#keithyp00

The friend who'd been with you since you were two teenagers just trying to survive the brutality of the racing academy. The boy who first helped you learn how to trail brake without spinning. The one who always noticed when you skipped lunch. The one who stayed on video call with you the night before your first pole because you were too nervous to sleep.

The one who, no matter how much he tried to hide it, still softened the moment you looked at him.

And here you were- standing at the back of the McLaren garage after the race, watching him from twenty meters away as the whole world celebrated his teammate.

Lando was mobbed by media, by engineers, by sponsors, by papaya-clad fans that sounded like they might combust from sheer excitement.

But Oscar?

Oscar stood a bit off to the side, helmet still under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist, fireproofs clinging to his chest. His hair was damp, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly unfocused with the remnants of adrenaline.

He had finished second overall and stood third in the championship standings- an achievement any other rookie would kill for.

But somehow, some way, everyone barely seemed to care.

Except you.

Your feet moved before you even decided to walk, weaving past cameras, past people shouting Lando's name, past McLaren crew members nodding politely at you when they recognized your academy jacket.

Oscar looked up at the movement, eyes locking onto you instantly- as if he'd been waiting for you to appear in the crowd.

There it was. That blink. That tiny, almost imperceptible exhale.

The relief that he didn't have to stand in a swarm of people who saw him as a number on a screen and not a person.

You knew him too well.

"Hey," you said softly, loud enough for only him to hear you as you finally reached him.

He gave the classic Piastri nonchalant shrug- famous online, but you'd seen the real version a thousand times. The one that hid nerves. The one that meant he cared more than he'd ever admit.

"You made it," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"I told you I'd be here."

"Yeah, but flights get delayed. Things happen. You didn't have to-"

"Osc." You stepped close enough for your shoulder to bump his lightly. "I wanted to."

And there it was again- his breath catching ever so slightly.

He looked away first, pretending to adjust the strap of the helmet resting on his side.

You smiled. Shy, warm, a little knowing. Because he always did that around you.

---

FLASHBACK - ACADEMY

Your visor was fogging. You were sweating inside your race suit. And you were absolutely, unquestionably about to lose your shit.

"Just brake later," your engineer kept saying over the radio. Just brake later. Just brake later. Just brake later.

You wanted to break something, that's for sure.

Then someone knocked on the side of your car in the paddock. You lifted your visor. Oscar stood there, holding a cold bottle of water and wearing that annoyingly calm expression he used whenever you were spiraling.

"You look like you're seconds away from committing homicide," he stated.

"I might," you replied dryly.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't," he deadpanned. "I'm fond of you. Prison visiting hours would seriously cut into my training schedule."

You blinked, heat rising to your face despite the sweat. Fond of you?

He coughed immediately, ears going pink. "Anyway. Uh. I can help. With the breaking thing."

"You?"

"Me. Yes. Shocking, I know."

"You just like showing off," you muttered.

"Absolutely," he smiled. "But this time it's to help you.

And it did help. And he never let you forget it.

---

PRESENT DAY

Now he was taller. Sharper. More mature in that quiet, unexpectedly confident way he developed after joining F1.

But to you?

He was still the boy who steadied your shaking hands before your first academy podium.

"Seriously," you smiled gently, "you were incredible today."

he huffed a laugh. "Could've been better."

"Oscar." You stepped in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "You were second overall. Third in the entire championship. That's-"

"Not first," he said, tone deceptively light, but you heard the undertone. You always heard it.

"You're allowed to be proud of yourself," you told him. "I'm proud of you."

And before he could respond, a group of McLaren staff passed behind you- cheering loudly. "Landooo! Media room, mate! Let's go!"

Oscar's jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second. Not jealousy. Not resentment. Just... being overlooked. Again.

You didn't even think. Your hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing his.

He froze. You froze. Your fingertips touched for maybe a second- barely anything. But Oscar reacted like you'd lit a fuse under him. He drew in a sharp breath, eyes flicking down to your hand, then up to your face, expression unreadable in a way only he could manage.

"...Come with me?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Where?"

"Somewhere quiet."

The way he said it- low, quiet, almost vulnerable- sent heat racing down your spine. Before you could respond, he cleared his throat quickly, trying to mask whatever he just revealed.

"Just for a bit," he added. Media's gonna be focusing on Lando for at least another hour. I could use some time away from... this."

You smiled. "I'm always down to escape with you."

His lips twitched. "'Escape' makes it sound like we're fugitives."

"Have you seen the paddock? We practically are."

That actually made him laugh- soft, quiet, the kind no one else ever got to hear.

He turned toward the back exit of the garage, shoulder brushing yours as he led you out, making sure you stayed close in the bustling chaos.

And when someone called out- "Hey, where's Oscar going?"

-- You didn't miss the way he subtly stepped closer to you, shielding you with his body as he guided you into the quieter service corridor behind the hospitality building.

His voice dropped again, only for you. "Thank you for being here."

"I told you, Osc-"

"No," he cut in gently, eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart lurch, "thank you for being here for me."

And right there, in that quiet corridor while the world celebrated someone else, you felt something shift.

Something bigger than the crowd. Bigger than the race. Bigger than the season.

Because even after all these years, all the changes, all the growing up... Oscar Piastri still looked for you first. And you still came running.

___

The corridor behind the McLaren hospitality unit was dimmer, cooler, and blissfully silent compared to the chaos you'd just escaped.

Oscar leaned back against the wall the moment you were out of sight, tilting his head slightly as if grounding himself. The overhead lights cast soft shadows across his face, sharp lines softened by exhaustion and something else you couldn't quite name. Relief, maybe. Or vulnerability.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, watching him the way you always did when he thought no one was paying attention. "How long do you think we've got?" you asked quietly.

He glanced over at a clock on the wall. "Thirty minutes. Maybe forty if Lando gets dragged into extra interviews."

You hummed. "So... plenty of time, then,"

He snorted softly. "Yeah. He's the star today." The words weren't bitter. Oscar never sounded bitter. But they were honest.

You stepped closer, resting your back on the wall opposite of him. The narrowness of the corridor suddenly made everything feel more intimate, like the world had folded in on itself just to give the two of you this moment.

"You know," you said carefully, "you don't always have to be okay with that."

His gaze lifted, meeting yours immediately. "Okay with what?"

"With being the one people forget to look at."

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn't expected you to say that out loud. "I'm not forgotten," he replied after a moment. "Just... quieter."

You tilted your head. "Are you sure that's better?"

A pause stretched between you, thick and heavy. Oscar scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. "You always do that," he murmured.

"Do what?"

"Say the thing everyone else avoids."

You shrugged. "Someone has to."

His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache.

___

FLASHBACK- ACADEMY

You were sitting on the floor beside your car, knees pulled to your chest, helmet resting uselessly at your side.

You hadn't cried. Not yet. But you were close.

Oscar had finished fourth. You'd finished eleventh. Bad strategy call. Not your fault. Still devastating.

He'd found you there without asking anyone where you'd gone

"Hey," he said quietly, crouching in front of you. "You didn't deserve that."

You laughed bitterly. "You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time."

You stared at him. "Why do you care so much?"

He'd gone still Then shrugged- awkward, uncertain.

"Because you're good," he said simply. "And because it hurts watching someone good doubt themself."

You hadn't know what to say to that. You still didn't.

---

PRESENT DAY

Oscar shifted his weight, the sound of distant cheering echoing faintly through the walls.

"They're probably opening champagne by now," he said. "Team dinner tonight. You coming?"

"Wasn't invited."

His brows furrowed immediately. "What? Why not?"

You gave him a wry smile. "I'm not exactly part of the circus anymore."

He frowned harder. "That's stupid."

You laughed softly. "Welcome to motorsport."

There was a beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, he pushed off the wall and took a step toward you. "Come anyway," he stated.

Your heart skipped. "Oscar-"

"I'm serious," he insisted. "You were part of this just as much as anyone else. You've been part of my whole career."

The way he said my made your stomach flip.

"I don't think Zak would appreciate me crashing the McLaren celebration."

"Zak will survive," Oscar said, lips twitching. "He usually does."

You studied him for a moment, searching his face. "Why do you want me there?" you asked softly.

He hesitated. Just for a second. But you noticed.

"I-" he exhaled. "Because when everyone's talking over me, you don't."

That did it. Something inside you shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

You stepped closer without realizing it, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint traces of sweat and champagne and something uniquely Oscar. "You don't talk over me either," you said quietly. "You listen."

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then snapped back up- like he'd caught himself doing something dangerous.

"You always know when I'm lying," he murmured.

"That's because you're terrible at it."

He smiled faintly. "Only with you."

The air felt heavier now, charged with something neither of you were brave enough to name.

A burst of laughter echoed from outside- Lando's voice unmistakable, followed by cheers.

Oscar stiffened slightly. You didn't hesitate. Your hand reached out, resting gently on his forearm.

"Hey," you said. "You did good today. You don't have to disappear just because someone else is louder."

He looked down at your hand like it belonged there. Like it always had.

"I don't feel invisible when you're around," he admitted under his breath.

Your throat tightened. "Good," you whispered. "Because I see you."

His breath caught. For one terrifying, electrifying moment, you thought he might lean in. Thought his forehead might touch yours. Thought this- whatever this was- might finally tip over into something undeniable.

Instead, a McLaren staffer's voice echoed faintly down the corridor. "Oscar! We're heading to the press room in five!"

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the walls were back up- polite, composed, careful. But not entirely.

"Dinner?" he asked again, softer this time. "Please?"

You smiled, heart pounding. "I wouldn't miss it."

He nodded once, then stepped past you, pausing just long enough to brush your shoulder with his. And as he walked away, you noticed something you hadn't before. He didn't look disappointed anymore. He looked... hopeful.

---

The restaurant overlooking the marina was everything McLaren liked to pretend they were effortless at being- sleek, modern, buzzing with energy and champagne and a very specific kind of victory.

Orange flooded the room.

Orange accents, orange shirts, orange caps tossed carelessly over chair backs. The long table near the windows was already half-filled when you arrived, laughter echoing off glass walls as the sun dipped low over Yas Island.

Oscar walked in just ahead of you.

You watched the shift happen in real time.

Shoulders straightened. Expression neutralized. Public Oscar slid seamlessly into place.

But he slowed when he realized you weren't beside him anymore.

You'd paused just inside the entrance, suddenly very aware that you were stepping into his world again- not as a driver, not as a teammate, just... someone from before.

He turned back immediately.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded. "Yeah. Just- feels weird."

He studied you for a moment, then did something that made your breath hitch. He held out his hand. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough for you to see it.

"Sit with me," he said simply.

You didn't hesitate. The table erupted into noise as you joined them.

"Oscar!" "There he is!" "Second place, mate- huge!"

Hands clapped his back. Someone shoved a glass into his hand. Zak grinned from across the table, already halfway through a story about strategy calls and tire degradation.

And yet- despite all of it- Oscar pulled out the chair next to him and waited until you sat before taking his own.

Lando noticed immediately. You saw it in the way his eyes flicked between the two of you, brows lifting just slightly.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And who's this?"

You opened your mouth, but Oscar beat you to it.

"This is-" he paused. Just a fraction too long, "-my friend."

The word felt heavier than it should've.

"From the academy," he added quickly. "We raced together."

Lando's grin sharpened. "Oh," he said. "That friend."

You blinked. "That friend?"

He waved it off. "Oscar talks about you more than you think."

Oscar nearly choked on his drink. "I do not."

"You absolutely do," Lando shot back. "Anytime someone brings up academy days, he gets all-" he gestured vaguely, "-quiet and sentimental."

Oscar shot him a warning look. Lando grinned wider. You hid your smile behind your glass.

Dinner rolled on in waves of laughter and clinking silverware, stories about near misses and radio arguments and inside jokes you'd forgotten how much you missed being a part of.

Oscar stayed close the entire time. His knee brushed yours under the table more than once. His arm rested along the back of your chair. When someone asked you a question, he turned toward you fully, attention undivided.

People started to notice.

"So," one of the engineers said casually, "you sticking around after this?"

You shrugged. "Wasn't sure."

Oscar answered without thinking. "She is."

You turned to him. "I am?"

He froze. Then, quietly, "If you want to."

Something about the way he said it- hopeful, uncertain- made your chest tighten. "I want to," you said softly.

Across the table, Lando lifted his glass. "Right," he muttered. "I see what's happening."

Oscar kicked him under the table. Hard.

---

The night air was cooler on the balcony, carrying the faint scent of salt and engine fumes from the track below.

You leaned against the railing, watching the lights shimmer across the water. Oscar joined you a moment later, two glasses in hand.

"Thought you might want one," he said, offering you the glass filled with champagne.

"Thanks."

You clinked glasses softly. Neither of you spoke for a while. The noise from inside faded into a distant hum- music, laughter, celebration that felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

"You okay?" he asked eventually.

You nodded. "Just... nostalgic."

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. Me too."

Silence stretched again, comfortable but charged.

"Lando thinks something's going on," you said lightly.

Oscar groaned. "Of course he does."

"Is he wrong?' you asked quietly.

He turned to you slowly. The city lights reflected in his eyes, making them look softer than you'd ever seen. "I don't know," he admitted. "That's the problem."

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

"I think," he continued, voice low, "we've been orbiting each other for a long time."

You swallowed. "That's one way to put it."

He leaned closer, forearms resting on the railing beside yours. "I've never been good at... this part," he said. "The feelings part. the risking-things part."

You looked at him. Really looked. "You risk everything every weekend," you said gently. "Just not this."

He laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Exactly."

The space between you felt suddenly very small. Too small. You could feel his warmth, hear his breathing, see the way his gaze dropped to your lips again- this time lingering.

"Oscar," you whispered.

He stilled. "If this is a bad idea," he said softly, "tell me now."

You didn't. Instead, you stepped closer. Close enough that your chest brushed his arm. Close enough that your fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve without thinking.

"I don't think it's bad," you said. "I think it's just... scary."

His land lifted slowly, hovering near your waist like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

When you didn't, he rested it there- warm, steady, grounding.

For one suspended, breathless moment, it felt inevitable.

Then- "Oscar!"

Both of you jumped. Lando leaned halfway out the balcony doors, smirking. "Zak's looking for you," he said. "Also, for the record-" his eyes flicked pointedly between the two of you, "-I called this."

Oscar dropped his hand immediately, stepping back.

You laughed, breathless, heart racing. "Of course you did," you muttered.

Lando winked. "Carry on." The doors slid shut.

Oscar exhaled shakily. "Sorry," he said. "That-"

"Don't," you interrupted. "I don't regret it."

He looked at you surprised. Neither did he.

"Walk with me?" he asked quietly.

You nodded.

As you left the balcony together, fingers brushing once more, you knew one thing for certain- Whatever this was between you and Oscar Piastri? It was no longer invisible. And neither of you could pretend it didn't exist anymore.

---

The paddock at night felt nothing like it did during the day. The noise was gone. The chaos had burned itself out. What remained was the low hum of generators, the glow of overhead lights reflecting off empty asphalt, and the echo of footsteps that felt far too loud in the quiet.

You walked beside Oscar, hands brushing occasionally, neither of you daring to fully close the distance yet.

Not after the balcony. Not after everything that had almost happened.

"I can't believe Lando," you muttered.

Oscar huffed a laugh. "He has a sixth sense for ruining moments."

"You looked like you were about to throttle him."

"Briefly considered it," he admitted. "Decided it would be bad for my public image."

You smiled, but the laughter faded quickly. The silence that followed wasn't awkward- it was heavy. Full. Loaded with everything neither of you had said yet.

Oscar slowed, then stopped altogether near the edge of the paddock, where the lights dimmed and the marina breeze cut through the lingering heat. You turned to face him. He didn't look away this time.

"I didn't mean to pull away back there," he said quietly. "I just-"

"You don't have to explain," you said gently.

"No," he insisted. "I do." His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with a measured breath. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

Your heart stuttered. "...Do what?"

He laughed softly, almost embarrassed. "Kiss you." There it was. Bare. Honest. Unavoidable. "You always felt... off-limits," he continued. "Like if I crossed that line, I'd ruin something I couldn't get back."

You stepped closer without telling your body to. "Oscar," you whispered, "we stopped being just academy kids a long time ago."

"I know," he said. "But every time I thought about saying something, you were doing something incredible. Moving on. Living your life." He looked at you, eyes searching. "And I didn't want to be another thing pulling you in a direction you didn't choose."

Your chest ached. "You never pulled," you stated. "You waited."

His jaw tightened. "I waited too long."

You reached for him then- really reached- your fingers wrapping around his wrist, grounding him. "You're here now."

He swallowed. "So are you."

The air between you felt electric.

His hand lifted again, slower this time, more certain. He cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing along your cheek like he was committing the feeling to his memory.

"Tell me to stop."

You didn't. Instead, you leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first- tentative, careful, like both of you were afraid the moment might disappear if you moved too fast. His lips were warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten painfully.

When he exhaled against your mouth, something in him broke. The kiss deepened- not frantic, not desperate, but sure. Like he'd finally stopped holding back. His other hand settled at your waist, fingers pressing lighting like he was anchoring himself to you.

You melted into him, hands sliding up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, foreheads touching, the world felt quieter than it ever had.

Oscar laughed softly, incredulous. "...Wow."

You smiled, cheeks warm. "Yeah.."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed. "I've replayed that moment in my head," he spoke quietly into the chill air. "More times than I care to admit."

"You're kidding."

He shook his head. "No. Always thought it would be... different."

"Different how?"

"Less terrifying," he smiled. "Less perfect."

Your heart skipped. He opened his eyes again, gaze steady and sincere.

"I don't know what this means," he stated. "But I know I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."

You squeezed his hand. "Neither do I."

A voice echoed faintly in the distance- someone calling for him again. He groaned. "They're going to start a search party."

You laughed softly.

He hesitated, then leaned in once more- this time with confidence- and kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. Certain. When he pulled back, he smiled- not the polite one he wore for cameras, but the real one you remembered from late nights in the academy garage.

"Stay," he said softly. "Just... with me. Tonight."

You nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

As you walked back toward the lights together, his hand found your naturally, fingers lacing like it had always been meant to happen this way. And for the first time in a long time, Oscar didn't feel like he was standing in anyone else's shadow.

Because the person he'd always wanted to see him- Was walking right beside him.

---

You woke up to silence. Not the heavy, lonely kind- but the calm, suspended kind, like the world had agreed to hold its breath for a little while longer.

Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, pale gold spilling across unfamiliar white sheets. For a moment, you didn't move. You just lay there, blinking slowly, listening. There was the faint hum of air conditioning. The distant murmur of traffic far below. And- warmth. Solid. Steady. Real.

You shifted slightly and felt it immediately: an arm wrapped securely around your waist, a chest rising and falling behind you, breath warm against the back of your neck.

Oscar.

Last night came back in fragments first.

The walk. The kiss. The way he'd held your hand like it was instinct rather than intention. The quiet room. The way he'd looked at you afterward, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

Your heart thudded softly and you turned carefully in his arms.

Oscar was still asleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, hair messy in a way you'd only ever seen during academy weekends when he'd fallen asleep in airport chairs or hotel lobbies between flights.

He looked younger like this. Softer Unarmored. One hand curled loosely into the fabric of your shirt, fingers flexing slightly when you moved, like even in sleep he was aware of where you were.

You swallowed. God. This was dangerous.

As if sensing your stare, his brow furrowed faintly. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first- then sharpening the moment he saw you.

"Oh," he murmured. His voice was rough, sleep-warmed. "You're still here."

You smiled. "Good morning to you too."

He blinked, then exhaled- long and relieved- pulling you closer without hesitation. "Sorry," he said immediately. "That sounded... wrong. I just meant-"

"I know what you meant." you said gently.

He relaxed against the pillow, eyes searching your face like he was memorizing it. "Did I dream it?" He asked quietly.

You leaned in and kissed him- soft, lingering, real. "No," you whispered against his lips. "You didn't."

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that crinkled his eyes and made his whole face soften, like a weight he'd been carrying for years and finally shifted. "Okay," he said. "Good."

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his. Neither of you moved for a while.

Eventually, Oscar spoke again. "We should probably talk about it," he stated.

You nodded. "Yeah. We probably should."

He rolled onto his side so he was facing you fully, propping himself up on one elbow. "I don't want this to be something that happens once because we were emotional and tired and it was the end of the season," he said carefully. "And I don't want to scare you by saying that if this is something, I take it seriously."

Your chest warmed. "You don't scare me," you said. "You never have."

His gaze softened. "I've liked you for a long time," he admitted. "I just didn't know what to do with it."

You reached up, thumb brushing along his jaw. "I think we've both been doing that."

He nodded, leaning into your touch instinctively.

"So," he started, a hint of nervousness creeping in, "maybe we... don't define it quite yet?"

You smiled. "I'd be okay with that."

His shoulders visibly relaxed.

"But," you added, "I don't want to hide it either."

He met your eyes. "Neither do I."

A knock sounded at the door. You both froze.

Oscar groaned, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. "Please tell me that's not Lando." Another knock.

"Oscar!" Lando's voice came through loud and clear. "We're leaving for the airport in an hour, and Zak wants to-" The door opened slightly.

Lando stopped. Looked at you. Looked at Oscar. Looked at your intertwined positions on the bed. Then he grinned.

"Oh," he said. "So that's what happened."

Oscar buried his face in his hands. "Get out," he muttered.

Lando laughed. "Relax, Romeo. I'll tell Zak you're... occupied."

The door shut and you burst out laughing. Oscar looked at you, resigned but smiling.

"Well," he said. "That was inevitable."

You reached for him again, fingers lacing with his easily, naturally. "What happens when the season starts again?" you asked quietly.

He squeezed your hand. "We figure it out," he said. "Together. Like we always have."

And for the first time, the uncertainty didn't feel scary. It felt promising. Because this time, when the noise faded and the lights dimmed and the world moved on to its next obsession- Oscar Piastri wouldn't be standing alone. He had you. And you had him.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

There had been the near-kiss during movie night when his face had been right there in the glow of the screen, and you chickened out because Gar and Vic had barged in with popcorn. There had been the one almost-kiss after a training session when he leaned in so close you thought it was going to happen- but he sneezed, and the moment shattered into laughter.

And maybe that was the problem. Being with Wally was easy, Kissing him? That felt like it would change something. Something big.

"Okay, breathe," you muttered to yourself, blowing into your hands to fight off the chill. "It's just a kiss. People do this all the time."

"Talking to yourself again?"

You jumped so hard you nearly tripped over your own feet. And there he was- red hair tousled by the wind, green eyes lit up with mischief, a grin tugging at his lips. He wore that battered old hoodie you liked, the one with a faded Keystone City baseball logo on the front. And of course, he had that speedster smugness, like he'd been standing there for ages and you were the one late to the party.

"Wally?" you scolded, pressing a hand to your chest. "Don't do that!"

"What, show up?" he teased, strolling closer with that casual confidence that somehow didn't look rehearsed on him. "Or catch you having a full conversation with... yourself?"

"I wasn't-" you stopped, narrowing your eyes. "Okay, maybe I was. But that doesn't mean you get to make fun of me."

"Who said I'm making fun? I think it's adorable," he said smoothly, leaning on the railing beside you. His arm brushed yours, warm even through your jacket.

You tried to play it cool. You really did. "You always sneak up on people like that?"

"Only on the people I like." His tone softened just enough to make your stomach flip.

There it was. The thing he did- the disarming honesty beneath all the bravado. You glanced at him, but he wasn't smirking this time. He was just looking at you, like he couldn't quite believe you were there.

Your heart thumped. Loud. Too loud.

"So," he started after a beat, his voice lighter again. "Why are you hiding out here? Don't tell me you're avoiding another one of Vic's karaoke nights."

You laughed, grateful for the deflection. "No. Just needed some air."

"Hmm." He studied you, head tilted. Then, before you could blink, he darted away- literally- and returned in less than a second holding two mugs of hot chocolate, steam curling from the tops.

You blinked. "Did you just-"

"Zoom down to the kitchen?" He smirked, handing you a mug. "Yeah. Perks of dating the fastest man alive."

"You're impossible," you said, but you smiled as you wrapped your hands around the cup.

"And yet you keep me around." He bumped your shoulder playfully.

The night settled around you, quieter this time. Just the two of you, the city lights in the distance, the stars overhead. Wally sipped his hot chocolate like it was the most important task in the world, and you felt the weight of unsaid words pressing against your tongue.

You wanted to kiss him. God, you wanted to kiss him.

But how? Do you just... lean in? Do you wait for him? What if you missed and ended up bumping noses? What if-

"You're staring," he said suddenly, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Your face heated. "I am not."

"You are." He turned to look at you fully, green eyes sharp and soft all at once. "Which, you know, I'm not complaining about. I like it when you stare."

"Wally..." you warned, though your voice was more breathless than stern.

He leaned closer, close enough that you could count the freckles across his cheeks, close enough that your heart felt like it might sprint right out of your chest to try and keep up with him.

"You know," he murmured, "I've been trying to find the right moment."

Your breath caught. "The right moment?"

He smiled, softer this time. "Yeah. To do this."

And then- finally- he kissed you.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't rushed. For all his speed, Wally kissed you slow. His lips brushed yours like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to savor every second. Your hand found its way to his hoodie, clutching the fabric as you melted into him. His free hand- because of course he hadn't let go of his hot chocolate- rested gently against your waist, grounding you.

When you finally pulled back, the world felt a little different. Brighter, Louder. Like every atom in your body had been rewired.

Wally grinned, his forehead resting against yours. "Worth the wait."

You laughed, a little breathless. "Yeah. Definitely worth the wait."

He kissed you again, quick and sweet this time, before pulling back with that trademark smirk. "So... when do I get to brag to the others that I finally kissed my girlfriend?"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. "Let's keep it to ourselves. Just for tonight."

"Deal," he said, and you knew he'd keep it- because for once, Wally West wasn't in any rush.

"You brought me to hell," Mike mutters.

Harvey adjusts his tie and smooths his coat. "Don't be dramatic, that's Louis' department. You're getting out. You're socializing. You're touching grass."

"This is a bar."

"Liquid grass." Harvey shrugs. "Close enough."

Mike glares. "You forced me. You practically dragged me."

"If I dragged you, you'd have scuffed those hideous shoes you insist on wearing. Now go inside."

Before Mike can argue, Harvey pushes the door open and ushers him in with a palm on his back.

And that's when Mike sees you.

___

You, behind the bar.

You're wiping down the counter with a rag casually slung over your shoulder, hair tied back in a way that looks like you did it without thinking but somehow looks perfect. Your expression is calm. focused. A little bored, maybe. Until you look up.

Your eyes meet Mike's for a single second.

Mike forgets everything. His name. Harvey's existence. The concept of breathing.

Harvey snaps his fingers next to his ear. "Mike? Are you concussed?"

"I... uh... what?"

"There it is," Harvey smirks. "The Mike Ross brain-crash."

"I don't- I wasn't- Shut up."

But Harvey has already caught it. He sees the way Mike's gaze gravitates back to you like you're magnetic. Supernova-level gravitational pull.

"Uh-huh," Harvey mutters. "This just got interesting."

Mike tries to compose himself, clear his throat, straighten his shirt- only for Harvey to swat his hands away.

"You look fine. No amount of grooming is going to fix the fact you look like a golden retriever who hasn't been brushed."

Mike groans. "I hate you."

"No, you don't. You're welcome. Now go sign in for your dates." Harvey gives him a shove toward the little table covered in name tags.

But Mike? Mike takes a half-step toward the bar instead.

Harvey grabs the back of his jacket. "You can flirt with the bartender after you suffer through your scheduled humiliation."

___

The First Few Dates

Mike sits down at a small two-person table. The place is littered with them. twinkle lights. Soft indie music. Buzzing chatter.

Date #1 sits down. Her name is Kayla. She's enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic.

"So my favorite hobby is making miniature historical dioramas out of recycled cardboard!"

Mike blinks. "That's... impressive."

"It's a very meditative craft," she says. "Last month I recreated the Battle of Hasting using only cereal boxes."

"That's- yeah. That's.. wow."

But his eyes drift behind her. To the bar. To you.

You're adding a garnish to a drink, lips slightly pursed in concentration, and Mike stares like he's trying to solve a physics equation by observation alone.

The bell rings. Date #1 rotates. Date #2 sits. She giggles before she even speaks.

"Oh my god, you're cute."

Mike forces a smile. "Thanks."

"I'm doing a juice cleanse right now, so I can't drink at all."

There is a long pause.

"...Cool."

"My friends say I'm a Scorpio sun with Taurus rising so I'm, like, complicated but loveable!"

Mike's brain is already drifting. You're laughing at something someone said at the other end of the bar. Your laugh is bright, warm- His chest actually warms in response.

Date #2: "Are you listening?"

Mike: "Yep! Taurus sun."

"-Taurus rising."

"Oh. Right."

He takes a long sip of water. He thinks about getting a real drink. He thinks about who would serve it to him.

Date #3 sits down. She talks too fast. Date #4 reads him her poetry.

Date #5 keeps playing with her hair and saying "You look nervous Mike. You don't have to be nervous around me."

Date #6 says, "I'm looking for someone financially stable and emotionally mature.'

Harvey, from across the room, sees Mike's dead expression and laughs into the rim of his whiskey glass.

___

Finally, he can't take it anymore.

He pushes back from Date #7 with a polite smile. "Uh, sorry, I- I just need another drink."

"Ooh, what are you having?"

"Whatever cures misery."

He walks away before she can answer. And he walks straight to you.

You greet him with that small, polite bartender smile.

"What can I get you?"

Mike opens his mouth- nothing comes out.

You tilt your head, waiting.

He blinks twice. "Uh... ginger ale."

You raise one brow. "You came all the way over here looking like you were contemplating the meaning of your whole life for a ginger ale?"

Mike flushes. "I... yeah, I guess."

You smile. Really smile, this time. "Okay. Ginger ale it is."

You pour it, sliding the glass toward him with an easy motion. Mike takes it like it's a blessing.

"You're new here, right?" you ask, wiping down a spill near your elbow. "I don't usually see you at these events."

"I'm being forced," he blurts.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, uh- my boss thinks I need to 'get out more', which is code for 'stop feeling sorry for myself.'"

"That's a very specific code."

"Yeah, Harvey's not subtle."

You laugh. It's like a small sun going off.

"So, how's it going?" you ask. "Meeting your future wife at table six?"

"Oh, absolutely not. I think table six wants to sacrifice me to her crystal collection."

You laugh. Mike grins like he's won gold.

You lean your elbows on the bar, interest in your gaze. "And you? What do you look for at a speed dating event?"

Mike nearly says you. His throat tightens. His brain tells him to play it cool.

"My standards are low tonight," he says instead. "I'll settle for someone who doesn't think Mercury being in retrograde is the cause of her car breaking down."

"Wow. Tough crowd."

"You have no idea."

He takes a sip of ginger ale, then glances at your nametag- only to realize you're not wearing one.

"I'm Mike," he offers.

You smile. "I know. They have your name on the sign-in sheet."

"I feel violated."

You laugh again. "I'm Y/N."

Mike repeats your name under his breath, like he's trying to memorize it.

___

While Mike sips his drink like it's liquid courage, you're mixing a cocktail for someone else when you say, offhand:

"I actually like working these events. Speed dating is basically inefficient data sorting in real time."

Mike freezes. He looks up sharply. "Inefficient... what now?"

You shrug casually. "It's like trying to run a matching algorithm with incomplete data sets. You can't optimize for compatibility if each unit only interacts for three minutes."

Mike's jaw drops. You're smart. Not 'I read my horoscope' smart. Not 'I like crime podcasts' smart.

Actually smart.

"You... like algorithms?" he asks, stunned.

"I was a math major," you say. "Well, technically applied mathematics."

Mike actually forgets to breathe.

You laugh at his expression. "What? You look like I just told you I juggle chainsaws."

"No, no, it's just- math? Really?"

"What, you think bartenders can't like math?"

"No! No, that's now what I- I mean, I love math. I competed in mathletes. I still read probability books for fun. I literally alphabetize my stress by calculating all possible outcomes until I have a crisis."

You stare at him. A slow smile spreads across your lips.

"That... actually makes sense for you," you say softly.

Mike melts.

___

Harvey appears behind Mike like a demon summoned upon his shoulder.

"What's going on here?" he asks, eyes flicking between the two of you.

"Harvey, this is-"

"Y/N," you fill in, giving a polite nod.

Harvey leans on the bar. "Pleasure. I'm Mike's babysitter."

Mike groans. "Can you please go away."

"Nope." Harvey takes a sip of Mike's ginger ale. "I'm supervising."

You give Mike a sympathetic look. "He treats you like you're twelve."

"He thinks I am."

"I don't think you are," Harvey replies. "I simply recognize that without adult supervision, you'd probably sign up for a pyramid scheme."

You cover your mouth, laughing quietly.

Harvey smirks at the sight. "Oh, so this is why he keeps coming back to the bar."

Mike's face goes red.

Harvey smirks in your direction, "he hasn't made it through a single full date without glancing in this direction."

You glance at Mike, soft amusement in your eyes. "Not even one?"

"No," Mike admits. "But I'm really enjoying this ginger ale."

"Uh-huh," you say, leaning your chin on your hand. "Totally the ginger ale."

Mike swallows.

Harvey claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, Romeo. Back to the tables. Don't worry, she'll still be here when you need another excuse."

Mike sighs. Deeply. He gives you an apologetic, reluctant smile.

You smile back. Warm and soft.

"Go," you murmur. "I'll be here."

___

Mike tries. He really does.

But every girl seems duller now. Not their fault- but they're not you.

Date #8 keeps calling him "Mikey." Date #9 asks him if he believes in soul vibrations. Date #10 says she only dates men over six feet tall- then awkwardly says "But I guess you have... other qualities?"

Mike just stands up and walks to the bar again.

Harvey doesn't even try to stop him this time.

You look up, trying not to laugh. "Emergency ginger ale?"

"Something stronger."

You bite your lip. "How strong?"

"Make me forget table ten.'

You grin and reach for the whiskey. As you pour, you ask, "So... do you actually want to meet someone tonight?"

Mike hesitates. His heart answers faster than his mouth.

"No," he admits softly. "I... don't think so. My boss just worries too much."

"About your social life?"

"About me," Mike says quietly. "Which is embarrassing."

You soften. "Does he have a good reason?"

Mike looks down at his hands. "I've had a rough year."

You nod slowly. You don't pry. You don't make assumptions. You just look at him with this gentle understanding in your eyes that makes Mike want to spill every secret he's ever had.

He clears his throat. "Anyway. He thought this would help."

"Has it?"

Mike meets your eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Actually."

You blink. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He smiles a small, crooked smile. "I met someone interesting."

You freeze for a moment, surprised. Then your lips curve in a slow, shy smile.

"Oh," you murmur. "Well... that's good."

Mike blushes and takes a sip of whiskey.

___

This continues. Date, bar. Date, bar. Date, bar.

Eventually, he stops pretending. He just sits at the bar for longer stretches while Harvey half-heartedly waves him back.

After his third whiskey, he leans on the counter, chin on his hand.

"Okay," he says, "tell me something nerdy."

You laugh. "Nerdy?"

"Yes. Impress me with your math powers."

You roll your eyes playfully, thinking. "Fine. You know the Collatz conjecture?"

Mike's eyes light up so brightly it's almost embarrassing. "Are- are you serious"

"Yeah."

"Nobody just brings that up in conversation."

"I do," you say. "If they're cute enough."

Mike nearly dies on the spot.

Harvey, across the room, sees this and shakes his head.

___

By the time the speed dating event is winding down, Mike is perched on a barstool like it's home. Half-tipsy, full smitten, cheeks flushed, eyes soft.

You're wiping down glasses, and he's watching you like you're the only real person in the room.

Harvey approaches, coat over his arm.

"Well," Harvey says, "you didn't meet your future wife, but you did meet your future restraining order."

Mike doesn't even react. He's still staring at you.

Harvey shakes his head. "Kid. You're pathetic. Let's go."

Mike finally looks away, reluctantly. "I- uh- I should go," he says to you.

You smile, leaning forward. "Come back sometime."

That one sentence hits him like a truck. He swallows. Smiles. Soft. Real. Nervous.

"I will."

He steps away. Then- he turns back. "One more thing," he says, voice quiet.

"Yeah?" you ask.

Mike's heart thunders. "I'm... really glad I came tonight."

You blink, shy but warm. "Me too."

___

Three days. It has been three full days since the speed dating fiasco, and Mike Ross has not stopped thinking about you for even a fraction of a second.

He's supposed to be working. Supposed to be drafting a contract. Supposed to be listening while Harvey explains a strategy.

But no.

His brain is doing exactly one thing: Replaying the way you said Come Back sometime like an invitation wrapped in a smile.

And it's destroying him.

Harvey notices around hour three of Mike staring blankly at a legal brief. "What's wrong with you?" Harvey snaps, snapping a pen cap loudly. Mike flinches. "Nothing."

"You're sighing like a window."

"I'm fine, Harvey."

"You're useless," Harvey decides. "Catatonic. Distracted. It's pathetic."

Mike slumps forward. "I'm not catatonic. I'm just- busy."

"You're thinking about the bartender."

Mike freezes. Harvey smirks.

"Oh god," Harvey says slowly. "You are."

"I'm not-"

"You're in love with a woman you spoke to for thirty minutes, Mike. This is new, even for you."

Mike covers his face with both hands. "Please stop talking."

Harvey stands, grabs his coat, and points at Mike with courtroom authority. "Get up."

Mike looks up. "What?"

"We're going."

"Where?"

Harvey smirks. "Where else? The bar."

Mike's brain crashes like a poorly coded app. "Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

"No. No, Harvey. I'm not- I'm not ready! I don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"You're going to ask her out."

Mike makes a strangled noise. "I can't just- what if she's not even working today?"

"Then you buy a drink and cry in the corner while I make fun of you."

"That's not comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be."

Harvey snaps his fingers. "Let's go, Romeo."

___

Harvey walks confidently through the Manhattan streets. Mike trails behind like a terrified toddler.

"I'm sweating," Mike mutters. "I'm literally sweating. Is that normal? Am I having a heart attack?"

"Christ." Harvey doesn't even look at him. "Pull yourself together. You've almost been to prison, Mike. Prison."

"This is worse! What if she doesn't remember me?"

"She remembers you."

"You don't know that."

"You tried to tip all the money in your wallet. She remembers you."

Mike groans loudly. Harvey says nothing, because he knows the groan is acceptance.

___

When Harvey pushes open the door, the bar is quieter than the speed dating night- warm lighting, soft music, mostly regulars.

Mike steps inside and immediately feels his heart in his throat.

He spots you instantly.

You're behind the bar, hair swept back, reading something between orders. Calm. Pretty. Totally unaware that Mike Ross is currently dying.

Harvey elbows him forward. "Go."

"I can't."

"You will."

But Mike is frozen, staring.

You look up. Your eyes find him- and your face lights up with recognition.

Mike genuinely thinks his knees almost give out.

You grin. "Well, look who it is."

Mike lets out a small, pathetic, sigh.

You walk over, towel slung over your shoulder.

"Back for more ginger ale?" you tease.

Harvey lets out a laugh behind him.

Mike's brain sparks. "I- yes. No. I mean- maybe? I don't know. Um."

You laugh softly. "Don't worry. I make all the nervous ones ginger ale. House policy."

Mike wants to sink into the floor.

Harvey grins like a proud parent. "I'll be supervising from over there," he announces dramatically. He sits at a booth with the face of a man who is way too smug.

Mike whispers, "I hate him."

You smile. "You two are hilarious."

Mike beams tragically. "Yeah. Hilarious."

___

"So," you say warmly, leaning on the counter, "rough day?"

"No," Mike blurts. "I'm just here. Because. Things."

You blink.

He quickly clears his throat. "I mean- yeah. Rough day." He gestures vaguely. "Law stuff."

"Mhm," you hum, amused. "Well, I can make something stronger than ginger ale if today was that kind of day."

"Please don't, I can't embarrass myself in front of you again."

You smirk. "You weren't that embarrassing."

"I was very embarrassing."

"You were cute."

___

From across the room, Harvey whistles sharply. "Are you asking for her number or planning to die of cowardice?"

You look down at Mike with a raised brow. "Number?" you echo.

Mike gives Harvey a death glare. He turns back to you, panicked. "I- he- we-"

You laugh. "It's okay. You can breathe."

Mike tries to breathe. Tries again. Fails.

Harvey stands and starts walking toward you both, hands in pockets, smirking.

"Oh god," Mike whispers. "Abort. Abort."

Harvey arrives behind him. "So! Y/N, is it? Mike here has something to ask you."

"Harvey, I swear to-"

You look amused. "Yeah?"

Mike blinks rapidly. His brain is screaming. His heart is screaming louder. And then-

You lean forward slightly, eyes warm. "Let me guess," you say softly. "You came back because you wanted to see me again?"

Mike stops breathing.

Harvey's eyebrows shoot up.

Mike nods. Minutely. Honestly. "...Yeah," he whispers.

Your smile grows slowly. Genuine. You reach under the counter, grab a napkin, click a pen, and start writing.

Mike stares.

Then you slide the napkin over to him.

Your name. Your number. A tiny sketch of a math symbol beside it - a cute, nerdy little touch just for him.

"My number," you say. "Since you look like you're about to pass out if you try asking for it."

Mike stares at the napkin like it's a holy artifact. "I- really?"

"Really." You smile. "I was hoping you'd come back."

Mike makes a soft choking noise that Harvey will absolutely mock him for later.

Harvey claps him on the back. "See? Easy. Now say thank you like a human being."

Mike turns to you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, voice soft: "Thank you. Seriously."

You grin. "Well. Now you have no excuse not to call."

"No excuse," Mike repeats. "None."

___

"So," Harvey starts, "are we done here? He got the number; he can go cry in his cubicle now."

You laugh. Mike groans, then stands, still staring at the napkin like it might disappear.

You lean forward, lowering your voice. "Call me tonight," you say. "If you want."

Mike's heart stops. "I want."

Harvey mutters, "Oh my god, he's whipped."

Mike doesn't deny it. He lets Harvey drag him out of the bar by the elbow, but he keeps looking back at you until the door closes.

___

The second the door shuts, Mike grabs Harvey's arm.

"She gave me her number."

"Yes."

"She gave me her number."

"I was there."

"Harvey. Harvey. Harvey. I like her. I like her."

"No shit. Congratulations on feeling basic human emotion."

Mike laughs helplessly. "I'm gonna call her."

"Good," Harvey says. "Because if I had to drag you back a third time, I'd bill you for emotional labor."

Mike shakes his head in disbelief, smiling so wide it hurts. "Harvey?"

"Yeah?"

"...Thank you."

Harvey grimaces. "Oh god. Don't get mushy on me."

But he doesn't walk away. He lets Mike have the moment.

___

Mike sits on the edge of his bed that night, staring at the napkin like it's a live grenade. He types your number in. Deletes it. Types it again. Deletes it.

Harvey calls him. "Did you do it?"

"No."

"Coward. Do it."

"I'm waiting for the perfect moment."

"It's nine-thirty at night. She's a bartender. She's awake."

Mike lies flat on his back. "I feel sick."

"Call her, you idiot." Harvey hangs up.

Mike stares at his phone. And then- finally- he presses call.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

"Mike?" Your voice. Soft. Warm. Very real.

Mike sits up too fast. "Hi!- I mean- Hi, yes this is Mike..."

You laugh gently. "I figured."

"I don't know if- I mean maybe- you were bust or- I don't know- sleeping or maybe you forgot who I was or- I-"

He hears you smiling. "Mike. Breathe."

He sucks in air. "Okay."

"So," you say, "I'm guessing you didn't call just to panic at me."

"No! I mean- yes- but no- I mean- I wanted to ask you something. If that's okay."

"I was hoping you would."

He closes his eyes. He is going to melt through the mattress. "Do you- um- want to have dinner with me? Like a real date?"

"I'd love to."

He freezes. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

Mike tries not to squeak. Fails miserably.

___

Four days later, Mike is standing outside the restaurant Harvey picked for him because:

"You have no taste. I'm not letting you take her to a diner, Mike" "It's a good diner!" "No."

So now Mike is in front of a chic, warm-lit restaurant that is far too nice for a first date. He's sweating. He's convinced that he tied his tie wrong. He thinks he might faint.

Then-

You arrive. And Mike forgets how to breathe entirely.

You look incredible. Not trying too hard. Not overdressed. Just... you. Warn, smiling, walking toward him like he's someone worth dressing up for.

"Hey," you say, shy but excited.

Mike makes a tiny noise that might be human. "Hi."

"You look nice," you smile.

"You- you look..." His voice breaks. He clears it. "You look beautiful."

You blush lightly. "That's sweet."

___

Once you're seated, something weird happens: Mike relaxes.

You're talking about math again- how you got into it, what fascinates you about patterns, why you still read academic journals 'for fun.'

Mike is wide-eyed, leaning, in, drinking in every word.

"Nobody ever wants to hear this stuff," you laugh softly. "I promise I'm not usually this nerdy."

"No," Mike says immediately. "Please. Keep going. I love it."

You blink. "You... love it?"

Mike blushes. "I love listening to you talk about things you care about."

You tuck hair behind your ear, suddenly a little shy.

The conversation flows like water. You ask about law school and he panics internally but smooths it over by talking about his photographic memory instead.

You say, "That's incredible."

He says, "you're incredible."

Then immediately wants to die because who says that aloud on a first date?

But you're smiling. Softly. Like you enjoyed hearing it.

___

Mike insists on walking you home. You protest. He protests harder.

So you walk side by side through the quiet evening streets, hands not touching but... close.

Dangerously close. Close enough that Mike keeps debating taking your hand. His heart says do it, but his brain says otherwise.

You glance over. "You okay? You're awfully quiet."

Mike swallows. "Just- thinking."

"About what?"

He looks at you. "...you."

You stop walking. He does too.

Your voice is soft. "Yeah?"

Mike nods. "I've been thinking about you since the moment I first saw you in the bar."

Your breath catches. "Mike..."

"I'm trying really hard not to be too much," he admits. "But I can't help liking you."

You step closer. "I like you too."

Mike's heart explodes.

You're standing close now. Too close for Mike to keep functioning. He looks at your lips for half a second- just a flicker- and you notice.

You whisper, "Mike..."

"Yeah?" His voice cracks.

"Can I kiss you?"

Mike nearly passes. He nods- too fast, too eager.

You step closer, one hand rising to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek. He shivers. Then you kiss him. Soft. Warm. Slow. Gentle. Everything he wanted and didn't dare to hope for.

Your lips move against his and he sighs- a quiet, helpless sound- and kisses you back.

When you pull away, Mike looks stunned.

"Wow," he whispers.

You smile. "Yeah?"

"...Can- can we do that again?"

You laugh softly. "Come here."

___

This time, you kiss him deeper.

Mike's hands finally- finally- find your waist, fingers tentative at first, then firmer when you lean into him.

It's lush and slow and impossibly sweet. When you break apart again, Mike looks drunk.

You bite your lip. "Still okay?"

Mike nods vigorously. "More than okay."

You tug him gently toward the wall next to your building, pulling him closer by his tie.

Mike makes a soft, surprised noise- then melts into you. His hands slide up your back. Yours tangle in his hair. He kisses you like he's memorizing every possible angle, every breath, every small sound.

It's still sweet -- it's always going to be sweet with Mike- but there's heat now too, a growing, pulsing want.

When you finally break apart, both a little breathless, your foreheads rest together.

"Mike," you whisper, "you can kiss me again."

He laughs breathlessly. "You're going to kill me."

"Is that a no?"

"That's an-" Mike kisses you again, quick and warm. "-absolutely not."

You let out a breathy laugh against his lips.

___

Eventually - reluctantly - you both force yourselves to stop.

You pull him toward your apartment door. "This is me," you say softly.

Mike nods. He looks shy suddenly, fiddling with his tie like a teenager.

"I had a really good time," you smile.

He meets your eyes. "I had.. the best time."

You touch his chest lightly. "Call me tomorrow?"

Mike's voice comes out soft, sincere, a little breathless. "I'll call you the second I wake up."

You blush. "I'd like that."

He kisses you one more time - slow, tender - before stepping back. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Mike."

He walks away with a smile so ridiculously bright a stranger across the street actually turns to stare.

And Mike? He touches his lips the whole walk home like he can still feel you.

You were the reason there was a perfectly trimmed Christmas tree standing tall in the corner of his penthouse, draped in warm white lights and understated silver-and-gold ornaments that had definitely been hand-selected by a professional decorator Harvey hired and then micromanaged to hell and back.

You were the reason there was a faint scent of pine and cinnamon in the air, blending with the familiar smell of expensive cologne and clean linen.

And you were the reason Harvey Specter had taken three days off.

No emergencies. No last-minute calls. No "just one thing" distractions.

Just you.

___

Christmas Eve Morning

You woke up warm.

Not just physically- though Harvey's arm was slung securely around your waist, his body curved protectively around yours- but emotionally. Safe. Relaxed. Content in a way that only came from being loved thoroughly and intentionally.

The penthouse was quiet. Snow fell lazily outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan softened beneath a white blanket that made even the city feel gentle somehow.

Harvey stirred behind you, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

"Morning," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

You smiled, eyes still closed. "You're awake before me. That's new."

"Christmas Eve," he said simply. "I've got plans."

That made you crack one eye open. "Plans?"

"Mhm." His hand slid up your arm, thumb tracing slow, familiar circles. "First one is keeping you in bed for as long as possible."

You laughed softly, rolling onto your back to look at him. He was already watching you, dark eyes warm, expression softer than the man the rest of New York knew.

God, you loved him like this.

"You spoil me all year," you said. "You don't have to go all out."

Harvey smirked. "I want to."

That was the thing about him. When Harvey decided something was his- when you were his- he didn't do things halfway. He loved with the same intensity he lived, and when he spoiled you, it wasn't about extravagance for show.

It was attention. It was intention. It was knowing you.

___

You eventually made it out of bed, wrapped in one of his shirts- crisp, white, ridiculously expensive- and fuzzy socks you'd brought over that he pretended to hate.

The kitchen was already alive.

Harvey stood at the counter in a fitted sweater and slacks, sleeves rolled up, moving with practiced confidence as he worked. There was coffee brewing- your favorite blend, already sweetened exactly how you like it- and breakfast laid out like a luxury hotel spread.

You blinked. "You cooked?"

"I'm offended," he said without looking up. "I can cook."

You let out an airy laugh, padding over and leaning against the counter. "You didn't have to do all this."

Harvey turned then, stepping closer, hands braced on either side of you. "You spend all year taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you."

He kissed you- slow, deliberate, unhurried- and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows.

Breakfast was indulgent and intimate. Harvey insisted you sit while he brought you everything, refilling your coffee before you even realized you mug was empty, brushing kisses into your hair as he passed.

You caught him watching you more than once.

"What?" you teased.

He shrugged. "Just like seeing you happy."

___

The rest of the day unfolded gently.

You stayed in. Harvey had shut the world out with a single email to Jessica and a turned-off phone. There was music playing softly- classic jazz and low, mellow holiday instrumentals- and the snow outside only added to the cocoon-like feeling.

You decorated cookies together, which mostly involved Harvey pretending not to care while being deeply competitive about frosting technique.

"Mine are better," he declared.

Yours were objectively cuter.

Later, you curled up on the couch, a plush throw draped over your legs as Harvey pulled you against his chest. He absentmindedly played with your fingers, pressing kisses to your knuckles as you half-watched a movie you'd both seen a hundred times.

"This," you murmured, nestling closer, "might be my favorite Christmas ever."

Harvey tightened his arm around you. "Good. Because I plan on topping it."

You tilted your head back to look at him. "You're so predictable."

"And you love me."

You did.

___

Dinner was catered- because of course- and flawless. Candles flickered softly on the table, reflecting in the windows and making the city glow.

Afterward, he poured you a glass of wine and guided you back to the couch.

"Okay," he smiled, tone casual but eyes sharp. "One present tonight."

You frowned playfully. "Only one?"

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Trust me."

From beneath the tree, he pulled out a neatly wrapped box. Elegant. Minimal. Very Harvey.

Inside was something stunning and deeply personal- something he'd noticed you lingering over months ago, something that made your breath hitch because of how seen it made you feel.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. "Harvey..."

He brushed his thumb under your eye. "You deserve everything."

He kissed you again- slow, deep, reverent- and when he pulled you into his arms afterward, holding you close as the snow continued to fall, it felt like the world had narrowed again.

Just you. Just him. Just... love.

You sat curled on the couch, one of Tim's sweatshirts swallowing your frame. It smelled faintly of his cologne- woodsy, sharp, a little worn out after so many washed but still him. Your fingers traced the stitching at the cuff, the city's night sounds your only company. You'd tried reading, tried working, tried anything to quiet the way your chest ached, but nothing filled the gap he left behind.

The click of the lock nearly startled you out of your skin.

Your head whipped toward the door, heart hammering. For a second you thought maybe exhaustion had gotten the best of you, Then the door eased open, and there he was.

Tim stood in the entryway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, eyes shadowed from too many nights without sleep. His hair was messy sticking out in directions it shouldn't, his jaw rough with the beginning of stubble. His posture screamed exhaustion- worn down, dragged thin, but still carrying that heavy weight he never let go of.

And yet... his eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

You didn't realize you'd dropped the mug in your hand until it clattered against the coffee table. You were up and across the room before your brain caught up, your body already moving, already desperate.

"Tim." His name cracked out of you like it had been locked behind your ribs for weeks.

He dropped the bag instantly, catching you as you collided with him. His arms wound around you tight, so tight it nearly hurt, but you didn't care. You clung to him, fists tangled in his jacket, pressing your face into his chest. He smelled like rain and smoke and leather, a cocktail of the city and his work, but underneath it all, there he was.

"I'm here," he murmured, voice hoarse against your hair. "I'm home."

Your chest shuddered with a breath you didn't even realize you had been holding. Tears stung your eyes, slipping hot and fast down your cheeks as you held him tighter. "You took so long."

"I know." His hand cradled the back of your head, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hair. "I didn't mean to. It was supposed to be... shorter. Things got complicated."

"They always get complicated." You pulled back just enough to look at him, your palms bracketing his jaw. He looked tried- exhausted in that bone-deep way- but alive. In one piece. That was enough. More than enough. "You should've called. Texted. Something."

"I couldn't risk it," he admitted, guilt flickering through his eyes. "I wanted to. Every night. But..." He swallowed, leaning into your touch. "I knew if I heard your voice, I wouldn't be able to keep going."

The words cracked something open inside you. You surged forward, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was desperate, salt-stained from tears, a clash of need and relief. He kissed you back with equal fervor, hands framing your face like he couldn't believe you were real.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the small space.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice trembling.

His eyes closed, his lips brushing yours with every word. "I missed you more than I can ever say."

You tugged him deeper into the apartment, refusing to let go of his hand as though he might disappear if you did. The duffle bag was forgotten by the door. Shoes kicked aside. He let you lead him to the couch where you both sank down, tangled limbs and all.

For a long time, you just sat there, curled up in his lap with his arms around you, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was steady, grounding, the sound you've been starved of for weeks. He kissed your temple, your hairline, your shoulder, slow and reverent like he was relearning you after too much time apart.

"You're too good to me," he murmured, his voice low, almost ashamed.

You leaned back to meet his eyes, brushing your thumb over his cheeks. "Don't say that. You're the one saving the world while I sit here worrying. I think you've got the harder end of things."

"You're wrong." His fingers slid through yours, gripping tight. "Coming home to you... that's what makes it worth it. Without you, I don't..." He trailed off, shaking his head like the words were too heavy.

Your heart ached at the weight he carried. You kissed him softly, slowly this time, a promise instead of desperation. "You always come home. That's enough for me."

He exhaled shakily, pulling you impossibly closer, as though trying to merge himself into you.

Hours passed like that- quiet words, kisses pressed to skin, long silences filled with nothing but the comfort of being near each other again. Eventually, exhaustion won out. You ended up in bed, his body curled around yours, his breathing steady against your neck.

For the first time in a month, you slept peacefully. And when the morning light filtered through the blinds, he was still there, warm and solid, his arm draped heavy around your waist.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his knuckles where his hand rested against yours. He stirred slightly but didn't wake, only tightened his hold like he wasn't letting go anytime soon.

And you knew- no matter how many missions took him away, no matter how long the nights stretched in his absence- he'd always find his way back to you.

Home.

Always.

You'd counted.

The mission was only supposed to last three weeks. But things changed- intel got messy, comms went dark, extractions delayed. You'd made contact once. Day 41. Bucky's voice had sounded like it was fighting through static and grief.

He'd asked, "Are you okay?" With the kind of broken softness that haunted your dreams since.

You'd said yes. You weren't sure it was true. But you'd promised you'd come home. And now... you were finally here.

Bucky wasn't in the lobby. Or the training room. Or his usual spot in the library, where he always read the same three books over and over when he was anxious.

Your heart twisted.

Part of you expected him to feel him to feel your arrival the way you constantly felt his absence. Like gravity shifting. Like something snapping back into place.

Maybe he was avoiding you.

Maybe too much time had passed.

Maybe you were imagining that the silence around you wasn't just empty- it was waiting.

You dropped your bag outside your room. Headed to the kitchen out of muscle memory and quiet desperation. Something hot, something normal, something to remind you that this wasn't another hallucination brought on by sleeping too little and missing too much.

The lights were off when you walked in.

But you stopped cold.

But he was there.

Sitting on the counter like always. Hair longer than you remember. Hoodie worn soft around the edges. Legs too long for the cabinets underneath.

Bucky Barnes.

In the flesh.

Breathing, alive, and looking right at you.

He didn't move.

You didn't either.

Seconds passed.

Then he slid off the counter slowly, like he was afraid if he moved too fast you'd disappear again.

"Hi," you breathed.

He stared at you for another long moment- blue eyes unreadable- then crossed the floor in three long strides and pulled you into him like you were a lifeline.

His arms were tight around you. Too tight. The kind of tight that said I thought you were dead.

Your nose buried in the collar of his hoodie. He smelled like cedar and sleep and home.

Neither of you spoke. You just held on.

Later

You sat on the couch in the common room with a blanket wrapped around you and his hand in yours. This thumb kept brushing the back of your knuckles like he didn't realize he was doing it. Like he had to touch you, just to be sure.

He hadn't said much.

You hadn't either.

But when you looked over at him, you caught his jaw tighten. His throat bob. "You weren't supposed to be gone that long," he whispered.

"I know."

"I thought you-"

"I know."

He let out a shaky breath and turned to you. His hand gripped yours a little tighter. "Y/N," he said. Just your name. Like it meant something sacred. "You didn't call."

"They didn't let me. It wasn't safe."

He shook his head like that didn't matter. "I waited. Every day. I didn't know if I was-"

He stopped himself. Looked away.

You leaned your forehead against his. "I wanted to come home every second," you replied. "And I never stopped thinking about you."

He let out a broken, wet laugh. "God, I missed you," he said.

The First Night

He didn't want to let you go. You knew it from the way he hovered when you unpacked. From the way his hand lingered at your back when you reached for a clean shirt. From the way his eyes followed you like you'd vanish if he blinked.

"Stay?" You asked softly, standing by your bed.

He didn't answer with words.

He just stepped forward and curled his metal arm around your waist, like the answer had always been yes.

You crawled into bed, exhausted and aching.

And Bucky held you that night the way someone holds a miracle they weren't sure they deserved.

You fell asleep to the sound of his heart and woke up to his lips against your shoulder, whispering your name.

The Days That Followed

He didn't ask for explanations.

Didn't ask what you saw, what you did, what you had to become to survive.

You told him the pieces you could. He kissed every one of the scars you had like it made you real again.

Some nights, you talked until you cried. Some nights, you just curled into each other in silence and let the weight of the world fall away around you.

One day, you caught him fixing your favorite mug. It had broken when you were gone. He'd glued it back together and painted over the cracks.

When you touched it, your fingers trembled.

He said quietly, "I wanted it ready. In case you came back."

The Turning Point

One evening, weeks later, Bucky asked if you wanted to go on a walk.

Just a short one. Around the lake. Just the two of you.

You wore one of his sweatshirts. He didn't comment. Instead, he took your hand.

And halfway across the little bridge, he stopped and looked at you like the sun had finally come out after a long winter.

"You know," he started. "The first night you were gone, I slept on the floor. I didn't want to forget what it felt like to be cold without you."

You swallowed hard.

He cupped your face with one hand. Thumb against your cheekbone.

"But the worst night... was the one I realized that I didn't remember your laugh anymore."

You blinked up at him.

And then- softly, bravely- you laughed.

Bucky closed his eyes like it hurt. Then opened them.

And kissed you so gently, it broke you open all over again.

The First Real Morning

Weeks later, you woke up to find him watching you sleep.

"You're doing it again," you mumbled.

He smiled faintly. "I know."

You rolled into his chest. "Why?"

"Because," he whispered into your hair, "I spent too many mornings not knowing if I'd ever see you again."

You looked up. "I'm here now," you said. "I'm not leaving."

Bucky kissed your temple. "I know."

And for the first time in too long, you both believed it.

~~~~~

The first few days back had been a blur.

Now, the dust had settled.

The adrenaline was gone. The tears had been shed. The bed had been shared. You and Bucky had memorized the new shapes of each other, sleeping in the same space but carrying different wounds than when you left.

What came next?

That was the part neither of you knew how to answer.

~~~~~

On Monday, you woke up alone.

Bucky had gotten up early- probably for his usual run or coffee with Sam- but something about the cool sheets beside you made your chest ache.

You rolled over and buried your face in the pillow. It smelled like him.

There were no nightmares last night, not for you.

You weren't sure if Bucky could say the same.

You found a note on your table by the door when you finally dragged yourself out of bed.

"Gone for a bit. Left coffee. P.S. Don't forget that you're not alone anymore."

Your fingers tightened around the paper.

You made toast you didn't eat and stared at the window like it might give you direction.

Coming home was supposed to mean things got easier. But it didn't. Not all at once.

You were still learning how to be here.

To be soft.

To let yourself feel safe again.

You hadn't told Bucky, but sometimes at night you'd wake up and reach for your gun before you remembered it wasn't strapped to your thigh anymore.

~~~~~

Tuesday

"Hey," Bucky said gently, catching your wrist as you started to head back to your room after dinner. "You okay?"

You looked up at him. His eyes were soft, worried.

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to lie and say that you felt normal again.

But you weren't normal. You were broken in quiet places.

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. "Wanna sit with me for a bit? No pressure. I just... I missed you today."

You nodded before your voice could betray you.

You ended up in his room, curled under a blanket on his bed while he read beside you. you didn't speak. But you let your fingers rest on his thigh, and he placed his hand over yours.

It was the safest you'd felt all week.

~~~~~

Wednesday

The panic attack came out of nowhere.

Just a slammed door.

A laugh too loud.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The world blurred.

You didn't know who you got to Bucky's room. Just that when the haze cleared, his arms were around you, his voice grounding you like an anchor.

"I've got you," he whispered again and again. "You're safe. I've got you."

You cling to him like the world would end if you let go.

When it passed, you collapsed into his chest, shaking.

He didn't let go.

Not once.

Later, when you were calm, he kissed your forehead and said softly, "You don't have to pretend you're okay, doll. Not with me."

~~~~~

Thursday

You told him about the child.

The one you couldn't save.

Your voice cracked halfway through. You turned away so he wouldn't see the tears.

But he did.

He pulled you into his lap on the couch, rocking you gently like you were made of glass. You didn't deserve that softness- but he gave it anyway.

"She reminded me of me," you said.

"I can understand why," he replied. "Because you would've done anything to protect her."

You cried for the first time since you came home.

And he held you through every second of it.

~~~~~

Friday

You laughed.

It was stupid- Sam tried to do a backflip off the couch during a movie night and got tangled in a throw blanket.

But you laughed.

A full, real laugh that burst out before you could stop it.

Bucky turned his head fast.

He stared like he'd seen something holy.

Your smile faltered. "What?"

He shook his head, eyes shining. "Nothing. Just missed that sound."

And he kissed you, right there in front of everyone, like no time had passed at all.

~~~~~

Saturday

You found the journal.

Tucked behind a stack of books on Bucky's shelf.

You weren't snooping- he asked you to grab something and you accidently knocked it loose.

You opened it on instinct.

Then stopped breathing.

Because it was about you.

Every page.

From the day you left.

To the day you came home.

Some entries were short.

Day 6- Still haven't heard anything. Trying to stay calm. Can't sleep.

Others were long, vulnerable, raw.

Day 34- I keep thinking about the last thing you said to me. You said, "Don't worry." I'm trying not to, sweetheart. But I'm not good at this when you're not here. The bed's too big. I miss your socks on the floor. I miss your laugh in the morning. I miss your arms around my neck when I'm too tired to get up. Come home.

You closed the book with shaking hands.

He found you minutes later, clutching it to your chest.

His expression froze.

"I didn't mean to-" you started.

He stepped forward. "It's okay."

"I didn't know your wrote all this."

"I had to do something," he said. "I didn't know if I'd get the chance to say those things out loud."

You looked up at him.

And the you kissed him. Desperately. Like you could press your soul into his.

"Say them now," you whispered. "I'm here. Say them now."

~~~~~

Sunday

You went with him to the lake.

You sat on the bridge together in the fading light. His fingers laced through yours. He kissed the inside of your wrist.

"I love you," he said suddenly.

You turned to him.

"I didn't say it when you got back," he continued. "Because I was scared it'd hurt. That maybe I'd be too much. That maybe you weren't ready."

You reached up, brushed your thumb across his cheek.

"But I've loved you since before you left. Since you made me laugh when I didn't remember how. Since you told me I wasn't a weapon."

He looked like he might cry.

You whispered, "You waited for me."

"Of course I did."

You leaned in close. "I love you too, Bucky."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in months- maybe years- he smiled without hesitation.

That was until you came along, carrying a stack of books that was definitely too heavy, as well as a grocery bag hung over your right shoulder- one that was tipping your bodies natural point of gravity so you couldn't quite walk straight. You rammed right into him on the sidewalk, the book tumbling onto the concrete with several soft thuds, and muttered apologies started flowing from your lips as well as an awkward laugh as you crouched to gather them.

"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't- are you okay?"

Bucky blinked. He had seen aliens. He had fought a metal man in a flying suit. He had stood toe to toe with Thanos. But he had never seen eyes like yours. Soft. Warm. Unafraid.

"...I'm fine," he'd said, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Good." You flashed a quick, sheepish smile. "First time I've hit someone with 'War and Peace'. I guess that counts for something."

He even surprised himself with the small laugh that bellowed from his chest as a response.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't recognize him.

That was the second thing that shocked him. You offered him coffee, not questions. Company, not curiosity. And slowly- so slowly he barely noticed- Bucky began to anchor himself around you.

You ran a bookstore on the corner. Lived above it in a cozy little apartment that smelled like cedar and ink. You wore knit sweaters, laughed at your own silly jokes, and had a tabby cat named Fig that liked to perch himself on your shoulder like a pirate's parrot. You talked to Bucky like he was just... a man. A grumpy, awkward, very handsome man with hair that some might deem tragic, but not you.

You didn't ask about his past.

You simply asked if he enjoyed lemon cake.

______________________________________________________________

Bucky came by the shop more often. At first, it was once a week. Then twice. Then almost daily under the excuse of "running errands" that suspiciously never seemed to produce groceries.

You noticed the way he looked at the world- as if it might slip out from under him at any second. The way he always sat facing the door. The way his jaw tightened when sirens howled, even faintly, in the distance.

You didn't push.

You simply made space.

"Sit," you told him one late afternoon. Rain tapped against the windows, and the power had flickered twice already. "I'll make tea. You can pretend you're a mysterious Victorian man recovering from a duel."

He blinked. "What?"

You gave a grin. "Just trust me. It's a vibe."

To your eternal surprise, he smiled. Not just a twitch of the lips- a real one- small and tired and a little crooked. But real.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he let you touch the metal arm, it wasn't planned.

You had tripped on the top step of the bookstore staircase, two books in hand and- of course- he caught you without hesitation.

Your hands gripped his forearms instinctively. One warm, flesh and bone. The other- cool vibranium. Your eyes flickered down, then up again, and you didn't move away.

"Sorry," you said, breathing a little harder than usual. "You always catch me when I fall."

His expression changed. You saw the flicker of something behind his eyes- something heavy.

"I didn't always," he replied softly.

You didn't ask what he meant. You didn't have to.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't until winter that you kissed him.

You'd been putting up lights in the window and Bucky came to help, grumbling about how unnecessary it all was- but he brought you hot cider in a thermos anyway and adjusted the ladder every time it wobbled under the movement of your weight.

The lighted ended up not working.

You cursed under your breath, repeatedly flipping the switch back and forth beneath your fingers. And Bucky- sweet, quiet Bucky- reached over, tilted your chin toward him, and kissed you without a word.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't fire and teeth and desperation.

It was slow. Careful. Like he was memorizing something sacred.

"I've been thinking about doing that for a long time," he murmured, lips still brushed against yours.

"Then why wait?"

He hesitated. "Didn't think I deserved to."

You touched the side of his face, brushed your thumb along his cheek. "You deserve peace, Bucky. Even if you don't believe it yet- I do."

______________________________________________________________

Peace didn't come overnight.

Some days, Bucky still woke up gasping. Some nights, you found him on your fire escape, knees drawn close to his chest, eyes scanning the dark. The palm of his metal arm resting against his thigh, twitching like it remembered something he didn't want to.

But you never asked him to come back inside. You just joined him. A blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a cup of tea between your palms, silent unless he wanted words.

Sometimes he spoke. And sometimes- when the wind was soft and the town was asleep- he looked at you like he was terrified to admit that this, whatever it was between you, might be the only thing keeping him tethered.

So you stayed.

______________________________________________________________

The first time you heard him laugh in his sleep, you almost cried.

It was a soft sound. A breath of joy. His head nestled into the pillow beside yours, hair mussed, lips parted in a small, crooked grin.

You reached over and touched his cheek and he stirred under the brush of skin.

"What are you lookin' at?" He mumbled, voice like gravel.

"You," you whispered, smiling. "You were dreaming."

"Was I?" He blinked blearily. "About what?"

"I don't know," you smiled, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. "But you were happy."

He was quiet for a long time. Then, voice low, he said, "You were in it."