry lingers.

But so do you.