#makeup artist reader

Bucky was already in your chair, legs stretched out like he owned the place, elbows braced on the armrests. He looked unfairly good even before you’d done anything – bone structure that makeup artists would sell their souls for, lashes that didn’t make sense, that stubborn line of his mouth that photographers loved because it always looked like he was about to say something he wasn’t supposed to. He was watching you with that particular, lazy focus he had when he wasn’t pretending not to pay attention. “You’re doing that face,” he said. You glanced up, one brow lifting. “What face?” “The one where you’re about to commit a crime with a blending brush.” “That’s not a crime.” “It is if you turn me into a dewy woodland creature again.” He tipped his chin as if that was evidence enough. “The magazine called it ‘ethereal.’ I’m still recovering.” You huffed a laugh and reached for a sponge. “It was one editorial. And you liked it.” Bucky’s mouth quirked. “I liked that you liked it.” That – soft, almost accidental – landed somewhere warm in your chest. You masked it by leaning closer, tapping concealer beneath his eye with practiced precision. Up close, you could see the faint freckles on his cheekbones that the camera never quite caught unless the lighting was cruel. You could also see the small scar near his brow that he pretended wasn’t there, as if ignoring it would make it disappear. Your fingertips were gentle, but not apologetic. You’d never treated him like he was breakable. He trusted you for it. “You’re early,” you said, because routine mattered. It was a safe line. A normal one. “I’m not early,” Bucky argued immediately. “You’re in my chair. That means you’re early.” He blinked as if you’d surprised him with logic. “That’s… not how that works.” “It’s exactly how it works,” you said, and smoothed the edge of the concealer until it melted into his skin. “You’re early because you like to sit here and be annoying.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I do not.” You caught your own reflection in the mirror behind him – your posture calm, your mouth tilted like you already knew the outcome of this exchange. “You do.” A beat. Bucky leaned in just a fraction, voice low enough that it felt like a secret. “Annoying you is what I’m best at.” For a second, you forgot the noise around you. Forgot the bright bulbs, the rush, the assistant counting down time. Your hands stayed steady because they had to, because you couldn’t afford tells, but the warmth slid up the back of your neck anyway. You pressed the sponge once more under his eye, a little firmer than necessary. “Good,” you murmured. “At least you’re specializing.” Bucky chuckled, and it was the kind of sound that made people turn their heads. It didn’t carry far, but it carried enough. Across the room, Steve looked up. He was standing near wardrobe, halfway into a tailored jacket that somebody was adjusting at the shoulders. Even surrounded by hangers and fussing hands, he had this steady gravity to him – as if the whole set organized itself around where he stood. His hair was half-done, pushed back off his forehead, and his expression was the calm, polite one he wore when he knew people were watching.

But his eyes found you immediately. They always did. You gave him a tiny, wordless nod: I see you. I’ve got you. It was part of your routine too, a quiet promise exchanged without anyone else needing to know it existed. Steve’s mouth softened on one side, almost a smile, the kind he tried not to show too openly backstage because he didn’t want to be that guy, the one who acted like the set belonged to him. He didn’t realize the set already did. He lifted a hand in a small wave, like you were across a café table instead of ten feet away in controlled chaos. It was ridiculous. It was sweet. It made something in you ease. “Rogers,” Bucky said, without looking away from you, because he didn’t need to. “He’s staring again.” “He’s not staring.” Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the mirror, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “He’s staring.” You ignored it with the easy competence of someone who’d been ignoring their own heart for months. “Hold still.” “I am holding still.” “You’re talking.” “I can do both.” “You can’t.” Bucky sighed dramatically, then actually quieted. For about three seconds. “You ever wonder,” he said, “how you got stuck with us?” That line could’ve been a joke. The wording made it playful, light. But the way he said it – the careful casualness – made your stomach tighten. You met his eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t get stuck.” Bucky held your gaze. He didn’t push, didn’t make a big show of it. He just waited, like he knew you’d answer if he gave you space. You reached for powder and dusted the T-zone with quick, confident motions. “I chose it.” A flicker crossed his face, something like satisfaction, quickly hidden behind his usual mischief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said simply.

Bucky looked like he wanted to say something else, something that edged too close to truth, but the room shifted – someone calling for Steve, a stylist tugging at fabric, the photographer stepping onto the set and clapping once to get everyone’s attention. “Steve,” the photographer called, “you’re up first.” Steve turned, nodded, and then – before he stepped away – his eyes found yours again. He raised two fingers to his temple in a little salute, like he was some kind of dorky soldier acknowledging his spotter.

Bucky made a sound of disgust. “God, he’s so wholesome it’s offensive.”

You tried not to smile. You failed.

Steve walked toward the set, the jacket settling onto his shoulders like it had been made for him alone. People parted for him instinctively. He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t need to be announced. Under the lights, he’d look like a myth. Off them, he still did, just with softer edges.

You watched him go longer than you meant to.

When you looked back at Bucky, he was already smirking.

“What?” you said, flat.

“Nothing.”

“Barnes.”

He held up his hands, innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” you muttered, and reached for a clean brush to blend around his jawline, putting a little more distance between yourself and whatever that look was trying to tell you.

Bucky’s voice dropped again, just for you. “You worry too much.”

Your brush paused.

He wasn’t talking about the makeup.

You resumed blending, slower now, careful. “It’s my job.”

Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, steady and unguarded in a way that still startled you sometimes. “Your job is to make us look good.”

“Same thing,” you said automatically, and immediately hated yourself for it.

Bucky’s expression softened, almost imperceptible. He didn’t call you on it. He didn’t tease. He just said, quietly, “You’re allowed to be taken care of too, you know.”

You swallowed, eyes dropping to your kit as if you could find an answer between lip liners and setting spray.

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed.

Once. Twice.

A third time, insistent.

You didn’t look at it right away. You didn’t want to. Even seeing the screen would yank you out of the bubble you’d carved out here – a bubble where you were just you, where your name didn’t come with a shadow, where your hands did something useful and real.

The buzzing continued.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked down to your pocket, then up to your face. He didn’t say anything this time. He just watched, patient, waiting to see what you’d do.

Steve’s voice carried faintly from the set – easy, cooperative, thanking someone for an adjustment. The photographer laughed at something he said. The shutters started, rapid-fire, like a heartbeat.

Your phone buzzed again.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, then pulled it out, angling the screen away on instinct. The name flashing across it made your stomach drop, even though you’d been expecting it.

Adam.

You didn’t answer – couldn’t, not here. Not in front of them. Not when one slip of tone could crack the careful life you’d built.

You silenced the call with a practiced swipe and slipped the phone back into your pocket like it hadn’t mattered.

Except your hands had gone a little too still.

Bucky saw that too. His eyes narrowed, not suspicious yet – just attentive. “Everything okay?”

You forced your fingers to move again, reached for setting spray, clicked the nozzle once to test it, like the tiny ritual could anchor you. “Yeah,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Just… family stuff.”

Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, and it wasn’t the teasing kind anymore. “Do you want–”

“I’m fine,” you cut in gently, then softened it with a small smile. “Promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

Across the room, Steve stepped off the set for a wardrobe change, cheeks faintly flushed from the heat of the lights. His eyes swept the backstage area like he was looking for something to orient himself.

They found you.

You smiled automatically – small, careful, meant to reassure.

Steve’s expression shifted, just a fraction. Like he’d noticed something behind the smile. Like he could feel the crack even if he couldn’t see it.

He started to walk toward you. And then a stylist called his name, tugging him back into place, and the moment snapped like a thread.

You turned back to Bucky, lifted the spray, and misted a fine veil over his face. “Close your eyes.”

Bucky did, obedient for once.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the simple things: the soft click of the bottle cap, the clean line of his jaw under your brush, the familiar hum of work. The kind of work that made sense.

The kind of work that didn’t ask you to choose between being wanted and being known.

“Okay,” you said, stepping back to assess him critically. “You’re done.”

Bucky opened his eyes and blinked at you. “How do I look?”

“Like trouble,” you said, because it was true.

His grin returned, easy, relieved. “Perfect.”

He stood, rolling his shoulders, and for a second he leaned in, close enough that only you would hear.

“If that family stuff gets worse,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “you tell us, yeah?”

Us.

Not just him. Not just Steve. Both of them, like you were already a unit and nobody had said it out loud yet. Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to keep your smile steady. “Yeah,” you said, softer than before. “I will.”

Bucky held your gaze a second longer, like he was memorizing the promise, then stepped away toward the set, sliding into his role like it was second nature.

You watched him go, then glanced toward Steve again.

Steve was under the lights now, waiting for his next shot, posture relaxed, expression composed. He looked like the kind of man who never had to worry about masks slipping.

But when he caught your eyes, there was something there – quiet, sincere, almost pleading.

A question he wasn’t asking.

Not yet.

Your phone stayed heavy in your pocket, silent now but loaded with everything you were trying not to become.

You squared your shoulders, picked up a brush, and turned back to your kit like it could keep you safe.

Backstage roared on around you – fabric and laughter and camera clicks – while, somewhere under all that noise, the softest crack widened, waiting for the moment it would finally be seen.

The next time it happened, you almost missed it.

Backstage was the usual controlled storm – racks of clothing rolling over cables, assistants weaving through bodies with clipboards pressed to their chests, stylists calling out last-minute changes like prayers. A makeup artist somewhere laughed too loudly; the photographer’s voice carried from the set, upbeat and commanding. Someone sprayed hairspray and the scent drifted across your station in a sweet, chemical cloud.

Your hands moved on autopilot. Powder. Concealer. A small tap of highlighter on the inner corner of Steve’s eye, because the lights on set were harsh today and you knew exactly how to soften them.

Steve sat in your chair, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on his own reflection as if he was trying to pretend he wasn’t being fussed over. He had a way of being patient that wasn’t passive – he made stillness look like something he’d chosen.

“You’re quiet,” he said, voice low enough that only you would hear over the chaos.

“I’m always quiet,” you lied lightly, leaning in to blend along his cheekbone.

Steve’s mouth twitched. He didn’t call you out. He just watched you in the mirror, his eyes tracking the smallest shifts in your expression like he’d been doing it for weeks now – like he’d learned to read the difference between your focused calm and the kind of calm that came from holding something down.

Before you could answer, your phone vibrated against your thigh.

One short buzz.

You kept your face neutral. Didn’t reach for it. Most people wouldn’t even have noticed, not with the noise and movement around you.

But Steve noticed everything.

His eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, then returned to your face – careful, not intrusive, like he’d been trained not to stare at wounds.

You ignored the phone. Finished the blending. Reached for setting powder.

The phone buzzed again.

Longer this time.

You felt it like a heartbeat you hadn’t asked for.

You set the powder down with a touch too much precision. “Hold still,” you murmured, just to give yourself something to say.

“I’m holding still,” Steve replied, obedient, but his gaze sharpened a little. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You froze – not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it. You forced your hand to move again, sweeping powder across his forehead with the gentlest strokes.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

Steve’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened. “Okay.”

He didn’t push. He never pushed. That was part of what made him dangerous to your composure – he gave you room, and the room made it harder to hide.

The buzzing stopped. The moment passed. You breathed again.

And then, ten minutes later, it happened again.

Not a buzz this time. A call. Your phone lit up in your pocket and the vibration was insistent – continuous, urgent in a way personal calls rarely were during shoots. You felt the screen heat against your skin like it was trying to burn a hole through the fabric.

You didn’t look at it. Not at first.

You kept your face smooth and reached for a brush, as if you’d planned to do that all along. You tilted your body slightly, using your shoulder to block the line of sight from anyone standing behind you.

You were good at angles. You built your whole life on them.

Steve watched you in the mirror.

His eyes narrowed – not suspicion, not accusation. Concern.

“Do you need to take that?” he asked quietly.

You forced a smile. “No.”

The phone vibrated again, like it didn’t believe you.

Across the room, Bucky was in wardrobe, halfway through shrugging into a coat that probably cost more than your first apartment. He was talking to a stylist, all casual charm, but his gaze lifted at the exact moment your smile faltered. It locked onto you like a hook.

You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that old instinct: don’t let them see.

You stepped back from Steve. “I’ll be right back,” you said, making it sound like a normal thing – like you were just grabbing another product.

Steve’s head turned slightly as you moved. “Hey,” he called, soft and careful, not wanting to draw attention. “You sure?”

You paused with your hand on your kit, fingers hovering above a compact you didn’t need. You met his eyes in the mirror. For a second, you wanted to say yes – wanted to let the truth spill out, not the whole truth, but something real enough to breathe.

Instead you nodded once. “Yeah.”

You slipped toward the edge of backstage, weaving between racks and people until you found a narrow corridor that smelled like dust and fabric and the bitter tang of black coffee. A quiet pocket. A place where the light didn’t reach as hard.

You pulled your phone out.

The name on the screen made your chest tighten.

Adam.

Not “Grandpa.” Not a nickname. The contact label you’d chosen on purpose – formal enough that if anyone saw it, it could belong to anybody. A habit born from fear.

You let it ring one more time, because you were stubborn, because you were still clinging to the illusion that you could choose when your life demanded you.

Then you answered, voice pitched perfectly neutral. “Hello?”

A breath on the other end, followed by his voice – warm, composed, threaded with something you almost never heard from him.

Impatience.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At work,” you said, as if that should be answer enough.

“I know you’re at work. I mean– are you alone?”

You glanced down the corridor. Nobody. You lowered your voice. “Yes. What’s wrong?”

A pause. You could hear faint hospital ambience behind him – wheels on tile, a distant announcement, the murmur of another voice.

“My ankle,” he said, as if he’d only just remembered. “It’s nothing. A foolish misstep. Your grandmother scolded me as if I were twelve.”

Your stomach dropped anyway. It didn’t matter that he said “nothing.” It mattered that he’d called you like this, in the middle of a shoot, with urgency in his tone.

“What happened?” you asked, too quickly.

“I fell,” he admitted. “Do not worry. I am not breaking apart yet.” Then, softer: “But it was a reminder.”

Your grip tightened around the phone. “A reminder of what?”

“Time,” he said simply. “And risk. We have been careful, you and I. We have been… perhaps too careful.”

You swallowed. You already knew where this was going. You’d felt it circling for weeks, in the way he’d been asking about meetings, in the way he’d started bringing up succession as if it were weather.

“I’m in the middle of something,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Can we talk later?”

“You can,” he replied. “But the board cannot. They want to see you. They want assurances. They want–”

“Not now,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. You closed your eyes, inhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. Not now.”

There was silence long enough that you could hear your own pulse.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “I’m not calling to frighten you.”

That was, in itself, terrifying.

“I just need you to understand,” he continued, “that I won’t be able to keep you hidden much longer.”

Hidden.

You pressed your free hand to your forehead as if you could physically hold yourself together. “You promised,” you whispered.

“I promised to protect you,” he corrected. “Not to build you a cage.”

Your throat tightened.

“I like my job,” you said, and it came out too raw for a work call. “I like being… normal.”

“You were never normal,” he said with a fondness that hurt. “You were simply unseen.”

Unseen. Incognito. Safe.

Not real.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t do this right now.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you will. Soon. I need you in the office tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. And I will need you to stop declining the board’s invitations. They are beginning to take it personally.”

You could almost hear the unspoken part: They will start asking questions. The wrong people will start looking.

Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. An office you hadn’t stepped into as yourself in months.

You rubbed your thumb over the edge of your phone. “Okay,” you said, voice flat with resignation. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he replied, and you could hear relief slip into his tone. “And– my dear–”

“What?”

“Be careful,” he said. “Not of them. Of yourself. You have a habit of carrying things until they become too heavy.”

Your chest ached. You forced a thin laugh you didn’t feel. “You’re one to talk.”

He made a sound that might’ve been amusement. Might’ve been affection. “Go,” he said. “Do your work. We will speak later.”

The call ended.

You stared at the dark screen for a second too long, as if it might offer you another path. Then you slid the phone back into your pocket and leaned your head against the wall.

Just for a moment.

You let the weight settle behind your ribs. Let the fear take shape: the board, the announcement, the name that wasn’t supposed to be attached to your face in a room full of people who would smile at you like sharks.

Then you pushed off the wall and walked back toward the light.

You knew what you looked like. You could already feel the difference in your posture – still composed, still efficient, but with something taut pulled tight under your skin. You’d learned to be polished. You hadn’t learned to be unafraid.

As you rounded the rack of clothes and stepped back into the hum of backstage, Steve’s gaze snapped to you immediately, like he’d been waiting for your return.

Bucky’s did too.

Steve didn’t speak right away. He just watched you, eyes searching your face with quiet patience, giving you the chance to decide what to offer.

Bucky was less subtle. He leaned slightly forward from where he stood, the line of his shoulders sharpening, his expression alert.

You forced your mouth into the right shape. The familiar one. The one that said everything is fine, keep going, nothing to see here.

“Sorry,” you said, light, breezy. “Just– family.”

Steve didn’t nod immediately. His eyes flicked to your pocket, then back to your face.

“Everything okay?” he asked again, softer this time.

You held his gaze and lied as smoothly as you could. “Yeah. He just… worries.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He crossed his arms, leaning back like he was playing it cool, but you’d worked with him too long to miss the tension in his jaw.

“Must be some kind of family,” he drawled, aiming for teasing and missing by a hair. “You’ve been getting those a lot lately.”

You laughed – too quick, too practiced. “He’s dramatic.”

Steve’s expression stayed gentle. “Do you want a break?”

“No,” you said immediately, because you couldn’t afford breaks. Breaks gave people time to look at you closely.

You turned back to your kit and picked up a brush you didn’t need, just to keep your hands moving. The familiar motions steadied you, like they always did.

But you could feel it now – the shift. The way the calls weren’t just background noise anymore. The way they had teeth.

And you could feel Steve and Bucky watching, not like clients, not like coworkers, but like people who cared enough to notice when the air changed.

They didn’t know what was coming.

But you had the sinking certainty that they were starting to sense it.

It didn’t happen all at once.

Your life didn’t split cleanly down the middle with one dramatic announcement, one headline, one explosive argument. It fractured the way ice does – quietly, invisibly – until you looked down and realized the surface you’d been standing on was webbed with cracks.

One morning, a few days after meeting with the board, you woke up to a calendar that no longer belonged to you.

Your phone was already lit when you reached for it, the screen glowing an accusing blue in the dimness of your bedroom. Notifications stacked like a second alarm clock: emails flagged urgent, messages marked high priority, meeting invites that had been accepted on your behalf by an assistant you didn’t employ – at least, not in the life you were pretending to live.

Board call – 08:30. Legal review – 09:15. Brand partners – 11:00. Private lunch – 12:30. Confidential – 14:00. Gala prep briefing – 17:00.

Your stomach clenched.

Your “real” job – your actual day, the one you loved – was supposed to start with a shoot at nine. Steve and Bucky had back-to-back editorial looks, two hair changes, one wardrobe swap that would take a miracle and a prayer. You were meant to be there early, coffee in one hand, brush belt on your hips, ready to catch the chaos before it spilled.

Instead, your phone buzzed again.

A message from a number saved under a name you never used out loud.

Car is downstairs. We’ll take you through the service entrance.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You dragged yourself out of bed, got dressed on autopilot, and forced your face into something composed in the bathroom mirror. You could do composed. You’d built your entire adult life on it. You just hadn’t expected to need it at eight in the morning with a meeting agenda you hadn’t even agreed to.

When you arrived at the studio, the familiar backstage smell – warm lights, hairspray, fresh fabric – hit you like a memory. It should’ve soothed you. It almost did.

Almost.

You stepped into your station with your kit, and your hands began doing what they always did: laying out brushes, wiping palettes, checking products. Normal. Grounding. A ritual that made your body believe you still had control.

Then your phone vibrated. Again.

You didn’t even have to look to know it wasn’t casual.

You angled the screen away from any wandering eyes and saw an email subject line that made your throat go tight:

Re: Succession Announcement – Confirm Attendance

You locked the screen and slid the phone under your makeup bag as if you could hide it there the same way you’d hidden yourself.

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice, soft and close.

You looked up to find him standing at the edge of your station, still in sweats and a white tee, hair damp like he’d showered at the studio. He’d brought you a coffee – he always did now, as if it had quietly become part of his routine to look after you in small ways you could pretend weren’t meaningful.

He held it out. “Thought you might need this.”

Your smile came too fast. Too bright. “You’re a saint.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over your face, as if he was checking the way your smile sat. “You okay?”

You reached for the cup, forcing your fingers not to shake. “Yeah. Just… busy.”

“Busy like normal busy?” he asked, gently, like he was offering you the chance to correct the lie without calling you a liar. “Or busy like… something happened?”

Your chest tightened.

There was a moment – half a second – where you almost told him. Not everything. Not the name. But the simplest truth: my grandfather fell, and now the world I’m hiding is knocking at the door.

Instead, you shrugged, light as air. “Normal busy.”

Steve didn’t argue. He just nodded, but the nod was slow, thoughtful. Like he was storing the answer somewhere, filing it away.

From across the room, Bucky’s laughter cut through the noise – bright, sharp, and a little forced, the kind he used when he was playing “fine” for other people. You glanced up instinctively and caught his eyes.

He was sitting in wardrobe’s chair, a stylist adjusting his collar, but his gaze was locked on you like a compass. He lifted an eyebrow, wordlessly asking: What’s going on?

You mouthed nothing back. You didn’t know what you could say.

The day went like that – tightrope walking between your hands and your phone.

You did Steve’s base in record time, blended his contour like your life depended on it, fixed the way the lights made his skin look too harsh. You adjusted Bucky’s brow with a careful brush and pretended you didn’t notice how his eyes kept flicking to your pocket every time your phone buzzed.

The calls weren’t constant, not enough to justify panic.

They were worse.

They were patterned.

A buzz at 09:12. A call at 09:47. A calendar invite at 10:05. A voicemail at 10:06. An email marked “confidential” at 10:07.

Like someone had put your day on a leash and was giving it short, sharp tugs.

You started slipping away in small increments – thirty seconds here, a minute there. You’d step behind a rack, answer a call in a whisper, then return with your posture straight and your smile intact.

And every time you came back, the air around you felt a fraction different.

Not because anyone could name what had changed – but because Steve and Bucky could feel it.

They knew you. That was the problem.

It was midday when the first domino actually fell.

You were crouched by your kit, searching for a specific lip liner Bucky insisted was “the only one that doesn’t make me look like I’m dying,” when your phone rang – an actual call, full volume, because you’d forgotten to put it on silent after the last one.

The sound was sharp and out of place in the backstage hum.

You froze.

For a second, the whole room seemed to hear it. Not because it was loud – because it was you. You weren’t the person whose phone went off. You weren’t the one who got interrupted. You were the calm center people moved around.

Steve’s head turned immediately.

Bucky’s too.

You snatched the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, and caught the name before you could stop yourself.

Not “Adam” this time.

A different contact. One you never should’ve been receiving calls from on set.

Chairman – Private Line.

Your blood turned cold.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t – there were too many eyes, too much risk. You silenced it, heart pounding, then forced yourself to straighten like nothing had happened.

But the second you looked up, you knew you’d lost something.

Bucky was staring.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Alert.

Steve’s expression had gone very still, a quiet kind of concern sharpening into something closer to… calculation.

“Who was that?” Bucky asked.

He tried to make it casual. He failed. His voice was too careful, like he was stepping on glass.

You swallowed. “Just– someone from my family.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lifted. “Your family has a chairman?”

Your breath caught.

Steve’s gaze flicked to Bucky – don’t push – then back to you. Steve’s voice was softer when he spoke, almost a rescue rope. “You don’t have to tell us,” he said. “We’re just… noticing.”

You forced a laugh, thin and brittle. “It’s not that dramatic.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave your face. “It kind of looks dramatic.”

You set the phone down with deliberate calm, picked up the lip liner, and turned it between your fingers like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to avoid the fact that your chest felt too tight to breathe properly.

“I’ve got stuff going on,” you said finally, steadying your voice. “That’s all.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He didn’t believe you. But he accepted what you were willing to give.

For the next hour, you worked like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts. You kept your focus on the faces in front of you because faces were easy – skin tone, symmetry, light. You could fix those. You couldn’t fix the way your world was tightening around you.

And your agenda – your real agenda – kept mutating in real time.

At 14:00, you were supposed to be on set for the second shoot. You were supposed to touch up between shots, correct shine, fix flyaways, be the invisible pair of hands that kept everything perfect.

Instead, you got a text: Your grandfather needs you at the office. Now.

You stared at the words until they blurred. Your throat went dry.

There was no graceful way out of this.

You found the producer, lied smoothly about a “family emergency,” promised you’d be back before final looks. You grabbed your kit, but not all of it – only the essentials – because taking everything would look like an exit.

You felt Steve’s eyes on you the whole time.

When you turned, he was already moving toward you, a quiet urgency in his stride.

“Hey,” he said, stopping just close enough that you could smell his cologne – clean, understated. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you said automatically.

Steve’s jaw tightened, the smallest sign of frustration you’d ever seen from him. Not anger – worry that didn’t know where to go.

“Okay,” he said, voice low, “then tell me why it feels like you’re disappearing.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You blinked, and for a second you couldn’t pretend. You couldn’t do breezy. Your lungs forgot how to work.

“I’m not disappearing,” you managed, but it came out too quiet. Too honest.

Steve’s eyes softened. “It feels like you are.”

Behind him, Bucky had drifted closer too – not in a confrontational way, but like he was drawn by gravity he didn’t control. His posture was casual, arms crossed, but the tension sat high in his shoulders.

“You’ve been leaving,” Bucky said, blunt but not cruel. “A lot. And you’re not… yourself.”

You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “You keep saying that like it’s a spell.”

Steve didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like you were something precious he didn’t want to handle wrong.

You hated how much you wanted to lean into that.

You hated even more that you couldn’t.

“I have to go,” you said, and it wasn’t an excuse this time. It was a fact. The leash tugged again, and you had no choice but to follow.

Steve stepped back slightly, giving you space, but his voice caught you before you could turn away.

“Text me,” he said.

You paused. Looked at him.

He didn’t say where are you going. He didn’t say why are you leaving. He didn’t demand details.

Just Don’t vanish. Let me know you’re okay.

Bucky added, quieter than usual, “Yeah. Just– don’t ghost us.”

The word landed wrong because it was too close to the truth.

You nodded once, throat tight, and then you turned and walked away before they could see the fear crack your composure.

In the car, the city moved past the tinted windows like a film you couldn’t quite follow. Your phone buzzed again – another invite, another reminder, another demand dressed up as a request.

Somewhere in that constant pull, you realized the worst part wasn’t the schedule itself.

It was the way it was starting to take you away from the only place you’d felt real.

And the way Steve and Bucky were starting to notice the gaps you left behind.

By the end of the month, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the phone calls anymore – though those were bad enough, constant little jolts of urgency that made your smile thinner and your movements sharper. It was the way you started arriving at the studio already braced, like you’d been carrying something heavy long before you stepped through the doors. It was the way you vanished between looks and returned with your eyes too bright, cheeks faintly flushed as if you’d been breathing air that tasted like pressure.

It was the way you kept apologizing.

You never used to apologize. Not like that.

Steve noticed first because Steve noticed everything that mattered.

Bucky noticed second because Bucky noticed everything you tried to hide.

They didn’t talk about it the first week. Or the second. They exchanged glances, little wordless check-ins across mirrors and racks of clothing. Steve’s look was worried and patient, the kind that asked permission before stepping closer. Bucky’s was sharp and restless, the kind that circled like a guard dog pretending he didn’t care.

And you, stubbornly, kept doing what you always did: you kept working.

You kept fixing details and smoothing edges, as if you could make the whole world behave if you blended hard enough.

On a Friday, the studio had booked a late shoot – one of those glossy, high-concept editorials where the set looked like a dream and the hours dragged into exhaustion. There were fewer people around by evening. The energy changed when the caffeine wore off and the lights made everyone’s skin look sallow. It grew quieter, almost intimate, the way a place does when you’ve been in it long enough that it stops feeling public.

You were still moving fast.

You were packing your kit with the brisk efficiency of someone trying to outrun the moment the room went still enough for feelings.

Steve watched you do it from the edge of the set, towel around his shoulders, hair damp from a quick rinse between shots. Bucky was sitting on a folding chair nearby, hands clasped loosely, his gaze fixed on you as if he was trying to memorize your movements.

Your phone buzzed again – one of those short, vicious vibrations that didn’t even pretend to be casual.

You didn’t look at it.

You just… flinched. The tiniest reaction. Barely there.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

Bucky’s head tilted, eyes narrowing.

You zipped your bag like that ended the conversation.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, too quickly, already stepping away.

You didn’t make it three steps before Steve spoke.

“Hey.”

Not loud. Not a command. Just your name – careful, as if he was reaching for your wrist without actually touching you.

You stopped anyway, because some part of you always stopped for Steve.

You turned, forcing that smile into place again. “What’s up?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward Bucky – silent communication, a check of agreement. Bucky nodded once, barely perceptible, like he was giving Steve the go-ahead.

That was the first domino you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t seen: they were coordinated.

Bucky stood up, slow and deliberate, and moved closer. Not crowding you. Just… present.

Steve’s voice stayed low. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to laugh. “Is this an intervention? Because if it’s about the concealer I used on you last week, I stand by it.”

Bucky snorted – almost – but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not about concealer.”

Steve’s gaze held yours, steady. “Not about work, either.”

The edges of the room seemed to sharpen. You became hyper-aware of everything: the hum of the lights, the faint music playing from someone’s speaker, the distant click of a camera being packed away. The smell of perfume samples and fabric and heat.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

Steve took a slow breath, like he was choosing every word on purpose. “We’ve been noticing… things.”

You opened your mouth to deny it. To dismiss it. To make a joke and slide away.

Bucky spoke first, and it was so unexpected it stopped you cold.

“We’re not mad,” he said.

His voice was rougher than usual, stripped of the teasing. Honest in a way that made your chest tighten.

Steve nodded, backing him up without hesitation. “We’re not mad,” he echoed. “We’re just… concerned.”

Your heart beat too hard. “About what?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to your pocket where your phone had buzzed. Back to your face. “About you.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

If it had been about makeup, about schedules, about a difficult client, you could have handled it. You could have fixed it, managed it, controlled it.

But they weren’t asking about your work.

They were asking about you.

You forced your shoulders to stay relaxed. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest he got to frustration. “You keep saying that.”

Steve’s voice softened even more, like he was trying to give you a safe landing. “And maybe you are,” he said. “But you don’t look fine. You look… like you’re holding your breath all day.”

You stared at him, throat closing.

Bucky shifted, weight rolling from heel to toe, restless but contained. “You’ve been disappearing,” he said. “You get those calls, and you go somewhere, and you come back like you’ve just… stepped out of a different life.”

You flinched, barely, because that was too accurate.

Steve’s eyes sharpened. “We don’t need details,” he said quickly, like he’d seen the way you tensed. “We’re not asking to pry.”

Bucky cut in, quieter now. “We’re asking because we care.”

The words hit like a bruise.

You looked between them – Steve’s steady concern, Bucky’s wary protectiveness – and felt something inside you want to give. Want to fall into the honesty they were offering you like a bed.

But honesty had consequences. Honesty had headlines. Honesty had a board of directors and a grandfather’s voice in your ear telling you it was time.

Honesty had the risk of Steve and Bucky looking at you differently forever.

You swallowed hard. “It’s family stuff,” you said, because it was the only truth you could say without detonating your life.

Bucky’s gaze held yours. “Okay.”

The single word was deceptively gentle. Not permission. Not dismissal. Just acknowledgment.

Steve nodded too. “Okay.”

Then Steve took another breath, slower, and his voice dropped into something almost intimate. “Are you safe?”

The question stole your air.

You blinked. “What?”

Steve didn’t look away. “Are you safe,” he repeated, carefully. “Because the way you’ve been… it looks like something’s chasing you.”

Your mouth went dry. You hated that your eyes stung. You hated that your body wanted to answer like a confession.

You managed a tight, brittle laugh. “No one’s chasing me.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “Feels like they are.”

He sounded like someone who knew what it was like to be cornered.

Steve took a small step closer – not into your space, just close enough that you could feel his presence. “We’re not trying to corner you,” he said, as if reading your panic. “We just… don’t want to keep guessing.”

Bucky nodded, jaw tight. “We’ve been guessing all month,” he admitted. “And it sucks.”

There was a beat of silence where you could hear the studio settling, people leaving, the night stretching out beyond the walls.

Then Steve glanced at Bucky again, a quiet exchange you caught only because you knew them both well now – Steve asking is this okay, Bucky answering yeah.

Bucky spoke, voice lower. “We talked about this,” he said, and something about that made your stomach twist.

We talked about this.

They’d been discussing you behind your back – not in a cruel way, not with gossip, but with worry. With care. With strategy.

Because they didn’t want to scare you.

Steve nodded slightly, as if confirming the same thought. “We did,” he said. “Because we didn’t want to do it wrong.”

You stared, pulse racing. “Do what wrong?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, but his voice did. “Come at you like an accusation.”

Steve’s gaze was gentle but unwavering. “Or make you feel like you owe us answers.”

Bucky shifted again, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t trust himself to. “So,” he said, blunt but careful, “here’s what we decided.”

Your breath caught.

Steve lifted his hand slightly, palm open, an instinctive calming gesture. “You can tell us nothing,” he said. “And we’ll accept it.”

Bucky nodded once. “But you can’t keep telling us you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Steve’s eyes held yours. “We just need something real,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s small.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to Steve, then back to you. “Like– do you want us to back off?” he asked. “Or do you want us to stay close?”

Stay close.

The words landed like a promise and a threat all at once.

You felt your throat tighten, the urge to say please stay and please don’t look at me too closely colliding so hard it made you dizzy.

You looked down at your hands – empty now, because your kit was packed, because your work shield was gone. You had nothing to hide behind.

“I…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat quickly. “I don’t know.”

Steve’s expression softened, not pity – understanding. “That’s okay,” he said.

Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on something bitter. “Just don’t shut us out,” he murmured, and it sounded like it cost him to say it.

Silence stretched again.

You could feel the shape of the truth pressing against your ribs – your name, your money, your grandfather, the board, the fact that you weren’t just the woman with the brushes.

You couldn’t say it. Not yet.

But you also couldn’t pretend they weren’t right.

So you did the only thing you could manage: you gave them a sliver.

“It’s complicated,” you said quietly. “And it’s… bigger than I want it to be.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave your face. “But you’re safe.”

You hesitated just long enough to be honest. “Yes.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction.

Steve’s voice was gentle. “And you’re not in trouble.”

You almost laughed. Almost cried. “No,” you whispered. “Not trouble.”

Bucky’s mouth twisted, something like relief and frustration tangled together. “Good,” he muttered. “Because if someone was messing with you–”

“Buck,” Steve warned softly, not scolding, just grounding.

Bucky shut his mouth, but his eyes stayed fierce.

Steve looked back at you. “We’re not asking you to fix it,” he said. “We’re just… letting you know you don’t have to carry it alone.”

That was the part that nearly broke you.

You forced your chin up, trying to keep your composure intact. “I appreciate it,” you managed. “I do.”

Bucky tilted his head, studying you. “Is that all we get?”

It was half-tease, half-test, like he was trying to give you a way out that didn’t feel like surrender.

You managed a tiny smile, shaky at the edges. “For now.”

Steve’s smile was soft, faint. “Okay,” he said again. “For now.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered a beat longer, then he nodded, as if locking the agreement into place. “For now.”

Steve stepped back, giving you your space again, but his voice caught you once more before the moment could dissolve.

“Just… text,” he said. “When you leave like that. So we know you’re okay.”

Bucky added, quieter, almost grudgingly sincere, “Yeah. A thumbs-up emoji would do.”

You let out a breath that trembled. “I can do that.”

Steve’s eyes warmed. “Good.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked, the barest hint of his usual mischief returning. “And if your mysterious family stuff involves you being kidnapped by some rich vampire cult, I’m gonna be pissed.”

You laughed – real this time, a short burst that surprised you. It eased something tight in your chest.

Steve’s expression softened further, relief hidden behind a calm façade.

“No vampire cults,” you promised, as if that was something you could control.

You shook your head, still smiling, and for a moment the room felt almost normal again.

Almost.

But even as they let the subject drop – carefully, respectfully – you could feel it: the shift had happened.

They’d named the distance. They’d reached for you together and, for the first time, made it clear they weren’t going to look away just because you wanted them to.

They weren’t trying to corner you.

They were trying to be close enough that, when the truth finally fell, you wouldn’t hit the ground alone.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

Not easy – nothing was easy when the call sheet was packed and the lighting crew was behind schedule – but normal in the way you’d learned to love. Controlled chaos. Predictable problems. A zipper that wouldn’t cooperate, a model who needed water, a photographer who wanted “more shine” and didn’t realize that shine meant sweat under these lights.

Normal meant you could fix it.

You were moving between stations with your kit half-open, brush belt snug at your hips, eyes scanning faces and fabric like a checklist only you could read. Steve was on set, framed by a white cyclorama and a fan that made his shirt billow just enough to look effortless. Bucky was next up, pacing near wardrobe with that restless energy he got when he had to wait – hands flexing, jaw working, gaze occasionally snapping to you like he was making sure you were still there.

You’d promised them you’d text when you stepped away.

You’d even meant it.

But your phone didn’t care about promises.

It started with a vibration at your hip – short, insistent, the kind that wasn’t a friend checking in. You ignored it, finishing a quick touch-up on Steve’s collarbone where the light caught too harshly. Another buzz followed immediately, longer.

You felt Steve’s eyes on you from the set.

He couldn’t look away for long, not when something was off. He’d gotten good at watching you through reflections – mirrors, shiny floors, the dark glass of a monitor. You’d learned to keep your face neutral even when your pulse picked up, but he still saw the tiny shifts: the way your shoulders went tight, the way your smile became a fraction too smooth.

Bucky saw too. He always did. He didn’t say anything yet, but you could feel his attention like a hand at the back of your neck.

You told yourself you’d handle it after the shot. After the next shot. After the next one.

Then your phone rang.

Not a buzz. Not a silent little demand. A full, bright ringtone – because you’d forgotten to switch it back to silent after you’d used it for a playback clip earlier. The sound cut through the backstage hum like a blade.

For a split second, everything in you went cold.

Your hand shot to your pocket on instinct, silencing it, but it was too late. Heads turned. A PA glanced up. Someone from wardrobe looked irritated.

Steve’s head turned sharply, a flicker of concern on his face even under the bright, controlled expression he wore for the camera.

Bucky stopped pacing.

You forced a laugh you didn’t feel, a quick, apologetic gesture. “Sorry– sorry. My bad.”

The photographer waved it off, already refocusing. “All good. Steve– chin down. Perfect. Hold that.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, and stepped back from the set. You needed a corner. A rack to hide behind. Thirty seconds of privacy.

You could feel Steve’s eyes tracking your movement as if he was trying not to make it obvious.

Bucky, on the other hand, didn’t even bother pretending. His gaze followed you like a tether.

You slipped behind a tall rack of coats – heavy fabric, designer labels, the faint smell of new wool – and pressed your back to the metal frame, pulling your phone out.

You didn’t look at the name at first.

You already knew it wouldn’t be a friend. Wouldn’t be your grandfather – he usually texted when he knew you were working, keeping the urgency disguised.

This call had teeth.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

The name staring back at you made your stomach drop anyway.

Elliott – Chairman’s Office.

The contact wasn’t supposed to exist on your phone as you. It was supposed to belong to the version of you that sat at the head of a table, not the one who carried a brush belt and had foundation smudged on her knuckles by noon.

You closed your eyes for a beat, then answered, voice controlled and low. “Hello.”

“Finally,” a man’s voice replied immediately – professional, clipped, the kind that was trained to sound calm even when delivering pressure. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I’m working,” you said, and even that sounded like a lie in your mouth now.

There was a pause – tiny, polite, sharp. “Yes. We’re aware you’re at the studio. I won’t take long.”

Your throat tightened. “What do you need?”

“The chairman would like confirmation,” he said. “For Monday.”

Your grip on the phone tightened. “I told him I can’t commit yet.”

“With respect,” the man replied, and there was no respect in it, “that isn’t sufficient. The board wants clarity. They’re asking whether you’ll attend the meeting in person or appear remotely. They’re asking whether you’ll be prepared to address – ”

“No,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. You took a breath, forced your tone back into neutrality. “No. I can’t confirm to the board before Monday.”

You didn’t hear the end of your own sentence at first. All you heard was the silence that followed.

Because silence, in a room like backstage, had weight.

You realized – too late – that you weren’t as hidden as you thought.

The rack of coats wasn’t a wall. The fabric didn’t block sound the way you’d wanted it to. And you’d angled yourself in a rush, focused on escaping eyes, not on where those eyes might have followed.

A shadow shifted on the other side of the rack.

You froze, every nerve in your body firing at once.

“–Miss?” the voice on the phone continued, oblivious. “If you could just give us a sense of your preference, we can manage expectations. The partners are asking questions. Press is already–”

“Elliott,” you hissed, voice low and tight, “I’m in the middle of a shoot. I will call you back.”

There was another pause, a breath. “Understood. But I’ll need something concrete by end of day.”

You swallowed the panic down. “I said I’ll call you back.”

You ended the call before he could respond.

For a heartbeat, you stared at the dark screen as if it could help you undo what you’d just said out loud.

Board.

The word echoed in your skull like a dropped glass.

You felt the prickle of being watched.

Slowly – so slowly – you lifted your gaze.

Bucky was standing on the other side of the rack.

Not close enough to invade you. Not far enough to pretend he hadn’t heard. His posture was deceptively casual, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were sharp and fixed on your face like a lock picking at your mask.

Behind him, half a step back, Steve hovered in the corridor of open space – drawn there without meaning to be, the way he always moved toward someone in distress. He wasn’t staring at your phone. He was staring at you, expression gentle but too focused to be neutral.

Neither of them spoke.

And that, more than anything, made your stomach twist.

Bucky broke the silence first.

“Board,” he said, softly.

It wasn’t a question yet. It was just the word you’d dropped, offered back to you like evidence.

Your throat went dry. You forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to your own ears. “Yeah, uh–”

Steve’s voice cut in, quiet and careful. “You said… the board.”

The way he phrased it – no accusation, no sharp edges – gave you a chance to steer. A chance to explain it away. The kind of chance that made the lie harder.

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Bucky’s eyes flicked from your face to your phone and back. “Why does a board need you to confirm anything?” he asked. “You’re–” He stopped himself, as if he was trying not to say what he was thinking. You’re our visagist. You’re backstage. You’re not–

You could see the thought running across his face, colliding with all the little inconsistencies he’d been collecting all week.

Steve stepped forward half a step, palms open at his sides, body language gentle. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to explain everything. But– are you okay?”

The question landed like a hook behind your ribs.

You swallowed. Your voice came out thin. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Stop saying that.”

The words weren’t harsh, but they were loaded. You could hear the worry in them – worry disguised as irritation because that was how Bucky kept his fear from showing.

Steve glanced at Bucky, a silent request: easy. Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell once, like he was forcing himself to dial it down.

Then Steve looked back at you, eyes warm and steady. “Talk to us,” he said softly. “Just… a little.”

You looked between them and felt the walls of your careful life narrowing.

There were a hundred lies you could tell. A hundred versions of “consulting,” “family investments,” “an old job I used to have,” “I help with admin sometimes.”

But your body had already betrayed you. The flinch. The urgency. The way your hand had gone tight around the phone like it could hold your world together.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, voice lower now. “Is this why you keep disappearing?”

You inhaled, slow and shaky. “It’s– complicated.”

Steve nodded like he’d expected that answer. “Okay,” he said. “Complicated is allowed.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t soften, but it steadied. “Is it dangerous complicated?” he asked, blunt.

You blinked. “No.”

Steve’s eyes stayed on yours. “Is it something you’re ashamed of?”

The question hit differently – gentle, but precise.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat burned.

“I’m not ashamed,” you whispered, and the truth of it hurt. “I’m… scared.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, quick and involuntary. “Of what?”

You let out a breath that trembled. “Of you looking at me differently.”

The words were out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too raw.

Steve’s face softened, immediate understanding flashing in his eyes. Bucky’s jaw tightened like he’d been punched – not because he was angry, but because the implication landed hard.

“You think we’d– what,” Bucky said, voice rough. “Use you?”

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. Because he was right.

Steve’s voice was a quiet anchor. “Hey,” he said again, closer now. “Whatever this is– whatever the board is– it doesn’t change who you are.”

You almost laughed at that, bitter and afraid. Because it did change things. It had to. Names and money and power always changed things, even when people swore they wouldn’t.

Bucky took a small step closer, then stopped himself, like he didn’t want to crowd you. “Just tell us one thing,” he said. “Are you in charge of something?”

Your breath caught.

Your silence was answer enough.

Steve’s eyes widened just a fraction, the pieces sliding into place. Not all of them. Not yet. But enough to shift the ground under the three of you.

“Okay,” Steve said slowly, voice gentle as ever, but now threaded with something new – shock, maybe, or awe. “Okay. That’s… bigger than we thought.”

Bucky let out a low breath, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time and trying not to let it show. “Yeah,” he murmured. “No kidding.”

Your heart hammered. Your palms were damp around the phone.

You forced yourself to lift your chin. “I didn’t want it to matter,” you said, voice shaking despite your effort. “I didn’t want… this… to get in the way.”

Steve’s gaze softened further. “You didn’t want us to be here because of that.”

You nodded once, throat tight.

Bucky’s eyes held yours, fierce and steady. “We’re here because of you,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it with his whole chest.

For a second, you couldn’t breathe.

Behind you, the studio noise surged again – a stylist calling for Bucky, the photographer asking where his next model was, the set lights humming like a distant storm.

Reality tugged at you.

You stepped back a fraction, clutching your phone like a lifeline. “I have to–” you started.

Steve’s voice was quiet but firm. “We’re not done.”

Not a threat. A promise.

Bucky nodded, gaze locked on you. “We’ll talk,” he said. “When you’re ready. But we’re not pretending we didn’t hear that.”

You swallowed, eyes stinging, and managed a small nod.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Steve’s expression was gentle, but unyielding. “Okay.”

Bucky’s mouth twisted – half frustration, half relief. “Now go,” he said, voice softer than his words. “Before they start yelling your name and I have to fight a stylist.”

A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself.

And then you turned back toward the set, your kit suddenly heavier at your hip, your secret suddenly louder than any ringtone – because now it wasn’t just living inside you anymore.

Now it lived in their eyes too.

The shoot ended the way they always did – abruptly, like someone had snapped their fingers and decided the day was done.

One moment the set was a bright, artificial world of wind machines and white walls, the photographer calling out adjustments, assistants darting in with water and lint rollers. The next, the lights dimmed, the camera was lowered, and the air seemed to release a breath it had been holding for hours.

“Beautiful. That’s it,” the photographer said, satisfied, already turning to talk about selects. People began to disperse in that exhausted, efficient shuffle: stylists gathering pins and tape, wardrobe rolling racks back into place, the hair team rushing to clean brushes and close drawers. A PA called out tomorrow’s call time like it was a forecast.

You kept moving because stopping meant thinking.

You packed your kit with muscle memory, wiping down palettes, sliding brushes into their sleeves, making sure each item went back exactly where it belonged. You could control your kit. You couldn’t control the way your chest felt too tight for the air.

You caught Steve’s reflection in the dark screen of a monitor. He was still in wardrobe’s last look – shirt half unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed, skin still warm under the afterglow of the lights. His expression was calm, polite as he thanked the crew, but his eyes kept flicking toward you like a compass needle that couldn’t settle.

Bucky’s gaze was more direct.

He was standing near the edge of the set, arms crossed, jaw set, the line of his shoulders too tense for exhaustion alone. He wasn’t frowning, not exactly – but there was a hard edge to the way he held himself, like he’d been reining something in since that moment behind the coat rack.

Board.

The word still echoed in your head.

You tried to slip away while everyone was busy. You made it as far as the corridor outside the studio before Steve’s voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

Not loud. Not sharp. Just your name, careful.

You turned, forcing your face into something neutral. “I need to–”

“We know,” Bucky cut in, stepping out behind Steve. “You always need to.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was too blunt to be a joke.

Steve shot him a look. Not reprimand – grounding. Then Steve looked back at you and softened his voice. “Can we talk? Somewhere that isn’t… this.”

He gestured vaguely toward the studio behind you, as if even saying backstage out loud might make it listen.

You glanced between them. Your heart hammered with the instinct to run. But they weren’t cornering you. They were giving you an out – an option. A choice.

“Now?” you asked, and hated how small your voice sounded.

Steve nodded. “If you can.”

Bucky’s eyes stayed on your face. “Unless you’re gonna disappear again.”

You flinched. There it was – the hurt, wearing the shape of irritation.

“I’m not–” You swallowed. “I’m not trying to disappear.”

Steve’s expression softened further. “Then don’t,” he said simply.

The simplicity of it hit harder than any accusation could have.

You exhaled slowly. Your phone sat heavy in your pocket, silent for once, but you could feel the pending demands like a storm on the horizon.

“Okay,” you said, because there was no version of this where you didn’t eventually say it. “We can talk.”

Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction, like he’d been holding his breath. Steve’s gaze stayed steady, quiet relief flickering behind his composure.

“Where?” Steve asked, gentle.

You hesitated.

There were a hundred places you could choose – some quiet diner, a bar with dim light, a corner booth where nobody would recognize them. A hotel lounge. A private room somewhere.

But the truth was, every public place felt like a risk. Public meant eyes. Public meant the possibility of your name being spoken too loudly, of a stranger catching a glimpse, of the wrong person overhearing.

Public meant you wouldn’t be able to breathe.

And there was only one place you felt you could say it out loud and not immediately regret it.

“My place,” you said quietly.

Bucky blinked. “Your– apartment?”

You nodded, throat tight. “It’s… close.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly, surprised but not suspicious. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re comfortable.”

Comfortable was a generous word. You weren’t comfortable. You were terrified.

But you also knew you couldn’t keep trying to hold this inside you until it rotted.

“Yeah,” you lied softly. “I’m comfortable.”

The ride was quiet.

Steve offered to drive – because Steve always offered – but you insisted on calling a car, your fingers moving fast over the screen. The driver recognized you immediately. You saw it in the way his posture shifted, the way he greeted you with a “Good evening, miss,” that held a weight Steve and Bucky didn’t yet understand.

You slid into the back seat, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other. Their warmth boxed you in – protective, familiar – and it should have been comforting.

Instead, you felt like you were sitting between two truths: the life they knew, and the one you’d been hiding.

Streetlights streaked across the windows. The city blurred. Steve’s knee brushed yours once when the car turned, and his hand hovered, as if he wanted to steady you and didn’t want to assume he could.

Bucky kept glancing at you like he was trying to figure out what kind of secret required this much caution.

You didn’t speak until the car slowed and the building rose ahead – glass and steel, tall enough to scrape the sky. The lobby was lit like a museum, spotless and quiet. A doorman stepped forward immediately.

“Welcome back,” he said, voice warm.

And then, because you’d never needed to hide it here – because this was the one place you allowed yourself to exist as you – he added your name.

Not your professional name.

Your full name.

The one that belonged on company documents and private lines and board agendas.

Steve’s body went subtly still beside you. Not tense – just… attentive. The way he became attentive when something important entered the room.

Bucky’s gaze snapped to you, sharp.

You didn’t correct the doorman. You couldn’t. Correcting it would be another lie.

You just nodded once and walked forward, the sound of your heels too loud on the marble.

The elevator opened without anyone needing to press a button. The attendant inside greeted you like you were expected, like this was routine.

“Penthouse,” he said, and your stomach dropped even though you’d chosen this.

Bucky let out a low breath, almost soundless. Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, questioning but gentle.

The doors slid closed.

The elevator rose in smooth silence. The numbers climbed. Your heartbeat climbed with them.

When the doors opened, the hallway outside was carpeted and quiet, lit with warm, understated lamps. There was art on the walls – real art, not prints. The kind of detail you stopped noticing when you lived with it, but that screamed its meaning to anyone else.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on it, then on you. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Your door unlocked with a soft beep. You stepped inside and the penthouse swallowed you whole – open space, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling below like a necklace of lights. The air smelled clean, faintly like expensive candle wax and something floral you couldn’t name. A grand piano sat near the window. A long couch faced a sleek fireplace. Everything was elegant and quiet, built for a life that required privacy and power.

The kind of life you’d sworn you didn’t want to be defined by.

Steve stepped inside and stopped.

Bucky stepped inside and stopped harder.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Their silence wasn’t judgment. It was shock. Their brains recalibrating.

Bucky was the first to find his voice, because Bucky always was.

“Okay,” he said slowly, looking around, “so… you’re not living in a studio apartment over a bakery.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “No.”

Steve turned toward you, expression controlled but wounded at the edges. “You–” He stopped, like he was choosing his words carefully. “You never said–”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

Bucky’s gaze cut into you, not cruel, just too direct. “You lied to us.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t want to.”

Steve’s voice was soft, but it held weight. “You did,” he said. “Even if you didn’t want to.”

You nodded, because denying it would be pointless.

“I didn’t tell you,” you said, voice shaking, “because I didn’t know how.”

Bucky’s laugh was short, incredulous – not amused. “Try ‘I’m rich.’ That’s pretty straightforward.”

You flinched. “It’s not just that.”

Steve stepped closer – not crowding, but grounding. “Then tell us,” he said quietly. “We’re here.”

The words we’re here made something crack in you.

You walked to the couch because you needed to move somewhere that didn’t feel like the middle of the room. Your legs felt too weak to hold you up. You sat, hands clasped so tightly your fingers hurt.

Steve and Bucky hovered for a second – uncertain, like they didn’t want to overwhelm you – then Steve sat on your left, Bucky on your right. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel their body heat.

And then, almost in unison, each of them placed a hand behind you.

Steve’s palm rested between your shoulder blades, steady and warm. Bucky’s hand settled lower, at the small of your back, like an anchor.

It was shockingly intimate. Shockingly kind.

You stared at your own hands because you couldn’t look at them yet.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll tell you.”

Silence settled around you, soft and expectant.

You took a breath that trembled. “The agency… is part of a bigger group. Fashion, media, charity foundations, investments. My grandfather founded it.”

Steve’s hand shifted slightly, a gentle rub like encouragement.

Bucky’s fingers pressed once against your back, wordless support that still felt like something fierce.

“And I’m…” You swallowed hard. “I’m his heir. The main shareholder. On paper, I’m–” You almost couldn’t say it. “I’m the CEO.”

Bucky went very still. “You’re what.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Not publicly. Not yet. My grandfather is still– he’s still holding the front. He’s been… pulling strings to keep my name out of it. To keep me hidden.”

Steve’s voice was soft, but you heard the sting under it. “All this time?”

You nodded, eyes still closed. “All this time.”

Bucky’s hand flexed against your back, the only sign of what he was feeling.

You forced yourself to continue. “I started working in beauty because I wanted to. I love it. I love–” Your voice cracked. “I love being there with you. With the team. I love doing something that feels real.”

Steve’s breath left him slowly. “And the calls.”

“The calls are because he fell,” you said quickly, because you needed them to understand the urgency. “It was just his ankle. A sprain. But it scared him. It reminded him he can’t do this forever. He… he told me it’s time.”

Bucky’s voice came sharper now, anger finally surfacing – not directed at you exactly, but at the whole situation. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna… step out of this and become some corporate queen overnight?”

You flinched. “I don’t want to.”

Steve’s hand tightened briefly, then relaxed. “Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, and the hurt in his voice made your throat burn.

You opened your eyes finally and stared at the city lights beyond your windows. “Because I was scared.”

Bucky let out a rough breath. “Scared of what?”

You laughed weakly, and it sounded like a broken thing. “Scared that it wouldn’t be… real. That you’d look at me and see–” You gestured vaguely at the penthouse, the height, the space, the evidence. “All of this.”

Steve’s voice went quieter, almost hoarse. “And you think we would?”

You couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to find out.”

Bucky’s anger sharpened, finally finding words. “You thought we’d what?” he demanded, and there was pain under it. “Sell you to the highest bidder? Start kissing up because you’ve got money and connections?”

Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the rawness. “No–”

“Because that’s what it sounds like,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Like you didn’t trust us enough to believe we could just… like you.”

Steve’s hand moved, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like he was trying to keep the moment from tipping into something you couldn’t come back from. But his voice, when he spoke, held its own wound.

“You think I’ve been flirting with you because of your status?” Steve asked softly.

The tenderness of the question nearly broke you.

You shook your head fast. “No. God, no. Steve–”

“Then why,” he murmured, eyes searching your face, “did you keep us out?”

Your composure finally cracked.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, but the words pushed through anyway, trembling and urgent.

“Because I wanted it to be real,” you whispered, and your voice shattered on the last word. “I wanted to be sure that when you looked at me– when you smiled at me– when you–” You swallowed hard, eyes burning. “When you cared… it was because it was me.”

Bucky’s expression faltered, anger shifting into something else – something like understanding, laced with guilt.

Steve’s eyes softened immediately, heartbreak and empathy tangled together.

You kept going because stopping would mean drowning. “People approach me differently when they know,” you said, voice shaking. “They laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. They touch my arm too much. They offer things they wouldn’t offer otherwise. They say my name like it’s a key.” You breathed in, sharp. “I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to wonder if every kind thing was… bought.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was chewing through his own emotions. “So you decided to lie,” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, tears slipping free despite you trying to hold them back. “Yes.”

Steve’s hand left your back for the first time, and your chest clenched – until he brought it around to your shoulder, fingers gently curling there, grounding you. “Hey,” he murmured.

You looked at him, and the hurt in his eyes made you feel sick.

Steve spoke first – exactly like you’d imagined, except softer. “Do you think,” he asked, voice careful, “that this changes the feelings we have for you?”

The question punched the air out of your lungs.

You stared at him, stunned. “Steve…”

Bucky let out a breath that sounded like frustration at himself. “That’s what you’re worried about?” he muttered, but there was no bite left in it. Only pain. “You really think we’re that shallow.”

You shook your head helplessly. “I don’t think you’re shallow. I think… people change. They can. Even good people.”

Steve’s gaze held yours, steady. “We’re not asking you to tell us your bank balance,” he said softly. “Or your last name. Or what your board wants.”

Bucky’s hand pressed more firmly into your back, warm and solid. “We’re asking you to let us stay,” he said, voice rough.

The words landed so gently they hurt.

You blinked hard. “Stay,” you repeated, because you needed to hear it in your own voice to believe it.

Steve nodded. “Stay,” he echoed, and his thumb brushed your shoulder in a quiet, reassuring stroke. “If you want us to.”

Bucky’s gaze was fierce but soft around the edges now. “We’re disappointed,” he admitted, honest. “Because you didn’t trust us.”

Steve added, quietly, “It stings.”

You swallowed a sob. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky huffed, not unkind. “Yeah. We can tell.”

Steve leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice low enough it felt like a secret. “Just… don’t make the decision for us,” he said. “Don’t decide we’ll leave before we’ve even had the chance to choose.”

Bucky’s hand stayed at your back, steady. “And don’t disappear again without saying something,” he murmured. “Even if it’s just– ‘I’m okay. I’ll explain later’.”

You nodded quickly, tears still falling. “I can do that,” you whispered. “I can. I promise.”

Steve’s mouth softened into the faintest smile, sad but real. “That’s all we need right now.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, shoulders finally easing. “Yeah,” he agreed, quieter. “We don’t need the whole story tonight.”

Steve’s hand stayed on your shoulder, warm and sure. “We just need you to let us be here.”

For the first time in days, the pressure inside your chest shifted – still there, still heavy, but no longer crushing you alone.

You sat between them on the couch in your too-big penthouse, city lights sprawled below like a thousand eyes, and somehow – despite everything – your world felt a fraction less lonely.

You leaned back, letting both of their hands steady you, and whispered the truth you’d been too afraid to believe.

“Okay,” you said. “You can stay.”

You lifted your head toward Bucky, wiping at the dampness on your cheek with the back of your hand as if you could rub the vulnerability away. Your voice still shook when you spoke, betraying you in a way you couldn’t control.

“So…” you began, and the word snagged on your throat. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Your feelings?”

There was hope there, unmistakable. A fragile thing perched on the edge of your confession, waiting to be pushed one way or the other.

Bucky’s mouth twisted. For a second he looked like he didn’t know what to do with that hope – like it made him angry simply because it existed at all, because you had ever been forced to doubt it. He grimaced, and his gaze flicked sharply toward Steve, the kind of look that carried a whole argument without a single word.

Steve, for his part, only lifted his brows a fraction, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness, as if Bucky’s dramatics were the most predictable thing in the world.

Bucky huffed, the sound more breath than laugh, and then he looked back at you. The edge in his face softened – not all at once, but enough that you felt your chest loosen by a hair.

“You didn’t seriously think,” he said, voice rough, “that I’d become punctual.”

The line was so Bucky that it almost made you cry again – because it was a joke, and it was also an admission, and it was also his way of saying he was still here, still himself, still yours in the sense he’d been circling for months.

A quiet laugh slipped out of you, shaky but real. It sounded strange in the wide, expensive room, like something too human for all the glass and skyline.

Bucky’s gaze held yours. “I wanted to spend time with you,” he added, and there was no joke in that part. Just the truth, laid down like something solid.

“Oh,” you breathed, caught off guard by how simple it was.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed in mock disbelief, and he leaned in a fraction. “Yeah,” he shot back, like you’d missed something painfully obvious. “Oh.”

The word landed with the kind of blunt affection that made your stomach flip. It didn’t sound like a tease. It sounded like Bucky refusing to let you make yourself small.

You turned your head toward Steve, still half expecting the floor to give out beneath you. Your expression must have been openly questioning, because Steve’s reaction was immediate: he looked at you like the answer had been sitting in front of you for months and you were only just now daring to read it.

He rolled his eyes – barely, a soft gesture of long-suffering patience – then his gaze warmed.

As if, in his mind, there had never been any question at all.

Steve leaned toward you slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, giving you control. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the tear track with a gentleness that made your lungs forget how to work.

You didn’t move away.

You didn’t flinch.

You let him.

His mouth brushed yours, soft at first – careful, almost reverent. It wasn’t a kiss meant to claim. It was a kiss meant to reassure. A quiet promise pressed into your lips: I’m here. I mean it.

Your eyes fluttered shut. You tasted him – clean and warm, faintly mint from whatever he’d been chewing earlier to keep his mouth from drying out under studio lights. His other hand settled at the base of your neck, steady, grounding.

When he deepened the kiss, it was still tender. Still slow. Still a choice. His lips moved with yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, as if he’d been holding himself back for so long that he didn’t trust it was real.

You made a small sound you hadn’t meant to let out, and Steve eased closer in response, as if that sound had been permission.

The kiss ended gently, not snapped off, not stolen. Steve stayed close, forehead nearly touching yours, his thumb still resting on your cheek.

For one suspended second, you were aware of everything: the weight of Bucky’s hand still at your back, the warmth of Steve’s palm on your face, the city lights outside the window watching like a thousand distant witnesses.

Then Bucky moved.

He shifted closer, and his hand slid from the small of your back to your shoulder – firm, insistent, like he was reminding you that he was real too. Before you could even turn fully, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tugged your face toward him with unmistakable confidence.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, as if he was talking to only you even though Steve sat right there.

You barely had time to inhale.

Bucky kissed you.

It was different from Steve – less careful, more immediate. Not rough, not aggressive, but charged with all the things he hadn’t said: the jealousy, the fear, the frustration, the aching need to know he hadn’t been imagining you. His mouth met yours like he was proving a point, like he was refusing to let you doubt him ever again.

His lips were warm, his stubble faint against your skin. One hand stayed at your jaw, the other sliding behind your neck, fingers splaying there with a possessive steadiness that made your pulse jump.

You melted into it before you could think too hard, letting yourself be kissed, letting yourself be held in the way you’d been starving for without admitting it.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.

His eyes searched your face with an intensity that was almost painful.

“There,” Bucky muttered, as if that settled everything. As if it should have been obvious.

Steve let out a soft sound – something between a laugh and a sigh – and his hand slid from your cheek to your shoulder, anchoring you again.

You sat between them on the couch, still trembling, lips tingling, cheeks damp, your heart loud in your ears.

And for the first time since the secret had started crushing your ribs, you felt it – clear and undeniable.

They weren’t here because of your money. They were here because of you. Both of them.

You remained seated on the expansive leather couch in your penthouse, nestled snugly between Steve and Bucky, their warm bodies pressing close on either side of you. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room, but your focus stayed locked on the heat radiating from the two men who had just kissed you.

“Okay,” you murmured, your eyelids fluttering shut as you tried to steady your racing heart. “Okay.”

Bucky's voice came low and gentle, his fingers shifting from the small of your back to rest lightly on your knee, sending a spark through your skin. “You okay?”

“I... Yes, I think...” you replied, your eyes still closed, the world narrowing to the sensations overwhelming you. “Maybe it’s just... a little too much.”

You felt Steve lean in before you saw him, his broad chest brushing against your shoulder, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. A shiver raced down your spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Do you want us to stop?” he asked, his voice husky with concern and something deeper, more primal.

“No!”

The word burst from you as your eyes snapped open, and you turned toward him.

His face hovered mere millimeters from yours, blue eyes dark with desire, lips parted slightly. This time, you closed the distance yourself, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. Your lips moved against his with urgent need, tongues tangling as his hand cupped your cheek, pulling you deeper into the heat of it. He tasted like mint and promise, his shaved chin grazing your skin in a delicious scrape.

When you finally broke away, breathless and flushed, you turned your head to Bucky. His gaze burned into you, intense and waiting.

You leaned in without hesitation, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that started soft but quickly ignited. Bucky's hand on your knee tightened, sliding up your thigh just enough to make your pulse thunder, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer. His kiss was slower, more teasing, nipping at your lower lip before delving deeper, exploring with a hunger that matched your own.

Pulling back slightly, you searched their faces, your voice emerging almost timidly amid the pounding of your heart.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

Bucky rose from the couch first, his strong hand enveloping yours as he pulled you gently to your feet, his grip firm yet tender. The heat of his palm sent a fresh wave of anticipation through you.

Steve followed suit, standing tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes never leaving yours as you led the way down the hallway, your baskets padding softly over the polished marble floors.

The bedroom awaited at the end, a vast sanctuary that mirrored the opulence of the penthouse – king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, walls lined with abstract art, and a massive window overlooking the glittering skyline. Dim lights flickered on automatically, bathing the space in a warm, inviting glow.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Bucky spun you around and pressed your back flush against his solid chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady while his chin rested on your shoulder, forcing your gaze toward Steve.

“Watch him,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

Steve stood at the foot of the bed, his fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt, peeling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.

You devoured the sight of him – his chiseled abs flexing under golden skin, the V of his hips dipping into his jeans, the bulge already straining against the fabric. He kicked off his shoes next, then unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, letting his pants slide down his muscular thighs to pool at his feet.

Bucky's breath was hot on your neck as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“We've talked about this for months,” he whispered, his words laced with raw hunger.

“Steve wants to pin you down and fuck your mouth while I spread your legs and lick your pussy until you scream. We've imagined burying our cocks inside you, one after the other, filling you up until you're dripping with our cum. Taking turns sucking on your tits, biting your neck, making you beg for more.”

His voice dropped even lower, vibrating through you.

“And that's just the start… we're gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your body responded instantly, a flush creeping up your chest as arousal pooled between your thighs.

Bucky's hands moved with expert precision, starting at the top button of your blouse. He worked them open one by one, agonizingly slow, exposing inch after inch of your skin to the cool air. The fabric parted to reveal your lace bra, the sheer material doing little to hide the hardening peaks of your nipples.

He shrugged the blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your hips and over your ass, the denim dragging against your skin until you stepped out of them, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and matching lace panties, the fabric already damp with your need.

Steve stepped forward now, clad only in his tight black boxers that outlined the thick length of his cock pressing insistently against the cotton. He took over seamlessly, his large hands replacing Bucky's as he cupped your face and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with possessive strokes.

Bucky released you reluctantly, stepping back to strip off his own shirt, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso, the small patch of dark hair on his chest adding to his rugged allure. He unfastened his jeans next, shoving them down along with his underwear, his hard cock springing free – long and thick, veins pulsing along its length as he stroked himself once, eyes locked on you.

Steve broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw to your collarbone, nipping lightly as his hands roamed your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Bucky watched, his breathing heavy, as he closed the distance again, his naked body pressing against your back once more. The heat of his erection nudged against your ass through the thin lace, promising more to come.

Steve's hands slid down your sides, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips as he pressed his body against your front, sandwiching you firmly between him and Bucky. The heat from both men enveloped you, their hard cocks trapped against your lace-covered ass and belly, throbbing with need.

Bucky's lips found the nape of your neck first, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin while Steve captured your mouth in a deep, demanding kiss, his tongue plunging inside to tangle with yours. You moaned into him, the sound muffled as Bucky's mouth trailed up to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.

They switched seamlessly – Steve pulled back, his blue eyes dark with lust, and Bucky turned your head toward him, claiming your lips with a fierce hunger that left you breathless. His stubble scraped your chin as he devoured you, one hand cupping your jaw while Steve took his turn at your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse.

Back and forth they went, their mouths alternating on yours, on your throat, your shoulders – kisses turning sloppy and urgent, tongues licking and teeth biting until your head spun in a haze of sensation. Air grew scarce in your lungs, each inhale shallow and desperate, your body arching instinctively between them, seeking more friction against their straining erections.

Finally, Steve scooped you up effortlessly, his arms banding around your waist as he carried you to the bed, Bucky's hand lingering on your thigh the whole way. They lowered you onto the silk sheets, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the fire in your veins.

Steve settled on your left, Bucky on your right, their bodies framing yours like bookends.

Bucky's fingers hooked into the straps of your bra first, sliding them down your shoulders with deliberate care, unhooking the clasp at your back. The lace fell away, exposing your breasts to their hungry gazes, nipples already pebbled and aching.

Steve leaned in to kiss you softly as Bucky peeled the bra free, then together they tugged your panties down your legs, the damp fabric whispering over your skin until you lay completely bare before them.

Your heart hammered in your chest as they both shifted closer, their naked forms pressing against your sides – Steve's broad chest to your left breast, Bucky's leaner muscles to your right. Each man gathered saliva on his fingertip, the wet sheen glistening in the low light, before trailing their hands down your body.

Bucky's mouth latched onto your right nipple, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around the tight bud, while Steve mirrored him on the left, his lips sealing over the peak with a gentle pull that sent sparks straight to your core.

At the same moment, their index fingers pressed against your slick folds, parting them easily before sliding deep into your pussy. The dual intrusion stretched you just right, their digits thick and insistent as they curled inside, stroking your inner walls in unison.

You gasped, hips bucking up off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Their thumbs joined the rhythm, alternating strokes over your swollen clit – Steve's callused pad circling first, firm and teasing, then Bucky's taking over with lighter, flicking pressure that made your thighs tremble.

They pumped their fingers in and out, scissoring them occasionally to hit that sensitive spot deeper inside, all while their mouths worked your breasts relentlessly, sucking and nibbling until your skin flushed red from their attention.

The room filled with the wet sounds of their fingers thrusting into your soaking heat, your moans growing louder, body writhing between them as the tension built toward an inevitable peak.

The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless rush, your voice cracking with desperation as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

“Guys... I... Oh my god, don't stop!”

Your body tensed between them, muscles coiling tight as the dual thrust of their fingers drove you higher, their thumbs flicking relentlessly over your clit in perfect alternation. Steve's mouth pulled harder on your left nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, while Bucky's tongue lashed at the right, sucking with a wet, insistent rhythm that matched the pump of his digit inside you.

The pressure built unbearably, your pussy clenching around their invading fingers, slick walls fluttering as the orgasm ripped through you like lightning.

You came hard, a sharp cry escaping your throat as your hips jerked upward, grinding against their hands. Juices flooded over their knuckles, soaking the sheets beneath you, and they didn't let up – fingers curling deeper to stroke that spongy spot inside, thumbs pressing firm circles on your throbbing clit to draw out every shuddering pulse.

Your vision blurred, toes curling into the mattress as ecstasy pulsed from your core outward, leaving your limbs trembling and weak. They rode the waves with you, their free hands roaming your sides, holding you steady through the aftershocks until the sensitivity peaked, your oversensitive nerves screaming for mercy.

A plaintive whimper slipped out, high and needy, your body arching away instinctively as the pleasure tipped into exquisite torment.

Only then did they ease back. Steve released your nipple with a soft pop, the cool air hitting the wet, reddened peak and making you shiver. Bucky followed suit, his lips leaving a glistening trail of saliva across your chest.

Slowly, they withdrew their fingers from your spasming pussy, the wet slide pulling a final gasp from you.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as they brought their digits to their mouths, Steve's blue gaze locking onto yours while he sucked his index clean, tongue swirling around it with deliberate hunger. Bucky mirrored him, licking his finger from base to tip, eyes dark and feral as he savored your taste, a low groan rumbling in his throat.

Exhaustion tugged at you, and you let your eyelids flutter shut, chest heaving as you caught your breath amid the lingering haze of bliss. The room smelled of sex – musk and sweat and your arousal hanging thick in the air.

After a moment, you forced the words out, voice husky and spent.

“There are condoms in the nightstand.”

Fabric rustled beside you, the soft snap of elastic bands as Steve shoved his boxers down and off. Curiosity – and fresh heat – stirred low in your belly, and you cracked your eyes open, gaze immediately drawn to the sight before you.

Steve's cock stood proud and thick, veins bulging along the length, the flushed head already beading with pre-cum. It bobbed slightly as he shifted, easily nine inches of rigid flesh curving upward from a nest of trimmed dark hair.

You bit your lower lip hard, a fresh ache blooming between your thighs at the sheer size of him, imagining how it would feel stretching you open.

He caught your stare, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face, dimples flashing in the dim light.

“Like what you see, doll?” he murmured, voice rough with want.

Without breaking eye contact, he rose to his knees on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his erection jutting forward like an invitation. Emboldened, you pushed yourself up, turning to face him on all fours, knees sinking into the silk as your ass lifted instinctively. Your tongue darted out, flat and eager, hovering just inches from the tip of his cock, ready to taste the salt of him.

Behind you, Bucky moved with purpose.

You heard the crinkle of foil from the nightstand drawer, then the quick tear as he sheathed himself in latex, rolling the condom down his length with practiced ease. His left arm brushed your hip as he positioned himself at your rear, the heat of his body contrasting sharply with yours.

The blunt head of his cock nudged your soaked entrance, slick with your recent release, teasing the folds with shallow dips that parted you but didn't enter. He rocked forward just enough to glide the tip along your slit, bumping your still-sensitive clit on each pass, drawing a needy whine from your throat.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his free hand gripping your ass cheek, spreading you wider. “We're gonna fill you up just right.”

The promise hung heavy, his glans pressing firmer now, circling your hole in torturous circles that made your hips twitch back toward him, begging for more.

Steve shifted closer on his knees, the mattress compressing under his solid frame as he guided his thick cock toward your waiting mouth. The swollen head brushed your extended tongue, warm and velvety against the flat surface, a bead of pre-cum smearing salty across your taste buds.

You lapped at it tentatively, your tongue flicking upward in slow, deliberate strokes along the underside, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed with his heartbeat.

He shivered visibly, a low hiss escaping through clenched teeth, his abs tightening as the sensation shot straight to his core. His hand tangled gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, fingers threading through the strands to anchor himself.

Behind you, Bucky gripped your hips with both hands and thrust forward with controlled force.

The broad head of his sheathed cock breached your entrance, stretching the slick ring of muscle just enough to sink the tip inside. Your pussy clenched around the intrusion, walls fluttering from your recent climax, and he swore under his breath, a rough fuck that rumbled deep in his chest.

The stretch burned sweetly, your body yielding to him inch by inch as he held still, letting you adjust to the girth filling your soaked heat.

Steve's eyes flicked to Bucky, curiosity and shared hunger darkening his gaze.

“So, what does she feel like?” he asked, voice gravelly, his cock twitching against your tongue as he awaited the answer.

Bucky exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your skin as he savored the tight grip of your pussy hugging his tip.

“Even better than I imagined,” he admitted, the words laced with raw awe, his hips rocking minutely to nudge deeper without fully committing yet.

Seizing the momentary distraction, you parted your lips wider and drew the head of Steve's cock into your mouth, sealing around it with a soft suck. Your tongue swirled over the slit, coaxing more pre-cum onto your palate, the musky flavor flooding your senses.

Steve's focus snapped back to you instantly, his breath hitching as he stared down, pupils blown wide with lust.

The sight of your lips stretched around his shaft, cheeks hollowing slightly as you nursed on the tip, hit him like a punch – his cock jerked in your mouth, thickening further against your tongue. You could swear it drove him wild, the way his thighs tensed, muscles coiling as if he fought the urge to thrust deeper right then.

A guttural groan tore from his throat, his free hand fisting the sheets beside your knee, knuckles whitening.

“God, doll... just like that,” he rasped, voice breaking on the edge of control, his gaze locked on the erotic vision of you taking him in.

Bucky eased forward with agonizing patience, his hips rolling in a measured glide that buried the full length of his sheathed cock deep inside your pulsing core.

Inch by inch, he stretched you wide, the thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, filling every crevice until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass. The slow invasion sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your belly, your inner muscles clenching greedily around him, milking the heat of his body through the thin barrier.

He paused there, fully seated, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your shoulder as he savored the velvet grip enveloping him completely.

The sensation overwhelmed you, a deep, throbbing fullness that tore a muffled moan from your throat, the vibration humming straight down Steve's cock still nestled in your mouth. Steve whined sharply, a desperate sound that echoed in the dim room, his head dropping back on his broad shoulders, blond strands falling across his forehead.

His fingers tightened in your hair, not yanking but holding firm, as if anchoring himself against the wave of ecstasy your hum triggered.

The two men exchanged a heated glance over your body, a silent agreement passing between them as they set the pace. They moved in unison, deliberate and unhurried, drawing out each thrust and retreat like they intended to etch the moment into eternity.

Bucky pulled back first, almost withdrawing entirely before sliding home again in that same torturous slowness, his cock gliding through your slick folds with a wet, obscene sound. Steve mirrored him from the front, withdrawing from your lips just enough to let you taste the air before pushing forward, feeding more of his rigid length past your teeth.

The rhythm they imposed was excruciatingly languid, every motion designed to build the fire without letting it blaze, hips rocking in sync to keep you suspended on the edge of madness.

You had expected Bucky to tease relentlessly, to draw out whimpers with playful denial, but instead, he proved achingly gentle in his touch. His hands roamed your sides with feather-light strokes, thumbs circling the dip of your waist as he held you steady, his body molding to yours like a protective shield.

Yet his voice dipped into filthy territory, words spilling from his lips in a husky murmur against your ear.

“Fuck, you're so damn tight around me, sweetheart– squeezing like you never want me to leave this perfect little pussy,” he groaned, the praise laced with raw vulgarity that made your cheeks burn even as it stoked the heat between your thighs.

Each slow thrust punctuated his dirty confessions, his breath hot on your skin as he nuzzled your neck, tender kisses blending with the lewd rhythm.

Steve's approach contrasted sharply, his movements carrying a rougher edge that bordered on urgency. He gripped your jaw with one large hand, tilting your head to take him deeper, his hips snapping forward in short, insistent bucks that tested your limits without mercy.

The brusque shift of his cock in your mouth stretched your lips taut, saliva glistening along his shaft as he claimed more territory. But his words flowed like honeyed worship, soft and reverent amid the intensity.

“That's it, baby– God, your mouth feels like heaven, taking me so deep and sweet,” he praised, voice thick with awe, blue eyes locking onto yours whenever he could.

“Look at you, sucking me like you were made for it... so fucking good, doll, don't stop.” His free hand stroked your cheek almost reverently, thumb brushing away a stray tear of effort, the tenderness in his tone clashing deliciously with the firm way he fucked your face.

Trapped between them, your body became a conduit for their shared desire, every slow plunge from Bucky sending ripples up your spine that made you hollow your cheeks around Steve.

The room filled with the symphony of their low grunts and your stifled gasps, the air thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. Bucky's fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip, grounding you as he whispered more obscenities – “Gonna fill this up slow, make you feel every inch owning you” – while Steve's praises escalated, urging you on with breathless adoration.

The deliberate pace frayed your nerves, pleasure coiling tighter with each passing second, your hands clutching at the sheets as you surrendered to the exquisite torment they wove around you.

Steve's control shattered first, his body tensing like a coiled spring as the slow, deliberate rhythm pushed him over the edge. His fingers dug into your scalp, holding you steady as his cock throbbed wildly against your tongue, the first hot spurt of cum flooding your mouth in thick ropes.

You swallowed instinctively around him, the salty tang coating your throat while he groaned low and guttural, hips jerking forward in shallow pumps to empty himself completely.

“Fuck, yes– take it all, just like that,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words, his blue eyes squeezing shut in bliss.

Wave after wave pulsed from him, filling your senses until he finally stilled, chest heaving as he eased back, his softening length slipping free with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva and seed connecting you for a lingering second before it broke.

With gentle hands, Steve pulled you upright, guiding your body to kneel on the rumpled sheets, your knees sinking more into the mattress.

He positioned you so your back pressed flush against Bucky's solid chest, the shift altering the angle of Bucky's cock buried deep in your pussy. The new tilt drove him even deeper, the head nudging a spot that sent electric jolts through your core, ripping a fresh moan from your lips as your walls fluttered around his girth.

Bucky's arms wrapped around your waist from behind, steadying you, his breath warm against your neck as he adjusted to the change, the fullness now pressing insistently against your front wall.

Steve closed the distance immediately, his naked form slotting against your front, the heat of his skin searing into yours.

He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, lips crashing together with unrestrained hunger, his tongue delving deep to taste the remnants of himself on you. The kiss muffled your whimpers, his free hand roaming down your belly to find your swollen clit, fingers circling the sensitive nub with feather-soft pressure that built the pressure coiling inside you.

Bucky, sensing the escalation, quickened his pace just a fraction, his hips snapping forward in firmer, more insistent strokes that made his cock drag through your slick channel with audible slaps.

Each thrust from behind rocked you into Steve's touch, the dual assault of gentle rubs and deepening penetration fraying your composure thread by thread.

The combined sensations overwhelmed you, pleasure cresting like a tidal wave as Steve's fingers worked your clit in steady, teasing swirls, Bucky's cock pistoning with growing urgency.

Your body arched between them, muscles locking as orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clamping down hard on Bucky in rhythmic spasms. You cried out into Steve's mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss, waves of ecstasy pulsing from your core outward, soaking Bucky's shaft and the condom encasing it.

Your thighs trembled, nails scraping at Steve's shoulders as you rode the high, every nerve alight with shattering release.

Bucky lasted only moments longer, the vise-like grip of your climax pulling him under. He buried himself to the hilt with a strangled curse, his body shuddering against your back as he came, cock twitching deep inside you, filling the latex with his load.

“Shit, that's it– milking me dry,” he growled, voice rough with satisfaction, his hands gripping your hips to hold you impaled on him through the aftershocks. Steve broke the kiss to murmur encouragements against your jaw, his fingers slowing to a soothing stroke as you all caught your breath, bodies entangled in a sweaty, sated heap.

For a full minute, you remained locked together like that – kneeling in the aftermath, Steve's forehead resting against yours, Bucky's chin tucked over your shoulder, the three of you breathing in sync amid the quiet hum of the penthouse.

The air hung heavy with the musk of sex, your skin slick and flushed.

Finally, Bucky withdrew with a reluctant groan, his cock sliding free from your tender folds, leaving you achingly empty. He peeled off the condom carefully, tying it off before tossing it into a nearby wastebasket, then returned to the bed, pulling you down with him.

The room felt quieter after – like the city beyond your windows had finally decided to hush for you.

You all collapsed onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other, your head pillowed on Bucky's chest while Steve draped an arm across your waist. Their warmth enveloped you, hearts pounding in unison as the intensity ebbed into languid contentment, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

For a while, you let yourself drift in that warmth, letting your breathing find the same slow rhythm as theirs. Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady as a metronome. Steve’s hand rested at your hip, heavy and sure, his thumb moving in absent little arcs like he couldn’t help himself.

It was safe here. It felt safe.

Which was exactly why the fear had room to creep back in.

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight again, and shifted just enough to look up at them. Bucky’s arm tightened around your shoulders automatically, protective even in sleep-softness. Steve’s head lifted from the pillow, eyes half-lidded, his expression still warm in that way that made you feel like you belonged.

You hesitated, and Steve noticed it instantly.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Bucky’s fingers stilled against your arm, then resumed, slower. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start checking emails,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.

You huffed a breath that tried to be a laugh. “No. I just…”

You trailed off, unsure how to step into it without breaking whatever fragile peace you’d built tonight. The bedside lamp cast honeyed light across Steve’s face, caught the pale lines of his lashes. Bucky’s hair was a mess, his jaw shadowed, his mouth soft for once.

They looked too content. Too real.

And you were terrified of what tomorrow would do to it.

You pressed your palm lightly to Steve’s forearm where it lay across you, needing the contact like proof. “I’m still… stressed,” you admitted, the words coming out smaller than you wanted. “About what’s coming. The handover. The announcement. The fact that everything is going to change.”

Steve’s arm tightened, just a fraction. “Hey,” he said, gentle. “We’re still here.”

“I know.” Your voice trembled anyway. “But that’s the thing. If I’m stepping into that role, I–” You swallowed. “I don’t know what this is supposed to look like. For us.”

Bucky’s chest vibrated with a low hum that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tired. “This,” he said, shifting his head slightly so he could look down at you, “looks pretty good to me.”

You gave him a look that was half exasperation, half pleading. “Bucky.”

His mouth twitched. “What? I’m serious.”

Steve’s fingers slid up and down your side, slow and grounding. “Tell us what you mean,” he said softly.

You took a breath, then another, trying to make your heart stop sprinting. “I mean…” You stared at the shadowed ceiling for a second like the answer might be written there. “How do you want me to handle it? Us. With everything that’s going to happen.”

Neither of them interrupted. They just waited, patient in a way you still didn’t feel you deserved.

You pushed forward anyway, because you needed to know.

“How do we… qualify this?” you asked, voice quiet but firm enough not to disappear. “What are we to each other? What do we call each other?”

Bucky’s fingers paused again, then resumed their idle patterns – this time slower, almost thoughtful. Steve’s face softened so completely it made something inside you ache.

For a beat, neither of them spoke, and the silence wasn’t heavy. It was careful. Like they were both choosing words that wouldn’t scare you.

Bucky broke it first, as usual.

“You’re really asking us to fill out a form right now?” he murmured, but his tone was gentle, not mocking.

Steve exhaled a quiet laugh. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” Bucky protested, then he looked down at you and the humor fell away, leaving only sincerity. “Okay,” he said, lower. “Okay. You want labels.”

You nodded once. “I want… clarity. Before other people decide it for us.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened at that, understanding exactly what you meant – press, boardrooms, rumors, the way your life would be audited by strangers.

“Okay,” Steve said again, like he was steadying you with the word. “That’s fair.”

He shifted closer, propping himself on an elbow so he could really see you. His hand slid from your waist to your ribs, thumb pressing lightly there as if he could soothe the tension out of your body.

“We don’t have to make this complicated,” he said softly. “We can take it one day at a time.”

Your chest tightened. “But people will ask.”

Steve’s expression didn’t harden, but it did sharpen with quiet certainty. “Then we answer on our terms.”

Bucky’s arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he added, voice rough. “And if anyone doesn’t like our terms, they can choke on it.”

You snorted, despite yourself.

Steve shot Bucky a look. Bucky only shrugged, unapologetic.

You tried to smile, but the anxiety kept pressing. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re… trapped in this,” you admitted. “Or like you have to hide. Or like it’s suddenly your problem because it’s my life.”

Bucky’s hand slid up your arm and squeezed gently. “We already got dragged into your life months ago,” he said, and there was a softness under the bluntness. “You don’t get to pretend this is brand new.”

Steve nodded, eyes warm. “You’re allowed to need us,” he murmured.

The words made your throat burn.

You blinked quickly, refusing to cry again. “I just don’t know what to call you,” you whispered. “What to call… us.”

Bucky tilted his head, thinking. “You can call me whenever you want,” he said, and the grin he tried to give you was lazy but didn’t quite land because he was still too sincere under it.

“Bucky,” Steve warned, affectionate.

“What?” Bucky muttered. “It was funny.”

“It was,” you admitted, and the laugh that escaped you was real this time – small, but real.

Steve’s gaze softened further. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if he was imprinting it. “Look at me,” he said quietly.

You did.

His eyes were calm, steady, honest. No performance. No brightness for cameras. Just Steve.

“We like you,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “We care about you. And we’re not going to suddenly stop because there’s a title attached to your name.”

Bucky made a low, agreeing sound. “If anything,” he added, “it just explains why you’ve been acting like you were about to get sentenced to prison.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest loosened a fraction. “It feels like that.”

Steve’s thumb stroked your ribs, slow and soothing. “Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t,” he said.

Bucky shifted, propping himself up a little too, so you were no longer tucked against him without seeing his face. He looked at you with that intense, almost fierce honesty he saved for moments that mattered.

“You want a label?” he asked. “Here’s one. You’re ours.”

Your breath caught.

Steve’s expression didn’t change in surprise. If anything, he looked like he’d been thinking the same thing and was only choosing gentler phrasing.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as if he was daring you to argue. “And we’re yours,” he added, quieter. “If you want that.”

The vulnerability in that last part made your eyes sting.

Steve leaned closer, his voice soft but firm. “We don’t have to announce anything,” he said. “We don’t have to give the world a definition. But between us?”

He glanced at Bucky, and for once there was no tension in the look – just agreement.

“Between us,” Steve continued, “we’re together.”

The word settled in your chest like something warm and heavy, like it belonged there.

Together.

You swallowed hard. “Together,” you repeated.

Bucky huffed as if that was the only acceptable answer. “Good.”

You shifted slightly, curling your fingers into Steve’s sleeve where his arm rested across you. “Okay,” you said, voice shaking again, but this time with relief. “So… if someone asks?”

Steve’s mouth tilted. “Then you can say we’re with you,” he replied.

Bucky’s brows lifted. “Or you can say we’re your boyfriends,” he offered, too casual for how closely he watched your reaction.

Steve made a face. “Boyfriends,” he repeated, like the word was unfamiliar on his tongue.

Bucky smirked. “What? It’s accurate.”

Steve looked down at you, eyes soft. “Is that what you want to call us?”

Your heart stuttered. You stared at them – at Steve’s gentle steadiness, at Bucky’s fierce warmth – and felt something uncoil in you, slowly, like a knot finally loosening.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I think… yes.”

Bucky’s grin turned genuine, bright in the lamplight. Steve’s expression softened into something almost relieved.

“Good,” Steve murmured, and kissed your temple.

Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair, surprisingly gentle. “Then that’s settled.”

You let out a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The city still glittered beyond the windows, the future still waited with sharp edges and bright lights and people who would ask too many questions.

But for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were facing it alone.

Steve’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. Bucky’s hand resumed its slow, absent tracing along your shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered, “I have to go in. There’s a meeting.”

Steve hummed, calm. “Okay.”

Bucky’s voice was immediate. “We’re coming with you.”

You blinked and lifted your head. “What?”

Bucky looked offended. “You think we’re gonna let you walk into that alone after today?”

Steve’s mouth curved softly. “We can’t sit in the meeting,” he said, practical even now, “but we can take you there. We can wait. We can be close.”

The warmth in your chest flared again, sharp and overwhelming. “You don’t have to.”

Steve’s gaze held yours. “We want to.”

Bucky’s hand pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “Let us,” he said simply.

You nodded, a small motion that felt like surrender in the best way. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Steve smiled, soft and certain. “That’s my girl.”

Bucky snorted. “Our.”

Steve shot him a look. Bucky only grinned.

You laughed quietly, the sound dissolving the last of your tightness. You settled back into them, letting their warmth hold you steady, letting your eyes drift closed as their hands kept tracing gentle patterns like a promise.

For the first time in days, sleep didn’t feel like something you had to earn.

It felt like something you were allowed to have.

taglist: @mellowfurynight | @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @mrsevans90 | @castielscaplan + @elixirfromthestars for the event

He dabbed a single dot on your cheek and froze. “Is that too much? Too little? Is the camera close enough? Should I explain what I’m doing? Should I talk more? Or less? Do I need a disclaimer? Should I mention that I’m not responsible for damages?”

“What damages?” you echoed.

He swallowed hard and checked the camera once more, eyes wide. His hand hovered above your face like a nervous UFO. After nearly a full minute of silence, during which he applied nothing, you reached over and gently pressed the stop button on your camera.

Hongjoong blinked at you. “Why’d you stop?”

“Okay...what is going on here?” you asked, turning in your stool to face him fully.

“What do you mean?” He tried to smile, but it wobbled like a card tower in a breeze.

“Joong,” you said softly. “You’re acting like this is a hostage negotiation. Talk to me.”

He looked at the palette in his hand, then at you, then exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

You stared at him. “You’re… nervous? You? Mr. Performs-in-front-of-thousands?”

“That’s different!” he protested. “On stage I know what I’m doing. Here? This is makeup.” He pointed at your scattered products. “You have so many brushes. They all look the same but somehow they’re not. There’s powder that isn’t powder. Cream that isn’t cream. Everything is either too pigmented or not pigmented enough and if I mess up it’s on your actual face.”

You couldn’t help it. A laugh slipped out, warm and small.

He frowned. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” you said, still smiling. “I’m just surprised. I thought you’d be fine because you’re so used to cameras.”

“That camera isn’t the problem. The problem is that I’m terrible at makeup and everyone is going to see it.”

“You’re forgetting something.” You reached for his hand, the one still clutching the sponge like a survival tool. “This is for fun. Not perfection. Not performance. Just us.”

He looked at your fingers wrapped around his and let out a long, defeated sigh. “I’m being dramatic, aren’t I?”

“A little,” you teased.

He leaned in, nudging his forehead against yours. “Okay. I’ll try to relax.”

“Good.” You kissed him, gentle and reassuring, like pressing warmth into a cold spot. “We’ll start over. This time, pretend the camera does not exist.”

He nodded slowly, shoulders dropping from his ears at last. “Right. No camera. Just you. And me. And… confusing tools.”

“You’ll be great,” you promised, turning the camera back on and settling into your place again.

When the red light blinked alive, he didn’t even flinch.

Seonghwa

You blended the green pigment across your cheekbone, letting it melt into a richer forest shade. The look was inspired by Wicked, and you wanted it to be perfect for the movie release video you planned. Seonghwa sat on the bed behind you, legs crossed, phone balanced in one hand like it was part of him.

“Hwa?” you asked while adding shimmer to your inner corner. “What do you think of this so far?”

He glanced up for half a second, then shrugged. “You look beautiful.”

You groaned loud enough to shake the vanity. Then you grabbed the nearest sponge and lobbed it at him. It bounced off his chest with a soft thup.

“Be serious! This is important to me. Pay attention.”

He let his phone drop onto the duvet, exhaling like he’d been caught napping on guard duty. “Alright, alright.”

He stood and padded over to you, the floor creaking under his slow steps. When he stopped behind your chair, he leaned down a little, face coming into view beside your reflection. His eyes softened instantly, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“You look pretty,” he murmured, this time with actual intent.

You narrowed your eyes at him through the mirror. “Do you like the eyeshadow? Be honest.”

He inspected it with surprising seriousness, tilting his head slightly. His gaze traced the gradient from emerald to charcoal. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It suits your eyes.”

“What about the lip liner?” you asked, leaning in so he could see the sharp outline. You were already reaching for your gloss.

His fingers brushed your chin lightly, guiding your face to the side. “It’s clean. Sharp. Dramatic. Very you when you’re focused.”

You blinked at him. “And the blush? I went lighter so it wouldn’t fight the eyes.”

He nodded, stepping even closer, hands sliding to your shoulders like he was anchoring himself to the moment. “It balances everything. You thought it through.”

You studied your reflection again, checking angles, checking lighting, making tiny adjustments. Seonghwa watched you with that quiet awe he never admitted to. His smile widened just a little.

You caught it. “Are you laughing at me?”

He shook his head immediately and leaned in before the doubt could grow. He pressed a kiss to your lips, soft and warm. Another landed on your cheek, just enough to make you flush under the makeup. Then he tilted your face further and kissed just beside your eye, right where the shadow blended perfectly.

“I’m not laughing,” he whispered. “I just love seeing you like this. Focused. Proud. Creating.”

Your breath steadied, the earlier frustration melting away.

“Fine,” you said softly. “You’re forgiven.”

He grinned. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere until you’re done. I want to see the final look.”

You returned to your brushes, and he stayed right behind you, chin nearly on your shoulder, watching like your craft was a kind of magic.

Yunho

You scrolled through the newest comments on your latest video, the glow from your phone lighting your face. Most were sweet, but a few repeated the same request:

“Can you do makeup on someone OTHER than your best friend or your sister?” “We want a new face!” “Maybe your boyfriend?”

You chewed your lip, already spinning through ideas, angles, color palettes, setups.

Beside you, Yunho nudged your shoulder with his own, almost knocking you onto your side. “Baaaabe,” he whined, drawing the word out like stretched taffy, “the movie is waiting, and so am I.”

“Just a minute,” you murmured, still buried in thought.

He let his head flop onto your shoulder dramatically. “Attention,” he groaned. “I require attention. Feed me validation. Or popcorn. Either works.”

You opened your mouth to tell him you needed to focus, but when you turned to look at him, something sparked in your brain. His face. His big, patient eyes. His very makeup-able features.

You sat up straighter, staring at him.

Yunho froze. “What… what is that look? Why are you staring at me like I’m a canvas you just discovered in the attic?”

“You'd do anything for me...right?” you said slowly.

“No,” he said immediately. “I don’t like when you say it like that.”

But it was too late.

The camera clicked on, and you slipped into your professional voice.

“Hi everyone! Today we’re doing something different. You asked for a new face, and… well… I found one.”

You stepped to the side and revealed Yunho sitting in the chair. He held a dead-level poker face, lips pressed tight, eyes focused on some point far in the distance like he was trying to astral-project out of his body.

“So for this look,” you continued, holding up a palette, “I wanted soft browns blended into a subtle gold shimmer. His eyes are perfect for this shape, so I kept the outer edges round to match his natural features.”

You gestured gently toward his cheek. “For blush, I went with a warm coral tone. It brings out his complexion really nicely.”

Yunho didn’t blink. Not once.

“And lastly, I added a tinted balm to give his lips a healthy glow. Very natural. Very soft. Very cute.”

Your hand patted his cheek lightly. He remained carved from stone.

“Alright,” you said. “That’s the finished look! Say thank you, Yunho.”

He nodded once at the camera. A single, solemn nod.

The moment you switched off the recording, Yunho groaned so loudly it echoed. He immediately lifted a hand to scratch the tip of his nose.

You slapped his hand away in an instant. “Don’t you dare! I worked hard on that!”

“But it itches,” he complained.

“You’ll survive.”

He huffed, slumping in the chair. But when you leaned closer to kiss his forehead, he softened. “Thank you for helping me,” you said quietly.

He nudged your arm. “You’re lucky that I love you,” he muttered, but a smile tugged at his lips.

You grinned. “Very lucky.”

“And next time,” he warned playfully, “I pick the movie AND the snacks.”

“Deal,” you said.

And he let you take three more pictures before finally demanding his face back.

Yeosang

Sephora smelled like vanilla, lipstick, and danger. You wove through the aisles with practiced speed, a basket on your arm already half-full with products you needed for your next video. Yeosang trailed behind you, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around like the shelves might attack him.

You held up a foundation bottle. “Okay, Sang. Guess the price.”

He squinted at it, tilting his head the way he always did when he was pretending to be analytical. “Hmm… twenty dollars?”

You snorted. “It’s sixty-two.”

His eyes widened as if you’d told him it contained liquid gold. “For this? Why? It’s tiny.”

“That’s the game,” you said, amused, placing it into the basket.

You grabbed a setting spray next. “Alright, what about this one?”

“Fifteen,” he said more confidently.

“It’s forty-two.”

He stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him. “It’s water. Fancy water. Why is fancy water that expensive? Why do girls spend so much money on this?”

You laughed under your breath and tapped his arm. “You realize you wear makeup too, right? On stage? For shoots? For concerts?”

He froze. “Yeah, but… I didn’t think about the prices.” His brows knitted, genuinely distressed. “Do they use… this stuff on me?”

You leaned in slightly. “Sometimes. Maybe even pricier things.”

He blinked slowly, processing the cruelty of capitalism.

You plucked a highlighter from the shelf. “This one?”

He didn’t even try. “Hundred?”

“It’s thirty.”

He let out a sigh of defeat. “I give up.”

As you walked toward the next aisle, you added casually, “I use expensive products on myself too, you know.”

Yeosang nodded thoughtfully, then stopped walking. When you turned to look at him, he met your gaze softly, his voice dropping into that quiet space he used only with you.

“You don’t need them,” he said. “You’re beautiful with or without makeup.”

The way he said it wasn’t dramatic or showy. It was just honest, simple, and somehow more disarming than anything else.

You stepped closer and kissed him, a small thank-you pressed against his lips. When you pulled back, his ears were already tinged pink.

“I love your innocence,” you said with a soft giggle.

He looked away, pretending to study a shelf of mascaras. “It’s not innocence,” he muttered. “I just didn’t know beauty was so… expensive.”

“Welcome to the world of makeup,” you teased.

He sighed again, but this time he slipped his hand into yours as you continued down the aisle together.

And he didn’t complain when you added two more products to the basket.

San

You sat hunched over your laptop, the screen glaring back at you like it enjoyed your suffering. Your biggest rival in the makeup world had just passed your follower count, and not by a tiny margin either. The number mocked you. Taunted you. Smirked with digital arrogance.

“This Motherfucker,” you hissed, slamming your palm on the bed. “Acting all boujee while using fucking sheglam products."

You cursed again under your breath, pacing circles inside your own head. You needed a way to grow. Fast. Something bold. Something dazzling. Something that would make him choke on his own smug captions.

And then it hit you.

A wicked little spark. A plan.

“SAAAAAN!” you yelled, loud enough to shake the posters on the wall. “I need you!”

The thundering footsteps arrived instantly. San practically crashed into the doorway, already shirtless, breathing hard like he’d sprinted from across the world.

His eyes darted around. “Where? When? How much time do you have?”

You blinked at him. “San…where is your shirt?”

“I thought you wanted—” He paused, then cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “Never mind. What’s wrong?”

You scooted your laptop toward him, pointing dramatically at your enemy’s page. “He gained more followers than me. More. Look at that. Look at his stupid bio. Look at his dumb face.”

San leaned in, frowned at the screen, and snorted. “Please. You’re so much better. His contour looks like a melted crayon. And that lip combo? A crime.”

You rubbed your temples. “Exactly! And I need to show him that he’s not the only one who can pull numbers.”

San nodded, crossing his arms over his very conveniently bare chest. “So what’s your plan?”

You moved slowly, crawling toward him on the bed like a cat ready to pounce on a very pretty, very muscular scratching post. His eyes widened slightly as you reached up, dragging your fingers along the lines of his stomach.

“Well…” you whispered, leaning in close enough for your breath to brush his skin, “lucky for me… I have a smoking hot boyfriend.” You trailed your fingers up to his chest. “One everybody adores.” Your hand slid to his shoulder. “One who would love to do a video with me.”

His cheeks flushed pink, but he tried to hold a serious face.

“Tch. Would love to?” he said, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of work.”

You raised a brow.

San lasted two seconds before breaking into a grin.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, leaning down so his forehead touched yours. “You know I could never say no to you.”

You smiled, hooking your hand behind his neck as he closed the distance and kissed you. Warm, soft, and a little smug, like he was already imagining the comments calling him gorgeous.

You pulled back just enough to murmur, “We’re going to destroy him.”

San smirked. “I really like your evil side”

“Hmm I bet,” you said, sealing it with another kiss.

Mingi

You perched on the edge of the couch with your newest video prop: a shiny, rose-gold tweezer that looked harmless but clearly wasn’t. Mingi sat in front of you, legs spread, hands on his knees, trying very hard to look brave.

“Okay,” you said, brushing his bangs aside. “Hold still.”

He nodded, jaw tight. “I can do that.”

You leaned closer, angled the tweezer, and plucked.

Mingi jolted so hard his knee bumped the coffee table. “Ow! Why did that feel like getting stabbed?"

You snorted. “Mingi, that was one hair.”

“One angry hair,” he shot back, rubbing the spot dramatically.

You caught his hand. “Stop touching. Stay still.”

He inhaled deeply, determined to redeem himself. “Right. Still. Totally still.”

You plucked again.

His whole face scrunched, lips twisted, eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for emotional impact. “Gah—! It hurts, babe! I don’t want to do this anymore!”

You put down the tweezer and crossed your arms, giving him your best betrayed pout. “But you promised to help me with my next video.”

He groaned, head falling back against the couch. “I know...but i didn't know it would hurt that much."

“Mingi.”

He peeked at you through one eye, still rubbing his brow like you’d uprooted his soul.

You softened and brushed your thumb gently across his cheek. “If you help me finish, I’ll make it up to you later. We can do a full skincare routine. Masks. Serums. Face massage. The whole thing.”

His hand froze mid-rub. “Face massage?”

“Yes.”

“With the warm roller thing I like?”

“Yes.”

“And the sheet mask that smells like peaches?”

You grinned. “If you’re good.”

He sat there for a second, dramatically weighing his options like a man contemplating a heroic sacrifice. Then he squared his shoulders, eyes forward, accepting his destiny.

“Okay,” he sighed. “For skincare… I can suffer.”

You picked up the tweezer again, and he visibly braced.

“Ready?” you asked.

“No,” he said honestly. Then he closed his eyes and stuck out his chin like a soldier preparing for battle. “But do it anyway.”

You giggled and leaned in, and he muttered under his breath, “Peach mask. Warm roller. I can do this…”

The next pluck came with another wince, but this time he didn’t pull away. And you couldn’t help thinking he was the cutest martyr you’d ever seen.

Wooyoung

You banned Wooyoung from the bedroom for one single livestream, and he acted like you had personally exiled him from civilization.

He tried everything to keep busy. He flipped through channels. He played a round on his console. He even tried reorganizing the snack cabinet before remembering he doesn’t actually reorganize things, he just moves them around and forgets where they go.

But then he heard you laugh.

A soft, bright, live-stream laugh. The kind you usually gave him when he said something ridiculous.

He froze, controller in hand.

Another laugh.

That was it. His patience snapped like a cheap hair clip.

He marched down the hall, muttering to himself the entire way, and pushed open the bedroom door without knocking.

“Babe, I swear this is cruel and unusual—”

He stopped mid-yap.

There you were, sitting at your vanity, ring light haloing you in soft gold. Pink silk robe slipping off one shoulder. Beach-wave hair tumbling down your back. Lips tinted, cheeks glowing. Eyes lined just enough to make him forget how to breathe.

You blinked at him. “Wooyoung? What are you doing? I’m live—”

“What… what makeup is this?” he demanded, stepping closer like he was approaching a mythical creature.

“Victoria’s Secret inspired,” you said slowly. “And I’m not done yet, so—”

He didn’t hear a single word.

He reached past you, closed the bedroom door in one smooth motion, and then leaned over your desk to hit the END STREAM button before your viewers even realized something was happening.

Your jaw dropped. “Young, I wasn’t done—”

“Yes you are,” he said, voice dropping low enough to warm the air between you.

Before you could protest, his hands slid around your thighs. He lifted you with ease, the robe fluttering as you gasped, fingers flying to his shoulders.

“Wooyoung!”

But he was already leaning in, mouth crashing onto yours with all the pent-up impatience he’d been building in the living room. The kiss was hungry, impulsive, completely him.

He carried you the short distance to the bed and lowered you onto it, his breath brushing your cheek as he hovered above you, eyes dark and dazzled.

“You really thought,” he murmured, “that I could stay away from you looking like that?”

Your heart raced, your unfinished makeup glimmering under the light, but the stream was long forgotten.

And Wooyoung definitely wasn’t bored anymore.

Jongho

Jongho padded into the living room, hair still damp from his shower, stretching the last ache from his shoulders as he spotted you hunched over your laptop. The soft glow of your editing screen lit your face, making your eyes look a little too tired, a little too focused for how late it already was.

He walked up behind you and leaned down, kissing the crown of your head. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You tipped your head back enough to smile at him. “Hi.”

His hands slid to your shoulders, thumbs kneading gently at the knots he knew would be there. “You’ve been at this for hours,” he said. “I can feel the stress from here.”

“I’m almost done,” you promised, eyes glued to the timeline on your screen.

Jongho hummed doubtfully. He kept massaging, slow circles that made your shoulders melt. “I think I’m heading straight to bed. I’m really tired.”

You nodded, clicking through another transition. “Me too. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

He leaned down to kiss you again, this time lingering a little longer. “Don’t stay up too late,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” you lied sweetly.

Jongho shot you one last fond, knowing look before shuffling off to the bedroom. Within minutes, he was half-asleep, your scent still faint on his lips.

Hours later, something nudged him awake.

Cold sheets.

He reached out instinctively, expecting the familiar warmth of your body. But the space beside him was empty. The pillow unmoved. The room too quiet.

He blinked, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and frowned. “Where is she…?”

He slipped out of bed, feet soft against the floor, and walked back toward the living room. The glow of your laptop screen flickered in the dark like a tiny lighthouse.

There you were—head resting on your folded arms, breathing slow and steady, fast asleep at your desk.

Jongho stood there for a moment, smiling to himself. You looked peaceful in that helpless, overworked sort of way he recognized all too well. He shook his head fondly.

“Of course,” he whispered.

He moved quietly, careful not to wake you. First, he reached over and closed your laptop, easing the lid shut with gentle fingers. Your face relaxed instantly, the harsh light gone.

Then he slipped one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and effortlessly lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, only nuzzling into him with a soft little sigh that made something warm bloom behind his ribs.

He carried you to the bedroom, step by slow step, as though protecting something fragile.

Once he set you on the bed, he pulled the blanket over you and brushed a stray hair from your cheek. You looked peaceful now, wrapped in warmth instead of blue light.

Jongho slipped in beside you, looping an arm around your waist and drawing you close until your back melted into his chest. His nose brushed your shoulder as he whispered, barely audible,

“My little workaholic.”

The creases in the corner of her eyes are not something you specifically want to hide away behind layers of concealer, but it is something you have to do. Shame, but it isn't like you're removing them alltogether. That'd be a downer. Really. You'd probably have to kill yourself for your crime.

You like to think of it as magic, make-up. It embellishes what could be deemed as bland, gives out the impression people want other to perceive, add details to any plain outfits... It can be tedious, yes, but you think it's worth it. Like any form of art, really.

It's a shame you don't get the occasion to do it on yourself as intricately as you want to, when the weeks get more busy. Still, you're grateful: you get to do the make-up of people who are going to be showing it for thousands of eyes to see, and you get paid for this. It hasn't been too long since you've been able to. It's been long enough you're well acquainted with the procedure, by now. Acquainted with quickness and efficiency rather than creativity, too.

The line of your pencil flows easily on the skin, a practiced stroke quickly going across the beginning to the end point you chose.

You go to do the second line and.. the celebrity moves in her chair. The line turns dramatically not symmetrical. Your heart, also dramatically, skips a beat.

"Zoey!" you go: the cry escapes naturally, born out of your newly born despair.

"oops, sorry!", she says, smile deep and deeply apologetical. This is a smile that could move mountains to forgiveness. It's a smile that could definitely have a fan squeal and post about for days. It's a smile that is definitely not enough to calm you down.

"Shit shit sh-" You catch yourself before falling into a spiral of curses. Composure, you remind yourself. Salary, you remind yourself. Professionalism. "Okay, okay, that's fine."

Zoey seems to notice how you truly mean the opposite, apparently. Her eyebrows furrow a little, creating a crease you don't like as much as the ones of her dimples. "Is it that bad?", she asks, making move to twist around toward the mirror.

The hand of the hairstylists stops her before she has the chance to make the straightening of her hair into curling. Not that it'd look bad, you don't think so, but there isn't going to be enough time left before the representation to change the planned hairstyle, there really isn't.

"Sorry!" she hurries to apologize again, this time towards the hairstylist.

Said hairstylist's quick to excuse her, focusing more on her task at hand. More professional than you've always been: she doesn't let herself get distracted with small chat, like you currently are doing instead of trying to solve the current problem.

"Well, it definitely looks like you just fought with your eyeliner and lost the fight", you answer her, producing a hand-mirror out of the pocket of your apron.

"Ooooo, yep, that's looking bad", she winces, fingers wrapping delicately around your mirror. They're a bit too tight around it, you notice when you get distracted looking at the chipping of her nail polish.

You subtly shakes your head around, focusing your mind back on solving the current disaster that her showing up like this on set would be.

"I don't think even Mira could pass this off as a new type of trend, right? Maybe if we say we're giving grunge a try it'd work?", Zoey tries, still way too much hope in her tone.

It's a wonder how she's always so hyped or simply optimistic, you think. The hype might be what's getting her throughout all of her shows and public appearances, though, you suppose.

"Yeah, no, sorry." You push away the bottles hiding the micellar water you really didn't think you were going to need. The glimpse you sneaked at the clock while you straightened back up tell you something you're really, really not happy to know. 15 minutes left. This is such a time crunch it should probably renamed something like time crack, honestly. "Okay. Okay. I'm gonna try removing the eyeliner on this side then redo it. We may have to forgo the highlighter."

"That's fine! It was my fault, i'll make do with whatever you do!", she says, standing still as can be this time while you start trying to erase the mess.

Right. It's sweet she's saying that, really. That doesn't reassure you. You have a reputation to precede : this is your job, it can't just end up messed up. Or, well, unless maybe...

You take another cotton pad out, letting the makeup-removant slightly humidify it.

Maybe... You squint at her eyes, down at the sequins adorning her outfit for the show, then feel the idea starts to enlighten your mind.

"Can I try something else?", you ask, already visualizing multiple options before she's even answered. The sequins are green, and they catch the dressing-rooms light in a way that's almost competition to the ever-present glimmer to her eyes, too much contrasting- it wasn't bothering you before, just a thought in a corner of your mind, but now you think you could do something to solve that thought.

"Sure! You're the pro, I trust you." she says, glancing at a specific area around the higher part of your face. Not at the mascara that you can feel beginning to melt due to your fluttering around and the cheap AC, hopefully.

"I was thinking maybe we could be something less sharp than your usual eyeliner? But bring back the sharpness by using kohl underneath-" You start to explain, and she nods all the while, encouraging you on.

Truth be told, her praises are really making you feel something like relief. Pride, too, maybe. You'll try not to focus on them until you've reached an acceptable stage into the application of her makeup, however. Time-crunch, still. You can't afford to be distracted.

You'd grab your own makeup palette to use the specific shade of green you had in mind, but it wouldn't be sanitary and the trip to the lockers room would be way too long, unfortunately. That shade would have done so well in bringing out her eyes- But the palette is tucked into a corner of your locker currently, hidden away by your empty lunch-box and too many cans of soda to keep track off.

Instead, you take the palette you currently have available and you quickly get to mixing the pigments along each other. The yellow was a little too bright for your liking- too neon, too warning sign instead of the paler sunflower you would have liked. You've added more of the pine-tree green to compensate, and now you just have to bring the slightest hint of bright neon green. The green you get is a get that matches her outfit well enough, and more importantly, that fits her complexion almost perfectly.

That now done, you place your mixture to the side and, finally, gets to blurring the eyeliner line you had previously drawn. It fades away, just enough to only be a blurry residuum. You nod back to the hairstylist's good-luck nod in between two cotton-pads, as she avoids your storage-cart to leave. The clock says 13 minutes left, and it reminds you that if you want to be done on time, you need to hurry. Enough to be done on time, you're sure.

So long as Zoey doesn't move again, which you're pretty convinced she won't.

Even if- "Okay this is literally genius! I can't believe I never thought of mixinng eye-shadows together, I'm absolutely going to be stealing that idea", she blurts out, not even two minutes into the new make-up process. It took her longer to start chatting, this time. A miracle, maybe? You don't know her well enough to say.

"Oh, I'm not the only one that came up with it", you dismiss. "Close your eyes back, please."

Her eyes snaps closed in the millisecond that seems to follow.

"Right, right, sorry!", she says, then immediately go back to yapping. "Still, I would have never thought of it. Even less under pressure, I'm so bad with it. I once dropped my plate when I was-"

You don't mind the rambling, honestly. You can count the amount of celebrities who've been pleasant to you on one hand, and she counts as one of the rare ones who've been so cheerful. It's not even in a way that is more persona than truth, too. It's just, nice. Her smile as she finishes telling her story even pushes you to want to talk back.

"Rice too? That must have been hell to clean", you ask, finally applying your powder onto her eyelids. The left one has a bit less surface to work with, but you make it works.

"Oh, yeah, I spent hours picking them up. They got into every intersection of the tiles too, I thought I was going to cry, but, you know, I wasn't just going to let them there all over the place!"

"Maybe that just means you're a vampire and you're not aware of it"

Her eyelashes flutter, once, twice. Even devoid of mascara, they look longer than the norm. "Huh?"

"Oh. Sorry, yeah, that's not that well known. In some myths vampires have to count grains or seed thrown at them before they can do anything else"

"Ohhhh yeah, I indeed didn't know that. Do they have to count sand too? Do they have to count the snowflakes in snowballs?"

"I... have no clue for the snow. But definitely for the sand. I think it works for objects too but I don't know enough to tell you, sorry."

"That's okay! Do you know what culture this come from?"

"... No. Not really. It's a thing in the macedonian culture maybe? I just saw the information someday while scrolling on Tiktok, I didn't remember everything", you admit. The inner corner of her right eye is still missing some pop of color.

"Oh yeah, I do that all the time too, but I can't help it, everything's just too interesting. I do remember some facts better than the others! Mainly scientific ones about the ocean wildlife, I love those. Did you know starfishes do have eyes? Because I didn't, I was so surprised."

"I didn't either" You blow on your brush, softly whisking away all the left-over powder. "You can open your eyes."

"Already??", she gushes.

Her eyes flutter back open, turning before you could tell her not to if turning would have been a problem. It isn't, luckily.

"Not really. I still have to touch up your highlighter and do your khôl, if you're still up for it." The clock indicates there's now 8minutes left before the cameras starts turning: probably enough time. Likely enough time. You can do this

"Instead of the eyeliner right?" At the nod of your reflection, she answers back with an assured smile. "Yeah, sure, if you say it'll look great, I'm leaving it to your judgement. Just please don't stab me with the pen, it would not be practical to fight."

There's an odd shift to the way she says the word fight, compared to the others but you don't have enough time to interpret it before she keeps on speaking. "It'd also be really sad if I couldn't see you anymore, I absolutelyyy love your look"

It's your turn to blink, this time. "Thanks", you just end up saying, then turns to grab the eye pencil you were picturing to use with your eyeshadow. "I love your outfit, too", you add.

"My costume ? Mira styled it, I'll tell her you like it."

"No, I was talking about the outfit you were wearing before you changed." Some sort of ensemble with stylized motifs : you didn't quite see, but you know you liked the shape. Her bob matched the yellow of the lines, too: all a little bold, but you're all for that. It fits her well.

"Oh! Thanks!"

"Okay, keep your eyes wide open this time."

"Khôl time?"

" Khôl time", you confirm. "Unless you want to do it yourself. I'd like it more if you were at ease I wouldn't stab you."

"I mean, I didn't say I thought you were going to! Just implied you might a little"

Does she gets stabbed on the daily, or? You pass her the pencil wordlessly, figuring it'll help you save some time. Check the time, habit driven into your very body : 5 minutes left, somehow already. You grab the highlighter, then decide to take the setting spray, as well, in case she will be wanting it. And if you have the time to use it, that is.

Turns out you indeed do not have the time to: she's fairly quick to add the heavy hint of color to her water line, but you're still left with only 4minutes left and her lips and highlighter to touch up. Using the spray then might means you will be over-time considering it would have to dry fully, and you won't dare take the risk. The studio might be less known than some, but this is still television channels with their tights schedules and sterns clocks. There's a reason why the ticking of the analog clock is syncing with the digital one.

The sound echoes as you keep on practicing your art, all the while restraining your urge to let your creativity flows. No time to, Zoey hasn't requested it, it wouldn't match the rest of her group- All plenty of reasons to have to put your mind on a leash. Her chatting away with you does help quells the urge, you find: it's a distraction, and her conversation really is nice.

"Okay." You add one last brush stroke then, finally, then stands back, pushing your brushes back into your apron. "You're done."

You can look, you don't have to precise this time as she turns without being asked to: you've grown used to it, anyway.

Zoey stays still in front of the mirror, longer than what usual. You don't have to wonder whether to worry or not, though, because then she is turning again, back towards you "Oh my god. I love this SO much, you did awesome!! You made me look literally so hot"

She stands up, or maybe more springs up, and you almost think she's going to be embracing you. You brace for impact, some part of you fully convinced she is going to.

But, no- She just go straight back to praising the fuck out of you. "

"I mean, I should definitely have known, I even complimented your outfit earlier, it was totally guessable everything you'd touch would turn cool like you are. Plus, no offense to your colleagues, but you always have the best makeup looks out of all of them", she says with her eye still wide open in awe. Reaching to her phone makes her freeze just like you just have. "OhhgodI'mlatefor the practicerushs I'msosorryI have to go-".

The sudden flutter of movement across the room is her, you know but can't quite comprehend. One moment she is sitting down, admiring the result of your idea, and the other the chair is left spinning a little and she is across and almost out the dressing room. "Please remind me to take a picture later if you're still here!"

And just like that, she is out and rushing to arrive before Mira's infamous frown of disappointment and despair. You stand there for a minute, a bit flustered. She's skipping her green room altogether, you gather. Welp.

You move when you have to get the next artist's makeup ready, eventually, obviously, but her bright smile reminds in a corner of your mind all afternoon-long. You hope she'll come back, eventually- This is a program that only host newly-found truly promising discographies, but there's also other programs that are hosted. Maybe someday K-pop Demon Hunters will be big enough to get on the live-show representation program, who knows. You hope so, just as much for them as for your own slightly more egocentric reasons.

In the meantime, two Instagram accounts get added to your following list. You get a follow back, a little after, from an account named some sort of keysmash like zoejsyoujixxy.

It gets added to your following list too, eventually, when it comments on one of your posts and you finally realizes who that is.

➺ part two !

hi! i had never seen a huntrix x reader fic before so I don't know if there is a public for it but in case there is : hi, here you go , thanks for reading :) this was pretty indulgent haha, i just wanted something to write and not have to stress about. and that's the result