#mob boss

You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you can’t fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat won’t make it out.

Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.

With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.

Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though you’re not managing all that well.

His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesn’t use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.

He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.

His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.

“Stop that,” he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. “Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me.”

“Bucky, the guards,” you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. “Your people. They will hear. They will think—”

Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.

“I don't care what they think. I want them to know.” He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. “I want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when I’m the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who I’m answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.”

With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. You’re entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.

His hands lock you into place, and the way he’s eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. He’s being greedy. He’s using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.

He’s a businessman, that’s what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. He’s a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but who’s to blame you for it.

The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.

Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like you’re the only meal on his plate.

His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure you’re pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. It’s dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. He’s gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.

Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourself—it all doesn’t feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you won’t be able to look at his people anymore.

He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you don’t understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if that’s all he’s been waiting for his whole life.

Damn, you’re a lucky girl.

He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like he’s trying to draw your very soul to the surface.

It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.

He tracks you through his lashes, and you’re careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesn’t stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesn’t seem to embarrass him in the slightest.

Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.

He catches your wrist.

He’s not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.

“What’d I say,” he warns, voice low, husky.

You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. “Bucky—”

“Make the noise,” he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. “All of it.”

His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. You’ve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isn’t some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though he’s already done the math but there’s no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.

He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. It’s thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like he’s trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.

“Bucky—,” you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.

He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teeth—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.

He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.

He’s fast and skilled and you’re made to take it.

“Open up,” he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldn’t possible open up more for him.

There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. You’re straining upward, seeking the release he’s dangling just out of reach.

He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, it’s dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.

"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."

He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, and—

And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. It’s a sharp and intrusive sound and it’s stripping the air of its heat.

Bucky doesn’t seem to care, though. He doesn’t so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.

The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.

Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.

The phone dies.

He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.

Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.

You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift you’ve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.

“Bucky,” you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. “You should get that.”

His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.

“It can wait,” he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.

Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.

He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.

“Bucky—,” you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.

“My girl deserves to get off first,” he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.

And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesn’t take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.

Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.

The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isn’t a sob anymore. It’s a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.

Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.

And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.

By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if he’d reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.

When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.

Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You don’t need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.

Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodies—when the door rattles with a knock.

Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. “Boss?” a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.

His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.

With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.

“What,” he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.

“Sorry, boss,” The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. “But, uh— it’s important. You are needed.”

You want to let out a heavy sigh. But you’ve seen this coming, really.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. He’s not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.

“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.

Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.

“It’s Sam,” he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.

You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.

Bucky gives a long exhale.

“Give me five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.

And Bucky doesn’t make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.

You try to turn to his face. “Bucky, you should go.”

His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.

“You come first,” he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. “I don’t want to hold you back from work.”

“You’re not,” he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.

But then he’s shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomach—those scars are another mystery he hasn’t let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.

You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when he’s no longer touching you.

He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesn’t bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. It’s almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.

You’re still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.

“Stay here,” he says gently. “I’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.

He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.

You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it’s the one you always get to see when you’re the only audience.

“Make yourself at home while I’m gone, yeah?” he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. “If you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.”

You smile at him, nodding softly.

His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. “Didn’t plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Should’ve known better, though.”

“You’re the boss, Bucky,” you ease lightly. “I assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.”

His mouth curves.

“Unfortunately.”

He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs sweetly. “Soon as I’m done with this.” His thumb traces your cheek. “I’m coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.” His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. “Cuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.”

Your stomach does a small, excited flip. “Maybe?”you tease, leaning into his touch.

He presses his smirk against yours. “Definitely.”

With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. It’s almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.

At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. “Lock it behind me, doll.”

The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.

His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.

“Get Wilson on the line,” he demands, tone clipped. “Now.” And then the door shuts.

You’re left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.

You don’t get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you don’t deem it necessary to lock the door when he’s just out taking a call. And you’re sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.

So you flop back into the mattress—that certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feels—and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.

Because really. What on earth.

You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.

The place is obscene.

And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your résumé.

There’s a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.

And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.

Maids.

And guards.

Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.

Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.

And somehow—how the fuck—you have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.

And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.

The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.

You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.

A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.

Instead, he found you.

You.

Who once tripped over a grocery store display and apologized to the oranges. And yet he looks at you like you hung the moon with questionable hardware.

You grin into the pillow.

Also—objectively speaking—the man is incredible in bed. Like, it’s crazy.

Biting your lip and staring up at the ceiling, you wonder if the chandelier is as baffled by your luck as you are. It’s like winning the lottery without buying a ticket, and you’re silently pleading with the laws of probability to stay bent in your favor just a little while longer; at least until he realizes you’re a mere mortal and not the goddess he’s treating you as.

It’s weird that a man like him noticed you. Weird that he’s so sharp with the world but so gentle with you. Weird that he lives in this fortress of wealth and power and still tells you to steal his shirts if you’re getting cold.

Your eyes drift toward the wardrobe.

Top shelf on the left, he said.

You imagine one of his massive shirts swallowing you as a whole, and snort softly.

Yeah.

You definitely pulled a mob-boss-looking, suit-wearing, ridiculously attentive gentleman who apparently worships the ground you lie naked on.

Weird. Very weird. But you’re not complaining. You’re just mentally haggling with the universe, offering to never ask for another favor again if it just promises not to reclaim its prize or realize he’s a solid ten and you’re way out of his league.

He told you he runs a company.

You imagine glass walls and long tables and men in suits who nod too quickly while he stands in front of them all in his suit, looking all delicious and hot. You imagine paperwork, meetings, a name etched into metal on an office door. He never corrects you. He only smiles in that small way of his—enigmatic, a little asymmetrical, a little careful, as if the smile is something he built from spare parts and polished until it gleamed.

You’ve been dating for a short time. And considering the mystery he surrounds himself with, you guess it’s going to take a while until you truly get to know him. Until he truly starts telling you how his day has been and what he has been up to—and what taking a call means in his business.

But he kisses as though he’s been starving in a snowstorm. As though warmth is an endangered species and your mouth is the last sanctuary. His hands are large and soothing, and they never wander without purpose. He touches and handles you like the first blossom of a century-plant, something that has spent a hundred years preparing to bloom for a single day. And he looks at you as if you are that miracle. As if you are the only soft thing in a life built of stone.

And so, you tell yourself, you can wait for him to be ready to talk.

You don’t know what he does after midnight. You only know he sometimes steps onto the balcony to take calls. His voice changes there. It drops. He doesn’t smooth over his words and instead lets the corners stay pointy. You just never catch his words. The only thing you can do is admire the way the city lights flicker behind him like they’re afraid of him. Or in awe.

And when he comes back inside, he presses his forehead to yours as if he’s returning from war.

Contemplating, you lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. Then you sit up.

It’s not cold, the room is perfectly climate-controlled in that rich-people way where seasons are merely decorative suggestions outside the window; but you suddenly want one of his shirts.

Not for warmth, but for him, for the smell of him, for the proof that this is all actually happening and you are actually here with him somewhere out there in this huge mansion, waiting to get his mouth back on you. For the possibility that his detergent—whatever luxury forest-scented nonsense it probably is—might trick your brain into thinking he’s still right there.

You glance toward the wardrobe.

It’s enormous, who would have guessed. Cathedral enormous. Dark wood doors that probably cost more than your childhood bedroom set. It suggests that Bucky owns multiple versions of the same devastatingly expensive suit.

You slide out of bed and pad across the carpet, which is so soft it feels apologetic for touching your feet. Putting on your underwear for comfort, you make your way over to his wardrobe. The doors open without making a single sound.

You step inside and it feels like even the air is filtered for perfection. It’s a humbling difference to your own apartment, where the dresser functions less like furniture and more like a high-stakes game of Tetris, with your favorite sweaters perpetually losing the battle against a jammed bottom drawer, and where finding a matching pair of socks requires the luck of a seasoned treasure hunter.

There are rows of shirts, jackets, trousers. Everything spaced just enough apart to breathe. Everything immaculate. A faint scent of sandalwood and something clean and expensive drifts forward to greet you.

You tilt your head up.

The shirt shelf is ambitious.

You stand on your toes but you don’t reach anything. You reach higher, basically for nothing. Your fingers waggle uselessly in the air, far away from touching anything.

You sigh.

Because obviously, the man built like a six-foot-something war monument thinks a shelf near the ceiling is perfectly reasonable.

You walk out of the wardrobe and glance back toward the bed. Then toward the chair near the window.

His jacket is draped there. It looks like it belongs at the head of a mahogany table, brokering peace or declaring war with a single sharp lapel. And in between there’s the shirt he’s tossed aside as soon as you both entered his room, with an untidiness that feels like a glitch in his otherwise perfect Matrix.

It’s the shirt he didn’t bother to put back on when leaving you here. You grin.

Well.

That works too. Perfectly, even.

You wander over, the carpet not letting any sound free. The chair sits near the tall windows, moonlight cascading across the floor in long silver rectangles. It looks graceful somehow. His jacket catches the light along its seams, and you shiver at the thought of how elegant and powerful it makes him look.

You reach for it, intending to lift it aside and claim the bunched shirt.

But the moment you grab the jacket, something feels off. It’s heavy. Not normal-jacket heavy. Weighted. You frown faintly, adjusting your grip. You pick it up fully, wanting to fold it neatly, when something slips out of it.

There’s a short, dense thud against the floor. It makes you freeze.

The object lands on the dark carpet inches from your toe; a short, metallic punctuation mark in the silence. It drinks in the chandelier’s glow and spits it back out with a cold, silver arrogance. It ignites an unmistakable shimmer that makes the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.

Your brain takes a second to translate the shape.

It’s a gun.

You stare at it.

The word sits adamantly on the floor of your mind and turns the room into a crime scene before anything has even happened. It’s a sharp fracture in the timeline—there is the version of you from five seconds ago, and the version of you staring at a hunk of lethal metal.

This thing is real. Very real. Not movie-real. Not plastic-prop-real. More like heavy-metal-object-that-could-alter-the-entire-direction-of-a Tuesday-real.

Your knees grow weak and you crouch down so very slowly. Who knows, maybe sudden movements can already trigger it. You’ve never seen a real gun. You never expected you would, not like this, at least. This feels pretty surreal.

The jacket still hangs half off the chair behind you. The shirt you wanted is crumpled innocently beneath it, but you’re not grabbing it.

Your attention remains on the gun. You don’t touch it.

It’s not like your heart is racing noticeably, but there is a new tightness in your chest and it’s making you feel as though your thoughts all have quietly stood up at once.

Because. Right. Of course.

You know Bucky runs a company.

You know he’s wealthy enough to own a mansion that probably requires a map and a tour guide.

You know he has guards. Actual guards. You knew all that.

But with this gun sitting there on the carpet, it feels like looking through a new lens that snaps the blurry facts you know of this man into a slightly different focus.

If it’s frightening, you’re not sure, but it’s definitely clarifying.

You sit back on your heels for a moment, staring at it. He carried this in his jacket pocket. Casually. Just around. Like a wallet. Or keys.

Your mind tries to rewind through the past weeks. The way he watches exits. The midnight phone calls. The men who seem oddly respectful around him. The commanding note in his voice when he tells someone to do something.

You bite your lip, a hectic internal editor trying to bridge the gap between the little you know about the man and the metal you’ve found. You tell yourself not to panic, because panicking won’t give you any answers. And there’s no need to panic, because he’s just a man with power, a man who’s a boss and bosses tend to have people who don’t like them.

That’s no reason to use a gun on anyone, but it’s probably just a formality. A piece of insurance stored away like a fire extinguisher you hope to never use. Maybe it’s not meant for violence at all, just for peace of mind.

He’s protective. You’ve seen and felt it. Just last week, he was absolutely livid, after one of his guards stepped out of line with one of his maids, who’s this sweet old woman who had been with his family since his father’s time. He was in such a blind tailspin over it, and your soothing touch was the only thing that was able to pull him back to earth.

He would build a wall around everyone he cares about just to keep the wind from blowing too hard. Perhaps this gun is just part of that wall, a safety he keeps close so he never has to feel helpless. It doesn't have to mean he’s dangerous. It just means he’s prepared. It’s a precaution, a tool, a just in case that will likely collect dust until the end of time.

You try to settle the thought, but it feels like trying to pin a map against your chest in a storm; the harder you flatten your palms against the paper, the more wind tunnels through the gaps, ballooning the center and snatching the corners from your grip. If you manage to squash one section still, the air pockets behind the rest, turning the whole thing into a thrashing thing that fights to fold itself back up or fly away entirely. No matter what you do, no matter how much you lean into it, the wind will always be a second faster. The wind will always have the upper hand, hollowing out the space between your hands and the whole truth you are trying to read.

You just have to believe that the man who touches his girl so carefully is the same man who would only ever use that steel to keep the world at bay.

Your gaze lingers on it.

You don’t know much about guns. Your knowledge is mostly assembled from movies, news articles, and the vague understanding that they belong firmly in the category of things you should probably treat with respect. And it definitely belongs to a world you’ve never really stepped into before.

But apparently, Bucky lives there.

You glance toward the door he disappeared through. This is the guy who permitted you to steal his clothes, who pressed a kiss to your forehead with the softest lips. When he looks at you, it’s with that specific focus, that startled sort of wonder that always makes you feel so over-exposed, but also exponentially adored.

Your chest softens despite yourself. Still.

You eye the gun again, and one thing has become very clear in the last thirty seconds. You might be dating a man you know less about than you thought.

And that realization sits in the room with you now, waiting for you to act on it.

But you don’t know how. You simply keep staring. The chandelier light kisses its metal edges until they gleam faintly, indifferent to the fact that your brain is currently eroding into a new shape.

You swallow, and even that sounds strange in the imposing space, like it wandered too far from home.

Leaving this thing on the floor feels wrong.

And if Bucky comes back and sees it there... You don’t know why, but the thought makes your stomach tighten.

So you reach down, only now seeing that your hands are slightly wavering. Your fingers close around the grip, and the first thing you notice is the weight. It’s heavier than it looks, solid in a way that makes your palm immediately aware that this object was designed with very serious intentions.

You lift it slowly. Nothing happens, obviously. The world doesn’t explode. The chandelier doesn’t shatter. The mansion continues breathing its wealthy breath around you.

But holding it still feels like stepping one inch deeper into a room you didn’t know existed.

You turn it slightly, meaning only to orient it so you can slide it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket, but you spot an engraving, small letters carved into the dark handle.

JBB

Your brow furrows. You stare at them for a moment, tracing the edges with your eyes.

The metal around the letters looks softened. Not scratched exactly, but worn in the way objects get when they’ve lived in someone’s hand for a long time. Like a favorite pen. Or a well-loved watch.

If guns can look old, this one does. It’s not antique-old, but familiar-old.

You tilt your head. JBB. You try to assemble a name around the letters. The only name you know for the man currently pacing somewhere in this mansion making serious phone calls is Bucky.

Just Bucky.

You don’t know his last name, you realize suddenly, and you don’t like that.

You know his favorite whiskey. You know the exact shape of the scar on his shoulder. You know the way he presses his nose into your hair when he tries to calm himself down.

But his last name leaves a blank space in your mind. You glance down at the gun again.

JBB.

Maybe it belongs to someone else. Someone with a J. Jake? James? John? Jacob?

Maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe it belonged to his father. Maybe it’s one of those rich-man- heirloom objects that get passed down through generations alongside cufflinks and complicated legacies.

You exhale quietly.

That explanation sounds reasonable enough that you decide to borrow it for the moment.

Very carefully, and with explicit intent, you slide the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. The fabric settles around it like it knows exactly where it’s needed.

You smooth the lapel automatically.

There.

No evidence.

Your fingers linger on the jacket for a second longer than you want.

It still smells like him. Clean soap. Dried tobacco. Something stronger beneath it that you can’t put a name to but always recognize immediately as Bucky.

You step back, and suddenly the room feels different. Not threatening, but it does feel larger still.

Because now your brain is busy counting the things you don’t know.

You don’t know his last name.

You don’t really know what his company does.

You don’t know why men knock on his bedroom door looking nervous.

You don’t know why he carries a gun like it’s just another accessory.

You rub your arms lightly, because now there is a faint prickle of awareness crawling along your thoughts and it is spreading throughout your body.

You’ve been dating for six weeks. Is this long enough to demand answers? To justify interrogations? Gosh, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about a lot of things right now, really. You’ve been floating through the beginning part—the sweet, dizzy, honeymoon fog where the only facts that matter are the ones you feel.

But now there’s a small string of sunlight sliding through the fog. A string of curiosity. You turn back toward the bed where your clothes lie in a small, careless pile.

Maybe you’re overthinking this.

Maybe.

Still.

You pull your shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. Your jeans follow, and then your fingers reach automatically for the necklace resting on the nightstand.

The pearls catch the light when you lift them. Bucky gave it to you two weeks ago.

It’s delicate. Real pearls, because he just can. Everything about him seems to come with an expensive quality attached.

You remember the way he looked when he gave it to you. Almost shy, which was deeply unfair considering how the man is built.

Saw it and thought of you, he’d said. Think about you all the time, he’d added.

Which had melted approximately seventy percent of your internal structure. You fasten the necklace and touch it lightly now.

Gentleman.

Ridiculously good in bed.

Mysterious.

Possibly carrying engraved guns.

You sigh.

You feel a little guilty. Because what you’re about to do is technically snooping. And snooping is not great. Your mother would absolutely deliver a lecture about boundaries if she could see you right now.

You glance around the massive room again. The desk by the window. The bookshelves. The curated neatness of everything.

You bite your lip. You’re not looking for secrets. You’re just looking for context. A clue. A name.

Something that tells you who Bucky is when he isn’t kissing your forehead and telling you to raid his closet.

Your feet move before your conscience can finish filing complaints.

Your steps make no sound as you move across the carpet, wandering deeper into the room and scanning the shelves and surfaces with a caution that can’t suppress your intrigue.

You don’t need all the answers. Just one or two. So you start with the obvious places.

Drawers.

It feels less intrusive somehow; opening something that was clearly meant to be opened. You move slowly, like a guest in a museum after hours, careful fingers, quiet breath, a mild sense that the walls might be watching.

The first drawer slides out with a wooden noise and even that sounds rich. Inside, there are watches. Several of them, lined neatly in velvet compartments. Dark metal, silver, leather straps. You don’t know brands, but you know enough to guess that each one probably costs more than your car.

You close the drawer.

The next one holds cufflinks. Rows of them. Small polished things that look important and serious and entirely uninterested in your investigation.

And it only goes on this way. You open drawer after drawer, and there is nothing strange. Nothing suspicious. Just the belongings of a very wealthy man who liked things neat.

Your shoulders loosen a little. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the gun is just a rich man's security thing. The guards downstairs carry them too, probably. It doesn’t automatically mean anything bad.

You open another drawer.

Paperwork. Boring looking things. A passport tucked neatly inside a leather sleeve. You hesitate for half a second before closing it again.

That one definitely feels like crossing a line.

You step away from the wardrobe and wander toward the nightstand instead.

The wood gleams darkly under the chandelier.

You pull open the top drawer.

More ordinary things. Wallets. Sunglasses. A small tray of rings.

Further back in the drawer, you find a small stack of Polaroids. You fish them out, because you recognize the first picture. It’s a picture of Bucky and you from a few weeks ago. You had found an old Polaroid camera and wanted to try it out, practically levering him into the frame while he grumbled about how he wasn’t photogenic which was total bullshit in your eyes. But he isn’t even looking at the camera in the photo. He is looking at you with a fond little half-smile.

Looking at a few others, you realize they are of you. All of them. One is a shot of your back as you walk toward a sunset, another is a blurred profile of you sleeping on his shoulder.

There is a warmth prickling at the back of your neck and you feel something slacken inside your stomach as you slowly lower the photos back where they were.

Nothing about all of this screams crime lord. Your nerves ease another notch.

You almost laugh at yourself. Your brain likes to get dramatic. Bucky is archiving your relationship, he is sweet and protective and tender and just—

As you are about to pull your hand out, your fingers brush against something cold and metallic near the back of the drawer.

You pause.

It’s partially hidden beneath a folded black cloth. Just the faint glint of a chain catching the light.

Curiosity taps gently on your shoulder.

You slide the cloth aside and notice the silver chain. It’s thin and tangled loosely like it’s been dropped there without much thought.

You hook your finger under it and lift. Something heavier at the end slips free. Two small metal plates fall against each other with a quiet clink.

Dog tags.

You blink.

That’s not strange, exactly. Lots of people keep sentimental things. Maybe Bucky served in the military. That would even make him hotter, to be real. But it does feel a little hurtful that he didn’t share this information with you.

You turn the tags over idly, expecting to see a name you don’t recognize. However, though, you do recognize the name that’s neatly spelled out on the metal plate. And it has the air in your lungs turn to stone, refusing to move a single inch.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your stomach drops in such a harsh way, there is no ending to the fall. Your internal organs are unmoored and everything about you feels dizzy and weightless. It’s like stepping down a staircase that isn’t there. You’re still gripping the metal, but the connection between your brain and your hands has been cut, and now your fingers feel distant and wooden, filled with a needling sensation you know comes right before they start to shake.

And they do shake.

A thin tremor at first, then worse, until the tags begin to chatter against each other. Each sharp nick of the steel feels so biting and loud, broadcasting the exact moment you are losing it.

Your mind flips through memory like rifling a deck of cards too fast.

News headlines.

Conversations overheard in cafés.

Podcasts about organized crime.

New York’s most notorious mob boss.

The man whose name floats through the city like a ghost story told after midnight. James Buchanan Barnes.

JBB.

Heat rushes up the back of your neck while the rest of you goes ice-cold. It feels like standing in two climates at once—your skin clammy, your spine rigid, a cold sweat blooming between your shoulder blades.

Every breath you pull in is labored and metallic, coating your lungs in a film of disbelief that makes your chest ache. You can almost hear the gears of your reality grinding to a convulsive, screeching halt, stripping the teeth right off the life you thought you were living.

Your pulse is a furious SOS tapped out against the underside of your throat; a muddled, thrumming reminder that you are standing in the epicenter of a storm you didn't even know was brewing. You feel thin, translucent, like a sketch of a person that someone could erase with a single, hard look.

Your fingers tighten around the dog tags. No.

No no no.

Your brain scrambles to reject it. Because that’s outrageous.

That man—the one people call dangerous in all kinds of languages, the one whose operations stretch across half the city, the one who apparently runs things so carefully that no one has ever managed to pin a crime on him—

That man is a myth.

A shadow.

A name in newspapers. No photos. No confirmed identity.

Just whispers.

James Buchanan Barnes.

JBB

You stare at the letters again. You recall the way his initials were engraved in the gun.

Your mind scrambles for explanations—wrong tags, coincidence, someone else with the same name—but every attempt at reason breaks apart in your hands.

Bucky. James. Bucky. James.

James Bucky Barnes.

Your eyes drift slowly across the room.

The suits.

The mansion.

The guards.

The midnight phone calls.

The seriousness.

The gun.

Your hands are shaking tremendously. JBB.

James.

Buchanan.

Barnes.

Your mind repeats it over and over again. The math is suddenly very simple.

He kissed your forehead fifteen minutes ago. He told you to steal his shirt if you get cold. He gifted you present after present because he simply could. He spoke your name as if he had ingrained it on his tongue.

He is the most dangerous man in the city.

Something uncomfortably glaring and stinging climbs up the back of your neck, and it’s making you feel watched by a predator you once mistook for a protector.

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. Illegal shipments. Rival gangs disappearing overnight. Entire businesses quietly changing ownership after one meeting with Barnes.

And yet there is no evidence. Never evidence. Just the name. James Buchanan Barnes. The general public doesn’t know what he looks like. There are no confirmed photographs. Just rumors.

But you know exactly what he looks like. You know the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired. You know the scars on his body, know his reactions to your lips on them. You know the exact sound he makes when you laugh unexpectedly.

You are standing in the bedroom of the most notorious mob boss in New York. Wearing the pearl necklace he gave you.

Sleeping in his bed.

Dating him.

For fucks sake, he’s been inside you. You came on the most wanted dick in this city.

The walls of his seemingly huge room, so pristine and elegant, now seem to turn from a sanctuary into a beautifully curated cage.

You have been falling for the most dangerous man in the entire city and until two minutes ago, you had absolutely no idea.

Your hand moves to put the dog tags back in their place, but it’s like you’ve switched to autopilot. Your fingers operate with a sense of detachment while your mind is still a mile behind, screaming.

You lower the chain back into the velvet-lined dark with a tremble you can’t shake. You should crush it in your fist, should throw it at the ground and stomp around on it, should spit on it for what this man did—to the world, to you—but all you can do is handle it with a carefulness that is usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.

The metal hits the bottom with a tiny clink. The sound is so small, yet it feels like a heavy iron gate slamming shut between who you were five minutes ago and who you are now.

You slide the drawer shut, the wood-on-wood glide sounding like a long, slow exhale of a secret that’s finally been caught. You do it with agonizing slowness, as if by moving quietly enough, you can trick the universe into rewinding the last sixty seconds, or rather the last months so you could have avoided stumbling into his strong but deceiving arms.

And immediately, your brain begins doing what brains do best when frightened—it rewrites the past with fresh ink.

Everything changes. Everything. You look around the bedroom again. But it’s not the same room anymore. It’s not a beautiful space where you spent evenings laughing and tangled in sheets with a man who handled you like he was scared to hurt you.

Now it’s a room belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. Mob boss. Ruler of the underworld. The man people whisper about like saying his name too loudly might summon him like the devil.

Your stomach is curled into a hard stone, your fingers still numb. And suddenly every memory of the last few weeks starts recoding itself.

You remember the first gift he gave you. Not the pearls. The flowers. Three dozen white lilies delivered to your apartment door a day after your first date.

You’d laughed at the absurdity of it, calling him to tell him that this is too much, way too much, but he had smirked over the phone, so soft and unabashed, only replying that you deserve it, that you deserve way more than that.

At the time it felt romantic. But now your mind shears the memory, leaving the colors bled and the angles wrong. You turn all the memories of him over in the light until the shadows fall differently, until they take on shapes that start to build a picture.

Maybe it wasn’t romance. Maybe it was a strategy. Because that’s what men like him do, right? They buy people. They build golden cages out of small, glittering gestures.

You rub your arms slowly.

Another memory surfaces. The restaurant. The one with the insane skyline view where the waiters treated him like visiting royalty.

You’d joked about it. Do you secretly own this place?

He’d smiled that slow, mysterious smile of his and simply offered you more wine. He had looked so pleased.

Tension coils behind your ribs, but your mind keeps going.

The necklace. The pearls. One month together and he gives you something that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.

You had protested. He’d looked almost offended. He pouted at you. He looked so adorably soft, so hopeful you would take this gift from him, that you thought it to be sweet.

Maybe a little over-the-top.

But that was just Bucky, is what you thought. A little intense. A little larger than life.

However, now the thought hatches, its spindly legs prickling against your focus.

He wasn’t spoiling you, he was buying you. Buying your affection. Buying your trust. Buying your silence.

Heat floods your face. Shame webs across your heart in a dark lace of regret. You feel so embarrassed. It spreads across your whole chest and even stains the air around you.

Because you fell for it. You idiot fell for it.

Hook, line, and embarrassingly enthusiastic sinker.

You believed the soft way he looked at you. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he kissed you like he had been wandering the desert and you were the first water he’d seen in years.

You believed the way he listened to you ramble about dumb things like your coworkers, your favorite movies, the stupid podcast you liked.

You believed the way he touched you. Gentle and devoted, and it all seemed so loving.

Your throat is tight, turned into parchment, the soft tissue shrinking and hardening until it feels ready to crack. Because all that might have been a performance. A simple performance to fool you.

Of course, he would know how to act. Of course, he would know how to charm someone. Men like that survive on manipulation.

But you don’t understand why it’s you. Why you of all people? You’re not wealthy. Not powerful. Not connected.

Which somehow makes it all the more humiliating because maybe that’s exactly why. You imagine the possibilities, and each one feels worse than the last.

Maybe he needed someone clean. Someone with no ties to his world. Someone who could unknowingly hold something for him. Transport something. Sign something. Test something.

Maybe you were never a girlfriend, but a tool. A pawn. A convenient, smiling civilian. Someone harmless enough that no one would suspect anything.

Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sound that hasn’t even formed, but you cannot lock out your mind, and a keener thought pushes through.

What if he didn’t need you for anything practical at all? What if you were just entertainment?

A normal girl to play house with for a few weeks. A soft distraction between grating business meetings and dangerous deals.

Your eyes and cheeks burn at the thought that somewhere behind those soft eyes and tender hands, he might have been laughing at how easily you melted. How quickly you trusted him.

You feel sick. Your stomach heaves in a frantic attempt to purge the very air you breathe. It drags liquid heat up from your gut to your searing cheeks.

Your gaze drifts to the chair by the window. His jacket still hangs there. Inside it, the gun rests quietly.

Your stomach flips again.

Because suddenly it feels impossible that the man who carried that gun tonight was the same man who tucked the blanket around you earlier, who swiped his tongue against your pussy this deliciously and stopped you from hiding your reactions.

It was simply a power play, and god, are you a stupid girl.

You hear his voice in your head again. Stay here. Lock the door.

A shiver runs down your spine. Because now the words sound different. There is none of that protective and caring cadence. All you hear is a command. Containment. Showing you he is the one with the power, he is the one dealing the cards.

Oh, god. What have you gotten yourself into. This is definitely the worst thing yet.

You know you have to get the hell out of here. High-tail it. Let your panic lend wings to your feet to carry you the fuck out of the devil’s quarters.

You absolutely cannot still be in this room when he comes back. Pretending you didn’t notice the gun was one thing. Pretending you didn’t discover who he actually is, is another thing entirely.

The lie would be too large. It would sit between you like a loaded weapon much deeper and more fatal than that damned gun.

Your pulse is a vibrating scream inside your throat, your chest, your whole body, because what happens when he sees that you know?

What does a man like James Buchanan Barnes do with loose ends?

Fear and dread pin your lungs against your ribs and make the hairs on your arms stand up.

You don’t want to find out. You grab your phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Inside your mind, your thoughts are colliding and yelling at one another, memories reshaping themselves into something darker.

He was so worshipful. So attentive. So careful with you.

And it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

He really is the best actor you’ve ever met.

You glance once more around the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The luxury of everything.

Then you head for the door. Because whatever this was, whatever he was, you need to be gone before James Buchanan Barnes comes back.

There is that low, now seemingly threatening rattle vibrating through the wood of the door. Somewhere down the long dark of the hallway, a mess of voices spills out—too muffled to catch the words, just a low drone. Then there’s the sound of footsteps on the marble, over and over, like a pendulum, until it gets softened by the rugs.

It’s eerie how this place just functions. No clanking, no friction. Just the invisible, midnight grinding of a house that knows exactly how to keep itself running while everyone else is dead to the world.

Bucky's house.

No—your mind corrects strictly.

James Buchanan Barnes’s house.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and turn the handle.

The door gives a tiny, smug click, and you step out slowly, looking around to see nobody.

Ahead, the hallway just stretches out forever, all that dark, expensive wood shimmering under these wall lamps that just stare at you, glowing like something waiting for its turn to speak.

It’s wide enough that you expect a massive echo, but the carpet is so thick it just eats your footsteps. It’s unsettling. The whole place feels like it’s sucked in its gut, just holding its breath, waiting to see if you’ll decide to jump through the floor-to-ceiling windows to your right in your desperation to leave this place.

The door closes behind you, and even though it doesn’t really make a sound, you flinch so hard, your little jump through the window plan might be accidental.

Your heart begins to pound harder now that you’ve left the safety—no, the illusion—of the bedroom.

Because this house feels much larger and colder out here. Maybe you should have taken the gun with you. But you don’t know how to use such a thing, because you’re a normal person, and normal people don’t carry those things around like an innocent handbag.

You take a few unsure steps and it feels like you’ve stepped backstage at a theater and suddenly realized the play you were enjoying might actually be a crime scene.

You know the way to the front door.

He walked you through the mansion when you first visited, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through endless rooms and hallways with an easy familiarity that felt charming at the time.

But you know better and realize he was just showing you the cage. But at least you were paying attention. Every turn, every hallway he bragged about is burned into your head. That charming tour just became the only map out of here.

Two hallways down. Past the staircase. Through the long gallery with the ample paintings.

Then the front entrance.

Simple.

Except for the fact that his mansion is apparently populated by a small army.

Maids. Guards. Staff who move through the house like quiet satellites orbiting the gravity of one man.

These were all signs you simply overlooked because he’s handsome. You bite the inside of your cheek out of frustration with yourself. How can one person be so fucking blind.

You start walking.

Your footsteps are soft, but your heartbeat is anything but.

A maid appears at the far end of the corridor just as you round the corner, and everything inside you locks up.

She pauses when she sees you, instantly throwing you a smile that genuinely looks pleasant. She recognizes you. You don’t recognize her. Your stomach turns and turns until it is knotted too tight to even be able to move.

“Miss,” she starts politely. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

You force a smile that you hope doesn’t look like it’s made entirely of nerves and the urge to run down this hall, disappearing out of sight.

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light, a little apologetic. “Sorry— I just... I think I need some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.”

The lie comes out smoother than you expected. Maybe panic is a good acting coach.

The maid’s expression softens immediately. She even looks a little too concerned for you for whatever reason.

“Of course,” she says sweetly, and you actually feel bad for lying to her. Does she know who she’s working for? Does she know who you are supposed to be for the man who is her boss? Maybe you could ask her. Maybe she would shoot you for it, who knows. Maybe everyone in this godforsaken building owns a gun, ready to use it. “Would you like me to call the boss—”

“No,” you interrupt quickly, then soften the urgency with a small laugh. “No, it’s fine. He’s busy with work, right? I don’t want to bother him.”

You hate how natural the sentence sounds. How easily you can say work when you now know that word hides a thousand darker things.

The maid nods, but she does seem a little hesitant. “Of course.” Thankfully, she leaves it at that.

With the wish for you to feel better soon, and an awkward thank you from your side, you continue walking.

One corridor.

Then another.

Your mind keeps racing ahead of your body, building plans like emergency scaffolding.

It all suddenly looks so terrifyingly menacing. Especially in the dark. It feels so much like a trap. The lights are down and the shadows feel like they’re actually reaching for you. There’s this dreadful, suffocating weight pressing out from the walls, like the house itself is holding a grudge. Your skin is crawling, and the air feels too thick to actually get into your lungs. It’s stale, as though it’s been sitting in a basement for a hundred years, and now the building has finally stopped pretending to be a home and turned into a giant cave with only dead ends so you will never have a way out and will end up as a rotting corpse in some forgotten corner.

The dark walls feel like they are crowding your shoulders. Those deep red carpets are laid out just a little too perfectly, too insistent on keeping you in the center of the floor. Walking down those corridors feels like being threaded through a needle.

And it’s not that the place is ever actually quiet, it’s just that every sound here is on a leash. There is the clink of glass coming from somewhere deep in the gut of the mansion. The dry, dusty thud of footsteps on rugs that are probably more worth than your life in the eyes of the mob boss. Voices that stay low and thick, never quite hitting the walls. It’s too disciplined. It’s a silence that’s been trained to keep its mouth shut.

He probably won’t notice you slinking out of his home. However, what he will definitely notice, is that you will never see him again, or answer his texts or calls. So that will be a problem.

The man owns a gun, and whatever else he can kill people with. So you can’t go home, is what you think as you descend the wide staircase. When you get out of here, you can’t flee to your apartment.

Because he knows where you live. He picked you up there. Dropped you off there. Walked you to your door like the perfect gentleman.

You almost laugh at the bitter irony.

The most dangerous man in the city knows your address. He played the perfect gentleman just to find out where and how you live.

Which means going home would be like walking back into a trap you’ve just barely escaped.

But you know just who is badass enough to help you out of this situation. Natasha.

Natasha lives across town. Natasha answers calls at ungodly hours. Natasha once helped you move apartments at two in the morning with nothing but her wry commentary and a borrowed truck.

You could stay with her. For a few days, weeks, maybe even longer. You know she won’t mind. She’s just that kind of friend.

You could figure things out from there.

Your hand tightens slightly around your phone as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

You’ll text her once you’re outside.

Not before.

Because paranoia is part of your bloodstream now, and who knows who might glance at your screen, who might casually mention later that they saw you messaging someone.

So you keep walking until the entrance hall opens before you like the lobby of a five-star hotel. It’s extensive, with vast floors and tall ceilings and capacious doors at the far end like the exit to another world, a world you want so desperately to be a part of again.

You wipe your clammy hands on your thighs and try to mentally prepare yourself for this last step.

You cross the obsidian floor toward the doors with what you hope resembles casual determination.

Not too fast. Fast looks guilty. Not too slow. Slow looks hesitant.

You aim for something in between—the walk of a woman with a mild headache and absolutely no catastrophic revelations fluttering around inside her skull.

God, everything about the place seems so much darker now. The darkness even slinks upward into the walls, which are paneled in matte-finished ebony that drinks the light before it can reach the corners. There is no glow, not the one you imagined when you first walked in here, hand in hand with a man you thought you could fall so deeply for and would be safe with. But everything now feels iterative and cold and to feel safe means to leave and never return.

The guards notice you immediately.

Two of them stand beside the colossal front doors, tall shapes in dark suits, shoulders squared in that particular way men stand when their job description includes the possibility of violence. They’ve always been polite to you before. Quietly respectful. The way staff are supposed to be with someone important to the man who owns the house. You only now know the direction this importance takes.

They both straighten slightly when you approach.

“Ma’am,” the left one says with a deep voice that gives nothing away.

You offer another careful smile, layering it with just enough exhaustion to make your earlier excuse believable.

“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your tone breezy, like this is the most normal thing in the world to do in the middle of the night after spending hours in their boss’s bed. “I have a headache, and don’t want to interrupt Bucky while he’s working.”

Your voice nearly stumbles over the name.

Bucky.

The harmless version.

The one that belongs to the man who kissed you like you mattered. Not the one attached to James Buchanan Barnes.

The guard on the left side of the door glances at the other one. It’s subtle, but you see it. A quick trade of communication.

Then he looks back at you.

“Boss aware you’re leaving, ma’am?”

The way he uses the word boss makes bile rise up your throat. You are actually getting a headache.

You force yourself to keep smiling.

“Oh, he’s busy,” you say lightly, waving a hand as if this entire situation is mildly inconvenient but otherwise harmless. “I would feel bad for bothering him while he’s working. And I could use some fresh air and a little rest. So I thought I would just head home.”

Neither guard moves. The doors remain closed.

You swallow tightly, and it feels like there’s a stone coming down your throat along with it, which makes your limbs feel heavier.

“I will call him,” the second guard offers, already reaching toward the small device clipped at his belt.

“No,” you blurt too quickly.

Both men look at you again, and your pulse tumbles when you feel a subtle shift sliding into place, into the invisible perimeter around this house, the machinery of control that keeps things exactly where James Buchanan Barnes wants them.

Your throat feels dry. Your voice tries to find a hiding place inside the hallway of your throat. You pull yourself together as best you can. “That’s really not necessary,” you add, softer this time, trying to patch over the crack you just made in your own story. “It’s just a headache. I don’t want him to be distracted by that. You can just let him know I left once he is done.”

The first guard studies you more closely now. He doesn’t seem suspicious exactly, but he does seem cautious.

And suddenly the hallway behind you feels very long. Too long. Because if they call him, and he walks in here while you’re standing at the door trying to escape his mansion—

Your thoughts spiral into vile possibilities faster than you can control them.

What does a mob boss do to a girl like you when he realizes she has discovered his identity? Certainly no good things.

Your heart pounds so loudly, it’s a single roar all around your skull. You feel hot, so hot, you could burst into flames.

The second guard lifts the radio slightly, eyes on you. “Sir—”

“Baby?”

The voice comes from behind you and it sounds so soft. Confused.

Your insides startle into a panic so bright, you turn blind for a second.

Your entire body freezes up.

Baby.

A freezing shiver breaks loose at the base of your skull and slides all the way down to your heels.

Baby.

The word traces the line of your back, making every hair stand up.

Baby.

You know you have to react in other ways than fear to your so-called boyfriend, so you turn around slowly, trying to unpin your strained expression.

He’s standing halfway across the hall.

Except, now he looks like a stranger.

While he was gone and taking that business phone call, he had changed into one of his perfectly tailored suits. The charcoal wool is stiff and sits snugly, and it would have ignited a heated flutter in your lower belly just an hour earlier, but now it just makes him look malevolent. He looks terrifying in his elegance. So symmetrical, your lungs are wheezing out of sheer fright.

The sweat on your skin, once warm from him, has now turned into a layer of ice. You look at him and think that no, this man doesn’t love you. All you have been to him is a soft room he stepped into to wash off the smell of whatever he does in that suit.

The business he talked about isn’t spreadsheets and meetings. It’s the way the two guards behind you have gone absolutely still, like dogs waiting for a whistle.

He looks dangerous. You have never associated Bucky with direct danger, only with protecting you from danger. But this is not a boyfriend’s posture, it’s a king’s. Even that softly confused frown he is giving you doesn’t make him seem less threatening. It’s just the look of a man who owns everything he sees and knows what to do with it.

Bucky.

Except now your brain whispers the other name.

James.

Every inch of that expensive tailoring screams that he could have you erased before his morning coffee, and he wouldn’t even get a crease in his trousers.

While you were falling in love, he was just managing a distraction.

Your heart is breaking all over again.

“What are you doing down here?” His voice sounds the same as always, and yet it doesn’t.

The guards immediately straighten although he is talking to you, though you wish he wouldn’t.

“Sir,” one of them starts, but Bucky lifts a hand slightly without even looking at them, silencing whatever explanation they were about to offer.

His eyes are on you. Only you. Concern tightens his face almost immediately.

There is a cold needle threading through your nerves. You feel like a deer that has been eating out of a hunter’s hand, only just now noticing the rifle leaning against the tree.

“I—” Your voice nearly betrays you, cracking halfway through the first syllable. Act. You have to act. You drag in a breath and force your shoulders to loosen, shoving your face into something resembling mild embarrassment rather than existential terror. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you lie, carefully smoothing your tone. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. It seemed pretty important.” You look toward the door, turning your body slightly with it in a gesture of longing. “So I planned on just heading home.”

His brows only pull further together, his expression turning deeper, and it doesn’t make this better at all. “You’re the only important thing, sweetheart. You know that.” His voice is low, but how does he manage to make it sound this gentle? Even soft.

Oh god, he’s coming closer. Of course, he’s coming closer, he’s your boyfriend, pretending to be your boyfriend, pretending to be worried, because his girl allegedly has a headache and wants to leave when he promised earlier to continue pleasing her in bed and asked her to stay and lock the door behind him because he doesn’t expect her to leave in the middle of the night.

But that doesn’t make it any easier for you to handle, doesn’t make your body react less in the horrifying way that this scary man is moving toward you, and he doesn’t know you know what kind of scary he is.

You feel your body fight against itself. You want to swirl around, run, bolt, fly through the door outside into the night, never to be seen again. Or at least not by him and his people. But you can’t. You have to stay, you have to remain planted to the floor. Even taking one step back would be a fatal mistake.

And suddenly he’s right there with all his tallness and built, and he still looks warm, but so much more intimidating.

You feel your insides shrink into themselves, your heart slipping into a corner somewhere deep.

The sheer scale of him in that suit makes your stomach drop. He is not a man, he is an entire system of brutality hidden behind a charming smile and gold cufflinks.

You shiver at the fact that your boyfriend could end a life with a nod of his head, and then come home and press his face into your neck as if his hands were clean.

“You’re not feeling well?” His voice drops into a frequency that is meant to be gentle and soothing, but for you, it just sounds like the rumble of an engine. The furrow in his brow grows shadows on his forehead. His eyes shift between yours so fast and piercing, with such a concentrated focus, scanning for the source of your pain as if he could kill it for you.

His hand comes up instinctively, the same way it always does when he’s worried about you, or when he’s not. It’s just normal for him to touch you. But watching his hand move toward you this time makes your back stiffen and a ring of alarm sounds out in your skull, shrill and poignant.

His fingers brush your cheek.

Your skin crawls of its own accord, and you flinch. You force your reaction to be small, but you can’t suppress it entirely. Your brain blanks, and your heart strikes high.

His hand stills, and so does your heart as it feels like.

Bucky notices everything. You guess it comes in handy with being the most wanted crime boss in the city.

His eyes sharpen slightly, and his concern turns more piercing. He looks at his hand still hovering awkwardly, then at you. His eyes are distraught, hinting at something deeper that just broke in two. And he looks so deeply puzzled.

“Hey,” he lets out, and it sounds a little raspy. You scramble.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quickly, forcing a small laugh that sounds thin even to your own ears. “I’m just a little dizzy, I think.”

He studies you for a long moment.

The guards are silent now and you feel them watching from behind your back.

The house feels too quiet, too attentive, too alert.

James’ hand lowers slowly, though his gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“You’re pale,” he acknowledges, his voice grainy. He sounds like he is holding his breath.

You shrug weakly. “Yeah, well. Not my best look.”

He’s not smiling, and you start sweating. How did you never notice just how scary this man looks.

He’s thinking. You can see it. Pieces moving behind that stormy gaze. Your heart hammers harder.

Please don’t see it.

Please don’t see that you know.

He exhales slowly, then reaches for your hand, and he doesn’t do it possessively, nor roughly, just tenderly closing his fingers around yours.

“Come with me,” he says quietly, and it could sound like a plea if he weren’t the man that he is.

Your skin is a furnace. You might explode. You force a shaky breath, praying he doesn’t hear the way your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

“Bucky, I really just—”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, but there is something thick and hunted in the way he talks. “Just a minute.”

He looms over you with his whole presence and those intensely fevered eyes and he sucks the oxygen clean out of your lungs.

He nods toward the hallway behind him.

“My office is right there. We’ll sit down for a second, make sure you’re okay. And if you think I’d let you go home alone with a headache you can think again, doll.”

Doll.

God, you really have been stupid. Doll.

This is not a sweet endearment. This is literal. You are a thing made of porcelain that he is scared of dropping—or since a man like him isn’t scared of anything—you’re a thing he realized he can break.

Your pulse spikes.

Office.

Private.

Closed door.

Every alarm bell in your body begins ringing at once.

In his office, the rules of the outside world—the rules where you are safe—don’t apply. It’s where the blood gets mopped up.

But the guards are watching. The exit is behind them.

They aren’t moving a muscle and stand there like gargoyles, guarding your only hope for escape.

And Bucky—James—is standing right in front of you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, concern weaving through his quiet tone.

Well, you’re shaking because you can feel the callouses on his hands, the strength in his grip that suggests he could snap your wrist without his expression changing. He knows you are vibrating with nerves, but he has misdiagnosed the fever.

You force yourself to breathe. To smile. To pretend. Just like he has all these weeks. Just like he does now.

“Just the headache,” you whisper, and it’s tasting like bile.

He studies you for another long second, and for a moment you think he might see the truth. You think the mask is going to be ripped away right here in the hallway.

Then he squeezes your hand gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He turns you away from the door that would bring you to safety, moving his hand to the small of your back, and it is the gentlest thing in the world. But that somehow makes it so harrowing, because there is nothing rough in the gesture, nothing that could be called force by anyone watching, nothing but warmth and assurance, leading you into the heart of his house with the grace of a protector, and yet your whole body reads it like a sentence being handed down.

You are now thoroughly trapped, you realize while swallowing down the rising tide of bile. It feels like a master painter adding the final, darkening stroke to a portrait you can no longer step out of.

But there is nothing you can do. You let him steer you away from the door because what else are you supposed to do? Rip away, run, scream? That seems impossible in a house that breathes his name through every vent and doorway. A house where even the air seems employed by him.

The mansion appears to lengthen as you walk through it, as if corridors are being pulled like taffy just to spite you, just to show you how laughably far the front door already is, how absurd it was to think you could simply walk out with a polite excuse and a swallowed scream in your throat, hoping nobody heard it rattling behind your teeth, pretending you were still a girl who had a choice in where she slept tonight.

You try to pay attention. You try to mark the route the way people do in movies when they’re kidnapped or hunted or trying not to fall off the edge of the earth—left at the long console with the black granite top, right at the staggering painting in the gilded frame, straight past the alcove with the antique lamp and the white flowers that smell expensive and funereal at once.

But panic is a vandal and it is paralyzing and it comes in and smashes every useful thought with a chair.

Your heart is beating too hard, your blood too loud, your mind too busy manufacturing horrors to do something practical like remember turns. Foyer, hall, archway, staircase, another hall. No—was it staircase first? Was the office past the library, or past that room with the dark green walls?

Oh god, this is horrible. You're really starting to feel lost and this might be a catastrophic blow to your faith.

You try to pin each detail to the inside of your skull, but they slide off slick as fish, and every second spent trying to memorize the geography of this place only makes you more conscious of the fact that you are being walked farther and farther from the only exit you knew.

Why would he take you this far? The question lets sweat collect at the base of your neck. Why not the room just off the main hall? Why not one of the closer offices? Why not let you leave if you are only dizzy, only pale, only under the weather the way you claimed?

Does he suspect something? Has he already seen it, the wrongness in your face, the recoil you were too slow to hide, the way your voice came out laced too tight? And worse than that, more awful than suspicion because it drips with intention—was there always going to be a moment like this? Had he always been walking you here in one way or another, from the first date, from the first gift, from the first time he looked at you as if you were worth the chase?

Maybe this is what men like him do. Maybe he had a plan long before you ever had a clue. Maybe there has never been a single unarranged second between you, and you were just too lovesick and dazzled to notice the rails under your feet.

His hand stays at your back the entire time, broad and warm, but it makes you want to shove him away from you. When you hesitate, the pressure spikes just enough to remind you which way the door isn't. He is leading you forward and it would have felt gentle, but it doesn’t. No longer.

His thumb-strokes across your back don’t feel comforting at all and more like he is smoothing out a wrinkle in his own sleeve or the way he might polish a piece of silver he has decided to keep.

You suppress a chilling shiver he surely would have felt.

When you glance at him, because some abhorrent part of you still does, still wants to; you find concern in his face and it nearly brings you to the floor. You can’t glimpse any coldness, no strategic thinking whatsoever. At least not the kind you expected to see. His eyes aren’t narrowed and sharpened with discovery, there is no clipped impatience, no telltale crack in the mask.

He looks at you the way he has always looked at you when something seemed off, with his little frown and that determination, as if your problems are things he would like to drag outside and beat to death with his bare hands.

His gaze moves over your face with the same intimate concentration that once made your stomach warm for all the right reasons. It does not help. It makes everything worse.

Because if this is performance, then he is monstrous at it. If this is an act, he’s lived in the skin of it for a lifetime.

A lie shouldn’t feel this solid, shouldn’t have a thumb that knows exactly where your tension hides.

If he is acting, then he deserves a stage and an audience and perhaps a crown.

You can barely stand it, this collision between what you know and what he appears to be. A man can’t look at you like that and still be the most feared name in the city. Except apparently he can. Apparently, men can be two things at once. Apparently, the universe is vulgar enough to make both true.

You pass a maid coming the other way—a small, neat woman in a crisp uniform. She is carrying folded lines in her arms, and Bucky acknowledges her with nothing more than a curt nod, and she responds with a warm little smile aimed at you and the faintest dip of her head—something halfway between greeting and curtsey, so practiced it is almost invisible, but not invisible enough, not to you, not now.

It makes your breath hitch, how he doesn’t swell with importance, or doesn’t put on a show of his control.

He’s so comfortable in his power that he doesn't even need to show it off; he just steers you onward, knowing nobody will do a single thing to stop him.

And your stomach lurches so suddenly it feels as if your bones have missed a step. Because there it is. There, in one small exchange, is the whole persona of him. He is not loud or cartoony with his power, he just has it. It’s real. It doesn’t need to announce itself because everyone in its radius already knows where to bend.

The maid’s smile is kind, almost affectionate, and that somehow shames you more, because it suggests this has been obvious to everyone but you.

They all know what he is. The guards know. The staff knows. The men at the gate, the drivers, the strangers in tailored suits who always nod to him with instant stillness in their spines—they all know.

And you, meanwhile, had been floating around this house in your pretty little ignorance, accepting tea on silver trays, accepting jewelry in velvet boxes, accepting his mouth and his hands and his delicious attention as if you had simply stumbled into the arms of an intense, rich man with old-fashioned manners and a dangerous face completely by accident.

You would like to face palm yourself, but this is a bad moment.

Natasha will definitely do it for you once you get out of here and manage to escape to her apartment.

You had looked at the signs and called them charm. You had looked at vigilance and called it romance. You had looked at fear arranged into etiquette and thought that wow, he really runs this company proficiently.

The embarrassment of it blooms hot under your skin, nearly as painful as the fear. You have been blind. Worse—willingly blind. Blind not by accident but by appetite, by wanting. Love, or whatever this early ferocious thing is, has wrapped a hand-woven scarf around your eyes and led you smiling into a cathedral built from warning signs and decorated with red flags.

And the humiliating part, the part that makes you feel like you could peel yourself out of your own skin from sheer mortification, is that you had even congratulated yourself for being so unbothered by his world.

Look at you, cool girl extraordinaire, dating the beautiful, mysterious executive in his deluxe mansion, pretending not to notice the guards and the driver and the way everyone waited half a beat too long for his approval before moving.

You had thought you were being mature. Sophisticated. Unruffled. Meanwhile, you were essentially a decorative houseplant with a pulse, sitting in the sun of his attention and calling it insight. It would almost be funny if it weren’t your life currently doing a slow and terrible cartwheel off a cliff.

How could you have ever believed that a guy like him would be interested in that naive, silly girl that you are.

Honestly, if you survive this ordeal, you will end up in some corner of your small, meager apartment, bawling your eyes out, and keep living that unlucky life of yours.

He glances at you again as you walk on that burgundy red carpet deeper into the hole that is another hallway, and his hand presses a little more firmly between your shoulder blades. It’s protective rather than possessive to anyone looking in from the outside, but the gesture sends another flare of panic through you anyway.

You wonder if he can feel the fear on you, if it comes off your skin. You wonder if men like him are trained by experience to smell a lie the way dogs smell storms. You wonder whether he is leading you to comfort or containment. Every room you pass seems too opulent to be real with those chandeliers like frozen explosions, rugs plush enough to kill the sound of literally anything, the dark wood twinkling creepily under low gold light, paintings in heavy frames, looming over everything, looking down their painted noses at anyone not born into the frame.

The place no longer looks luxurious so much as fortified. You see the thickness of doors now. The depth of corridors. The strategic sightlines. The subtle placement of people. This house is not merely beautiful. It is defensible. It is a kingdom in disguise.

And you had been letting yourself be loved in it. You stupid girl had let him come way, way too close to you.

But it’s what makes every step hurt more than it should. Because despite everything, despite the gun and the initials and the name on the tags and the avalanche of terror crushing common sense into powder, there is still some small perfidious corner of you that keeps stumbling over the memory of how gentle he was, how attentive, how he watched your face as if your feelings were weather and he meant to learn every season.

You hate that part of yourself right now, and that it even exists in the first place after everything you found out about the man and what knowing him entails.

You want cleaner fear, simpler fear, fear without ache in it. But your fear is contaminated by affection. By memory. By the wrenching possibility that whatever else he is, whatever blood has dried invisibly on his hands, the softness he’s shown you may have been real. And if that is real, then the rest is not easier to understand. It is harder. Infinitely harder. It means the monster did not wear a mask. It means the monster kissed your forehead and tucked blankets around your legs and remembered how you take your coffee. But your brain can’t follow all of that.

Another turn. Another corridor. Another room you cannot catalogue fast enough.

You try again to memorize the path, because panic may be a vandal but desperation is stubborn.

The wall here is paneled more deeply. There is a bronze wolf on a pedestal. A narrow window at the end of the hall. A runner rug patterned in deep red, almost the color of old cherries, almost the color of dried blood if your mind is in the mood to be cruel, which it surely is.

Your thoughts keep darting ahead of you and slam themselves against every worst-case future they can find. If he knows you know, what does that mean? If he does not know you know, what then? Which is safer? Is there a safer version of this at all?

You imagine phones taken gently from your hand. Doors locked with apologetic clicks. Promises made in that low warm voice while your life narrows to the width of his will.

The terrible thing is that none of your imaginings need to be loud to be horrifying. A man like him does not need spectacles. He has infrastructure.

By the time he slows in front of a set of double doors farther inside the mansion than you have ever been allowed, or invited, to go; your nerves are so frayed they feel almost luminous, every sound oppressive, every movement enlarged.

He looks down at you, his face still threaded with worry, and sweeps his hand from your back to your elbow in a gesture so careful it would be beautiful in any other universe. In this one it only makes your chest tighten until breathing feels like work. He leans slightly closer, and his voice drops, intimate as a hand at your throat, though there is nothing harsh in it.

“What’re you thinking about, baby,” he asks quietly, searching your face.

Well, you’re thinking about the front door.

It’s where you left your mind.

Or maybe it was lost in his room already. Maybe it stayed with the gun on his carpet.

And the other, the more rational part of your mind, the one that told you this couldn’t have been true anyway, because you are you and he is him, lingers in every news story you ever half listened to.

You are inside the tormenting, glittering realization that you have not just fallen for a dangerous man, but for the dangerous man, and that all the softness you took as sanctuary may have only been the most exquisite blindfold ever tied.

“Nothing, Bucky,” you reply weakly, trying to ease, but your voice is shaking just that tiny bit, and judging by the uncomfortable twist of his mouth, he caught it.

You’re too lost in your stupidity that you’re hardly present when he opens his wooden office door and ushers you inside, again with the most tender movements.

The office is warmer than the hall, quieter too, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms and the hairs stand tall at the back of your neck because this room is built to keep any sound inside and secrets fat and sleeping in the walls. Everywhere you look there is dark wood and low amber light and books lined up in stern, handsome rows as if knowledge itself has been drafted into his service.

You feel the world shrink from cathedral to chamber, from public performance to something confined, more dangerous, more indiscreet, because now there are no guards, no maids, no witnesses to help keep either of you inside your assigned role.

There is only him, only you, only that soft snick of the door as he shuts it behind him; and that small, tidy sound feels like it’s happening inside your own chest. You watch his hand leave the brass knob, and the logic in your head just gives up. There’s only a hysterical, messy scramble of thoughts, all of them howling at once and all of them useless.

He turns back to you immediately, all his attention gathering around you with that familiar chilling completeness, and before you can decide whether to stand very still or bolt like a startled animal with nowhere sensible to run, he is guiding you toward the couch near the fireplace with one hand steady at your waist and the other brushing over your arm, then your back again. He’s never forcing or gripping hard, but he’s just not letting go of you and it makes you want to jump against the wall in hopes it’ll crack and you’ll land on the other side because his touch is making you more and more nervous.

He treats you as if he thinks you might faint at any second.

It is infuriating, that gentleness. It feels like a kind of torture that’s impossible to fight because your skin has a longer memory than your head. Your body still knows him first as safety. It still recognizes the heat of his palm and the strength of him, the way he moves as though you’re the center of the room.

And now every instinct is splitting at the seams. All you want to do is run, you want him away from you, you want to be far gone from all of this, you want to scream and scream some more, but the other half of you is remembering how carefully he tucked a blanket over your legs last week when you fell asleep during a movie or the way he has checked you for bruises after literally making love to you with that distressed frown upon his face, scared he’s been too rough with you.

The collision makes you dizzy enough that, absurdly, he may not be wrong. You might actually faint. Just from the sheer vertigo of finding out that the man who kissed you so devotedly has a name the whole city says with a tremble in their voices.

“Sit down for me,” he coaxes, and his voice is low, soft, carrying none of the steel you used to hear when he dealt with his men, and that contrast nearly makes your skin crawl.

You lower yourself onto the couch because your knees are not reliable enough to argue with him. The room seems to have acquired a faint sway, because the blood in your veins feels thin and feverish, and he stays right there, close enough that his thigh nearly brushes yours before he drops into a crouch in front of you.

The sight of this dangerous man folding all that height and breadth down to your level, gaze lifted to your face with plain concern would have melted you an hour ago.

But all it does now is frighten you some more. It feels too intimate, too earnest, too much like care, and care from a man like him is no simple thing. It is not a ribbon. It is a chain in softer clothing.

You swallow hard and that alone almost makes you flinch.

His eyes move over you with increasing worry, taking inventory in little silent increments. Your face is pale, you feel the damp shine of stress at your temples, you can’t keep your fingers still in your lap, and you can’t quite tame the uneven hitch in your breath.

He reaches up and lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek, his brows knitting tighter, and his mouth presses into a serious line. “You’re sweating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he would like to issue orders to your body until it starts behaving properly.

His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, feather-light, and you have to stop yourself from jerking away too sharply. You have to refrain yourself from slapping his hand away.

He notices even the version of restraint. You guessed, he does. A man like him has to. A man like him would. But it does worsen your situation.

A chill spreads along the base of your neck.

His eyes sharpen, not with suspicion exactly, but with apprehension deepening into something more searching, more troubled. “Talk to me, baby,” he pleads, softer still. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”

You stare at him.

For a moment the question does not make sense, your mind too busy running in circles with sirens in its hair, but you notice the shadow in his face, the hunch, the way his gaze jumps to your mouth, your throat, your posture curled too tight, and it seems bizarre because he honestly looks as though he might dread he pushed you too far, touched you too much, misread your body, took a liberty you weren’t ready for.

The absurdity of that nearly splits your head open because earlier when he—god, when he had his criminal tongue on your pussy—he acted so attentive, he seemed genuinely careful and devastatingly patient, and yet now, knowing what you know, even that lightness now hardens into a new breed of atrocity.

Because if this is him being careful, if this is him holding himself in check, then what does rough look like in a man built the way he is, in a man whose name can make grown men go quiet? What shape does cruelty take when it belongs to someone with this much power and this little need to raise his voice?

“No,” you answer too fast, the word skidding out of you. “No, you didn’t— nothing like that.”

Well, he did do something. A lot, really. Things that would put him in a cell never to be let out.

But he didn’t do anything to you yet. Yet. He might, if you don’t get your shit together.

His shoulders loosen by a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He still looks wound up. He still looks a little perturbed.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and there is something sincere in his voice, it is disorienting. “Because, honey, you can tell me if I was too much. If I missed something. If I—” He stops, swallows, and the hand at your cheek gentles further, as if he is trying to make himself seem safer. Funny. “I need to know. Need to know if there was ever a moment when you didn’t feel good.”

Something is dipping in the air around you, and everything feels distorted. Your head is hazy and a complete maze, because how is he even doing it this well?

You pull back then, small at first, because having his hands on you for longer will surely drive you insane. You don’t shove him off, or smack his hand away, you simply move out of his palms enough to break the line of his touch, but even that has him looking at you more closely.

You gather your hands together in your lap so he won’t see them tremble and shake your head with a smile that feels stapled on, brittle and thin, and one wrong breath away from snapping in half. “I’m okay,” you say, aiming for sheepish, for embarrassed, for normal. “I just need some sleep, I think. That’s all. It’s probably stupid. I’m probably just a little exhausted and overreacting.”

He doesn’t buy it.

You can tell immediately, and you hate that you can tell, but you notice how his whole face changes in that subtle way his face does when he has decided something is amiss and he is not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it.

He shifts closer, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, his attention absolute. “Then sleep here,” he deadpans. As if this is simply the answer to all the problems in the world. “You don’t need to go anywhere tonight. 'Specially when you’re not feeling well.”

Your stomach contracts into a hard, cold knot, and it feels like there’s a displacement in your chest. It’s the sensation of a staircase ending one step too soon and you didn’t notice so now you’re hitting air instead of floor with a heart-shaking jolt. It is jarring. It is petrifying, because it means you’re not getting out of here that easily. You might not be getting out of here at all if he continues to look at you like that.

Sleep here.

Stay here.

In his house. In his reach. In the center of the web.

Your pulse stutters so hard it hurts.

“I should go home,” you try, and even to your own ears it sounds small, unconvincing, more instinct than argument.

His frown deepens, utterly baffled by your insistence in the face of what he clearly sees as a solvable problem. “Why?” he asks quietly, and his voice sound a tad hoarse. “If you feel bad, why would I let you leave?”

Your lungs can’t seem to catch any air although it’s all around you.

Why would I let you

He didn’t say why would you leave, no he said why would I let you.

Good god, you really have been a stupid girl. The signs were all in front of you, weren’t they? They were literally speaking to you.

He’s talking in a tender tone, making his voice all soft and gentle, even soothing and so concerned, but that’s just the outside. You never paid attention to what lay underneath, hidden deep inside, because the outside was pretty and alluring enough. And maybe you are imagining it now, the gravelly implications in his tone, maybe your body’s just trying to see and hear things that aren’t there, but perhaps it truly has been there all the time and you were too wrapped in him to notice it.

You stand up quickly.

And you shouldn’t have done that because he will think what the hell you’re doing now, but your body decided and now your body is doing it.

The room sways, your vision going soft at the edges for one humiliating second, and his hands are on you—one at your elbow, one at your waist, and there is no shaking them off.

You flinch despite yourself and he stills as if you have struck him. You know he doesn’t understand your reactions, how could he.

“Hey,” he coos, his voice lowering even further, and there is definitely something thick in his voice. “Easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, too breathless, too papery, trying to peel his hands off you without making it look like peeling, which is impossible, because every move feels too fast or too urgent, every instinct either too frightened or too telling. “Really, Bucky, I’m just tired. I’m probably being ridiculous.”

His gaze searches yours with such intensity it feels almost physical. “You’re trying to get away from me.”

The words are quiet, and although there is no anger in them, no threat at all, it has your mouth go dry.

“No,” you answer, and it is not a good lie. “No, Bucky. Of course not. My head’s just really hurting.”

Something in him clicks into a higher gear—not a lack of trust or anything like that, but a kind of piercing, automated focus. Something in his eyes snaps into high definition. All that soft, vague concern is gone, replaced by an attention so bright and infiltrating it feels like being pinned to a board under a microscope.

Carefully, he makes you sit back down on the couch and lands right beside you. You feel the heat of him pressing into your side, though he does give you a bit of space.

His hand comes to your upper arm, stroking once, and you hate your own pulse for noticing how familiar it feels despite it having lost its appeal. “Look at me,” he presses, and it almost sounds like an order. His voice seems serious enough to make you shiver in fear.

You look at him because you have to and refusing would be louder than screaming.

His eyes are so damn blue in this weirdly dim light, clear and intent and lined with such deep worry. He’s definitely denser, his concern losing its fluff, but not its patience. There still is no trace of coldness, no roughness, nothing that is overly intimidating despite the man he is.

Just that same irksome softness, that same look like your distress is something he wants to fix with both hands, with all of himself if necessary.

It rattles you more than if he had come in hard and sharp and monstrous. A monster would be easier. A monster would let your fear stand up straight. But this man looking at you like your pain pains him is a labyrinth with no clean exits.

And it feels foreboding. It has you more on edge. It’s the way the woods go quiet right before something heavy steps out of the brush; a sudden, absolute alignment of intent.

Maybe he knows you know and now he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce. You do your best to keep your fright behind your eyes.

“You can sleep here tonight,” he offers again, gentler now, and it seems as though he believes repetition might soothe you into agreement. “I’ll stay with you. Or I won’t, if you want space. I’ll get you water, food, whatever you need. But I’m not sending you home like this.”

Not sending.

Again that wordless, soft-toned authority.

Again that sense that his care and his control are fused so tightly together they share a bloodstream.

You are running out of room inside your own face. Running out of expressions that can pass for normal. Running out of ways to keep the panic from drawing its blade.

So you do the only thing you can think of, the stupidest thing, the most desperate thing—you lean in and kiss him.

It’s short and small and only meant to reassure, to smooth over, to redirect. Your lips meet his and every cell in your body revolts.

And it’s not at all because he kisses badly, god no. Even startled, even worried, he receives you with immediate tenderness, one hand lifting to cradle your jaw, his mouth warm and careful and heartbreakingly familiar but also so, so foreign, a cold shiver seizes your back.

It is what makes nausea roll through you so suddenly you nearly choke on it. Because this is James Buchanan Barnes.

This is the name on the dog tags, the name on the news, the name people lower their voices around as if it might hear them and turn its head.

This is the most feared man in the city and his mouth is still the same mouth that kissed the corner of your smile with one of his own.

Your stomach turns so sharply you have to concentrate not to pull away in disgust too soon, not to betray yourself with the wrong kind of urgency.

You kiss him once, twice, tasting dread under the memory of want, and every instinct in you screams that you are pressing your lips to a loaded weapon and pretending it is a rose.

When you ease back, you make yourself smile.

It feels gargantuan, the effort of it.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, like that explains anything, like that proves you are only tired and not terrified, only overwhelmed and not trying to survive. “I promise. I can go home like this.”

His thumb brushes under your eye so lightly, and you run your tongue over your lip, trying to get that uncomfortable tingling to go away.

But he still looks unconvinced.

More than unconvinced, actually. Plagued. As if the kiss reassured him of your affection but not your state, and now that mismatch is bothering him in ways he can’t make sense of.

His gaze lingers on your face, then your mouth, then your hands clenched too tightly in your lap. He takes one of them and turns it gently palm-up, his fingers closing around yours. You can feel how much bigger his hand is. You can feel how easily it encloses.

And all at once the room feels narrow as a throat, the walls leaning in, the lamplight too gold, the air too warm, and you are sitting inches from a man who could ruin your life before breakfast and is looking at you like the only thing he wants in this world is to make you feel safe.

“What’s going on, doll?” His voice could even be pleading, just a little bit. It’s definitely croaky. “I— I get the feeling—”

“I told you, Bucky. It’s just a headache.” He sighs to that, but all you can think about is how completely his hand closes over the bones of your own. How easy it would be for those fingers to tighten from comfort into command, from tenderness into something unarguable.

His other palm is at your arm, and your body does this awful arithmetic without your permission, subtracting your strength from his and arriving, every single time, at the same answer—none.

There is none. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You notice things you never let yourself notice before because before they were part of romance, of safety, of the warm relief of being cared for by someone larger and more grounded than you.

Now those same details come back rearranged into something atrocious. The width of his shoulders. The thickness of his thighs where they bracket the edge of the couch. The controlled way he moves, never wasted, never sloppy, suggesting he has long ago become intimate with force and no longer needs to flaunt it.

Even the gentleness feels frightening because it is so deliberate. You can feel, in every cautious touch, that he is handling you lightly not because he must, but because he chooses to. And choice is a nightmarish thing when done by a man like him. Choice means there are other versions of him. Choice means there are rooms in him you have never seen. Choice means the tenderness is not the whole house, only one lit window.

You sit very still because being still feels safer than moving, and panic has made your limbs feel both too heavy and too ready to misfire. While he studies your face with that immensely worried crease between his brows, your thoughts keep slipping sideways into grotesque little visions of what would happen if he decided to stop being soft.

Not even dramatic visions. That would almost be easier. Nothing so loud as being thrown or shouted at. Your fear is smarter than that now. It imagines quieter things. A wrist caught before you can pull away. A door closed with no visible hurry. Your name said in that low voice while every route out of the room gently, politely disappears.

You hate yourself for thinking it, hate the way your pulse kicks harder with each new image, hate most of all that his touch remains careful through all of it, remains incessantly kind, so that your fear begins to feel almost counterfeit in the face of what he is actually doing, and then the next thought corrects you suddenly—no, not counterfeit. Instinct. Instinct finally dragging itself awake after weeks of sleeping with its face turned to his chest.

He must notice something fresh pass through you, some new tremor or tightening, because his jaw flexes and then he reaches into his pocket for his phone.

He is glancing at the screen and some shutter drops behind his eyes. It doesn’t slam, it just falls shut, as simple as that. Just sliding into place as neatly as a blade returning to its sheath.

He lifts the phone, says a name you don’t catch because your ears are too loud with your heartbeat, and when the person on the other end answers, his voice changes so completely that a chill runs over your skin.

“Bring cold towels to my office. And painkillers. Water too.” That is all.

Simple words. Ordinary words.

But the voice that carries them is stripped clean of softness, and that is what makes your blood curdle. There is no gentle edge worn smooth for your benefit. It is a voice pared down to function, to expectation, to command. Not loud, not theatrical, not cruel in any obvious way, it is just cold the way a simple black stone is cold. Cold the way a locked gate is cold.

There is no room in it for hesitation, no room in it for mishearing, no suggestion that obedience is a favor rather than the natural order of things. Whoever is on the other end responds immediately, and he ends the call without another word, already moving to set the phone aside, already turning back toward you, and your whole body has gone thin with dread because all you can think, stupidly, helplessly, is this is how he speaks when he is not pretending to be gentle.

And if this is his ordinary command voice, then what would he sound like if he knew? If he looked at you and saw recognition staring back, saw the name James Buchanan Barnes fully formed in your eyes, saw that you had found the gun and the initials and the tags and had welded them all together into the truth? Would his voice sharpen? Flatten further?

Would he say your name with that same smooth authority and turn it into a thing that could pin you in place?

The thought is a beaded sweat of ice trailing down the ladder of your back.

You try not to react. You fail a little. He sees the shiver, he sees, because he is James Buchanan Barnes for goodness sake, and immediately his focus softens again as he leans a fraction closer, anguish returning to his face as if the colder version of him never existed at all.

The door catches your eye over his shoulder.

It is simply there. Closed, but not locked, at least not that you can see. Dark wood, brass handle, a square of possibility in a room rapidly losing oxygen.

And once you look at it, you cannot stop.

Your gaze keeps darting back like something hooked. You begin to map the distance with desperate measurements.

If you stood up now—no, not stood, launched—if you shoved him hard enough to buy yourself one puzzled second, maybe two, could you make it? Out the office, into the hall, left or right—God, which one had you come from?—and then what? Down one corridor, past another, through that impassable warren of pragmatic but pristine floors and expensive silence and armed loyalty, praying that your body would remember what your mind failed to memorize?

You picture it anyway. You can’t help it. You picture yourself bolting, slipping on gleaming floors, turning wrong and wrong again, heart exploding in your throat while the mansion multiplies around you like a bad dream, each hallway birthing three more, each staircase leading not to freedom but to another floor full of his money and his people and his reach.

Still, the image won’t leave you. It grows instead, takes on velocity. You imagine the first breath of motion, the clean scary choice of it. The couch under you unweighting. The door handle cold in your palm. The sudden crash of everything becoming honest.

You don’t have a lot of choices here. So maybe fate would take pity on you. Maybe panic would become a compass. Maybe your body would remember a route your mind cannot hold. Maybe the front hall would be merciful and simply appear in front of you, all that dark wood and those massive doors and the guards too startled to stop you before you ripped yourself out into the night. It is preposterous. It is probably impossible. It becomes, nevertheless, the brightest thought in the room. Bright enough to burn.

You are too poised on the edge of movement now, too taut, every nerve drawn tight as wire.

“Baby,” Bucky starts, a little alarmed, and he shifts closer again, one hand lifting instinctively, probably to touch your face, your shoulder, your wrist, some place he thinks he can soothe.

But the sight of that hand coming toward you almost does it. Almost tips you over from imagining escape into choosing it. You can feel your muscles gathering without permission, your body preparing itself in secret, a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow. Run, run, run. For one crazed second you are already halfway gone in your mind—up off the couch, around the table, through the door, don’t think, just move, just run, run, run—

And then his fingers brush your arm, so lightly, so soft, but it breaks something inside you because you want his sweet touch, you want him to hold you, to soothe you, to love you, but you don’t want it to be James Buchanan Barnes, you want it to be Bucky, but he’s no longer Bucky, he won’t ever be anymore, and so you simply react.

You jerk, shoving his hand away before you can stop yourself, not enough to really hurt, but enough that the gesture hangs in the air between you like a shattered glass note.

Your breath is now gone entirely.

There are a few beats where simply nothing happens.

Then his hand drops back.

You stare at him, your own hand hovering stupidly in midair as if all you have to do is snip your finger to turn back the time.

And Bucky—James—just looks at you. For a small moment, he simply looks startled, like a deer in the headlights of your rejection. He looks so tremendously confused, his face totally unglued, but then his eyes shift gears, shift into alarm, shift into a concern so much deeper than before. It seems as if your recoil has unhinged him. As if it has frightened him for an entirely different reason than the one clawing its way through your chest. As if it has confirmed something he’s only lived in a nightmare before.

His features warp into something resembling desperation, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and asking, and it is nauseating to watch—the way he’s already cobbling together a version of reality where he isn’t the monster you’re trying to run from.

He is misinterpreting your panic and it makes you sick.

He isn't thinking She knows what I am. His mind is sprinting in the exact opposite direction to protect itself.

He thinks the headache is actually a migraine that has you reacting strangely, or it’s a panic attack, or some hidden trauma he didn’t know about, and he is already frantically building a scenario where he gets to fix it. His mouth stays slightly open, his breath hitching as if he’s about to choke on his own breath. He looks around the empty office with this desperate, wild squint, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he expects to find a physical monster standing there—something he can actually put a bullet in to make you stop shaking.

“Alright,” he lets out, and his voice is completely broken, a rough, dry scrape that sounds like it is tearing his throat.

He doesn’t lunge for you or do something big. Instead, he actually hitches his weight backward, trying to make himself smaller, which is harrowing because he is still twice your size and wearing a suit that could be sprinkled with blood in under an hour. His hands stay out in front of him, palms up, fingers twitching with this jittery, helpless energy. He is looking at you with this forlorn begging in his widened eyes, practically pleading with them for you to blame it on the lights, or the noise, or anything else in the world—because the alternative is that he is the thing making you look at him like he’s an executioner.

You might be running out of time to pretend.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I— I’m so sorry, I don’t—” You don’t even know what explanation you are going to give him now, only that you are suddenly full of the clumsy need to fill the room with words before the room fills with something worse, and so your mouth opens on instinct, on panic, on the miserable little scraps of sanity still fluttering inside you. You hear yourself stammer out some thin, transparent nonsense about feeling strange, about maybe being overwhelmed, about maybe needing air, maybe needing to go home, maybe nothing, because every excuse sounds flimsy the second it leaves you, and every sentence makes your spirit mulch and dissolve into a gray slurry that won’t hold a shape.

And Bucky is still so close and still so beautiful and still so racked with his brows pinched into a severe, pained knot. His eyes are full of shadows, and this is all so bad.

His softness somehow makes all of this worse, not better, because if he were cruel already, if he were cold already, if he gave you even one clean villain’s grin, one sharp look, one thread of honest menace, maybe your fear would have somewhere proper to sit.

But he only examines your features as though it truly physically aches him to see you like this, as though your panic has reached inside him and laid a dirty hand around his heart.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he starts, and he says it so quietly, with so much care, still, but also with a mounting unease that is just about to reach its peak. “I just wanna know what’s going on. Talk to me, baby. Please. I—” he breaks off with a sigh, his jaw grinding. “If something’s wrong, if something’s going on, then I gotta know.”

You swallow hard in hopes that anything might help soothe the sting behind your eyes. You don’t believe him, not fully anymore, but some humiliating, hopelessly romantic part of you still recognizes the cadence of the man who kissed your forehead this morning, the man who tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the most tender hands, the man who remembered how you take your tea and which side you prefer to sleep on and the fact that you hate when socks twist inside your shoes.

It is unimaginable, it is desolating how tenderness can survive in the same body as terror, how your heart can continue making a fool of itself even while your mind is setting the whole house on fire.

“Bucky, really, I’m just...” Your voice hitches, the words sticking like thistles in your throat. You look down at his hands and they are so huge and capable, currently flexing with an empty urge to hold you. You know those hands have held weapons. You know they’ve ended lives and carried blood. But right now they are trembling because you won’t let them touch you.

You can feel yourself growing sharper and shakier by the second, every nerve in you pulled too tight, every breath arriving shallow and unhelpful, and still he keeps speaking to you in that quiet and gentle tone, asking whether it was something earlier, whether he pushed too far, whether he missed something, where exactly it hurts. You can’t tell him it’s your heart and not your head that is currently in shambles.

The concern in him seems real. That is the terrible part. It seems real enough to bruise. You shake your head too quickly. You try to smile and feel it crack before it even fully forms. You say you are just tired. You say you do not know. You say you are fine with the kind of desperate brightness you would use when standing on the edge of a roof insisting you are only admiring the view.

His gaze drops to the space you are slowly clearing between you, and his expression hardens. Gears are grinding behind his eyes and suddenly he looks like the man in the hallway, filled with command and so fucking terrifying, your pulse spikes to unhealthy numbers. He doesn’t look at you, he turns his head to look in the direction of the closed door, his posture squared.

“Did someone say something to you?” He asks, his tone dropping into a low, scraping register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “In the hall? Before I came out?”

You blink at him in disbelief. Does he think someone threatened you? Does he think one of his own men, or some interloper in his kingdom, stepped out of line with you? The fact that that would cause such an intense reaction in him makes you want to be catapulted straight out of here because this is genuinely just getting all too much. He seems about ready to tear his own house down to find the monster that scared you, completely unaware that he is the one wearing the monster’s skin.

You are about to open your mouth to improvise your way to freedom, when there is a brisk knock on the oak door and it makes your entire body jerk.

Bucky turns toward the noise, but not before you catch the brief, hot flare of irritation that darkens his features. He rises with all his coiled grace and contained force, and for half a second you just stare at his back, seeing even that differently now. He really is a tall man. He is immense. Broad. Space seems to make room for him as he steps to the door. God, what the hell did you walk yourself into. The only thought that gives you a tiny bit of ease is that there surely have to be other girls out there who would have fallen for it all, looking at him.

He cracks the door open. A man stands in the corridor holding a tray balanced with a folded stack of damp, cold towels, a bottle of water, and a blister pack of painkillers. And it’s weird how this would have struck you as absurdly thoughtful just hours before but now it feels sinister. It is purely ominous. It is comfort orchestrated by absolute authority; a display of care that only exists because of total, unquestioning submission.

Bucky, or James, or the most wanted mob boss of all time; thanks him, quickly, absently, not unkind but distracted, his thoughts still hooked to you so visibly that even the man at the door registers the tension.

And that man glances inside just enough to catch sight of you on the couch, sitting there sweating, pale, rigid as a hunted thing.

A manic urge strikes you to scream for help. You want to yell at this stranger to run, to call the precinct, or to simply throw you over his shoulder and get you the hell out of this building. But the impulse dies in your throat. It would be entirely useless. Every single person under this roof operates on his frequency. This man wouldn't take a single order from you even if it would be more of a plea than anything else. All of these people in this damn building listen to his every word. He wouldn’t do a thing to help you.

And before you can even let go of the fantasy, the man immediately drops his eyes again and leaves, because everyone in this house seems trained in the art of not seeing too much.

But you see too much now. That is the problem. That is the irreversible thing.

Because while Bucky’s back is turned, while he takes the tray and shuts the door with his shoulder and crosses toward the sideboard, your gaze begins to snag on the office around you with new eyes, and suddenly nothing is only furniture anymore.

Nothing is only decoration. All the wood in here is dark and expensive, perhaps even that is getting paid to stay silent, and there are details you would once have filed away as masculine and stylish.

But now everything is imposing. Everything reads as evidence.

Like that locked cabinet that is too reinforced to hold unimportant paperwork. There is a map pinned behind glass with inked markings that look less like commerce and more like a tactical grid. A stack of files sits bound with a suspicious kind of neatness. Then there is a heavy antique letter opener glinting on the desk like a civilized version of a threat.

Even the art on the walls seems changed, the frames too severe, the subjects too stern, everything in here curated by a man who does not simply possess things but controls them. He dictates outcomes. He governs people. His office is a single spider web woven from all this darkened wood and his suits, and you are the only thing inside it that is still vibrating, sending signals straight to the center where he stands, and it is making your skin grow cold in patches.

He is opening the water bottle for you.

That tiny, stupid gesture nearly does it—the torturous way he makes this all so normal and so intimate when he says, “Here, baby,” without turning yet, as if this is still salvageable, as if you are merely unwell and he is merely worried and the world has not already split clean down the middle.

Something primitive detonates inside you, and perhaps if it were a conscious thought or a decision or just some other thing in a civilized sense, maybe you wouldn’t do what you are doing, but your body is revolting before your mind can dress the fear in language, and you’re up.

Oh god, you’re up.

You’re off the couch, you’re on your feet, and now there’s no going back, now there’s no sitting down because now you sprang up and now you will run. You will run because the suddenness of your own movement has chosen the path for you.

Without looking back, without another word, your feet move you to the door and they move so fast, the room is moving with you, your vision is filled with streaks. Your hand fumbles blindly before finding the door handle, wrenching it open, and then you are sprinting.

“You love me, you say. You love me, you say. You love me, you say. Then why are you shaking?”

- Richard Siken

A/n: I know this is basically one single scene and I truly don’t know how I managed to make it this long. I always add unnecessary details and emotional spirals wherever possible but I worry that I sit in the emotions for too long sometimes.

So please feel free to let me know if the emotional introspection and all those feelings got to be a little too much at any point because I know I tend to ramble and take a while getting to the point in my writing and it’s getting a little frustrating. Hearing what you guys think would be really helpful 🫶🏻

And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, please feel free to consider my ko-fi

You were exhausted. Your head was throbbing, your legs ached, and you couldn't wait to get home. You were counting the minutes until you could just sleep with your cat.

Today, your boss had kept you late with paperwork and you couldn't take it anymore; you also had to assist the college with an internship that paid almost nothing.

In an attempt to get home faster, you took a different path, imagining that going through that parking lot would get you to your apartment sooner. Crossing the parking lot, just as you were leaving it to enter an alley for another shortcut, your body froze.

Even with the poor lighting, you could identify a red-haired woman pointing a gun at a man who was crying and screaming on the ground, begging for mercy for his life. Behind the woman, a tall man stood watching everything with a gun in his hand. When the shot echoed through the alley, a trembling sigh of horror escaped your lips. You immediately tried to cover your mouth, but it was a useless gesture. As soon as the sound left your mouth, two heads turned in your direction.

With slow steps, you backed away, but you stopped when the woman’s voice reached your ears. Her voice was husky and far too calm for the situation. She ordered you not to run, and the only thing you did was nod in affirmation.

The redhead slowly approached you, her eyes meeting your green ones when she was inches from your face. You held your breath and a tear rolled down your cheek.

She wiped away your tear and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You flinched automatically.

"Please, don't do anything to me," your hands were shaking and you tried to find a rhythm to hide something impossible. "I have someone waiting for me, he depends on me, he only has me," a sob escaped your mouth. "He’s a cat, my beautiful little cat, he’s white with a light brown tail," another desperate sob, tears flowing faster, and this time you couldn't hide your hands shaking violently. "I'm so tired, I'm just leaving work, I'm so tired that I'm sure what I saw doesn't seem real." Your eyes closed and your chest began to ache. "Please, please, I just want my home."

With your eyes closed, you felt the redhead’s hands on your face once more. The touch was delicate. Slowly, her hands moved down from your cheek to your neck. She didn't squeeze, but she left her hand there as a warning.

"No need to cry, my dear," she had a fake, sweet smile on her face. "Today is your lucky day, you've won a ride home." Your closed eyes slowly opened. You stared into those dangerous eyes.

"It's not necessary, I swear, just let me go and I promise by everything in this world I won't tell anyone," your voice was so shaky and desperate that for a second, Natasha almost gave in.

"I'm not giving you an option," she said in a firm voice, and you only nodded.

Her hand left your neck but moved to your back. Natasha began to guide you to the car. You clutched your bag tightly, your hands still trembling.

The man who was with her sat in the driver's seat and she opened the back door for you. With all the care and fear in the world, you got into the car. In your head, you thought she would sit next to the driver, but no. The side door opened and she sat with you in the back seat, though she respected the distance between you. She stayed by one window and you by the other.

"Could you put your address into the GPS on your phone and hand it to our friend up front?" she said, looking at you.

You only nodded and did as she asked. The trip felt long to you, but only five minutes had passed at most. When you arrived in front of your house, he handed the phone back to you.

Natasha got out of the car and opened the door for you. Your legs were shaking, your body was trembling. She accompanied you to the door of your apartment. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, my love. I trust you. I believe you're big enough now to keep a promise."

"Yes, I am."

When your apartment door closed, you walked quickly to your room and began to cry with your hands over your mouth to muffle any unwanted noise.

What a lovely Thursday.

The Silent Watch

You woke up in the middle of the night with your cat biting your foot; he was hungry. Slowly you got up and put out food for him. Your throat was dry and your hands were still shaking slightly. After drinking a glass of water, you went back to your room.

Gradually, your internship clothes were replaced by pajamas.

When dawn broke, you jumped out of bed in despair when you saw the time on the clock. You were late for your first class of the day. In the rush, you didn't dress as well as usual. You brushed your teeth in a hurry and left the house while still putting on your shoes. Along the way, while you were running, you didn't notice the black car parked across the street that began to discreetly follow you.

On the other side of town, the redhead's phone vibrated while she was having breakfast with her computer open right in front of her. She thanked the employee who left her coffee on the table and turned her attention to the phone. A simple message notifying her that you had left home in a hurry. A video included. The redhead let out a laugh while watching the video and replied with a simple "ok."

She turned her attention back to the laptop. Great grades, a mediocre internship, a clean record, no close relatives, and few friends. She even got your cat's medical history. The vaccines he had taken and the time you rushed desperately to the clinic on a Saturday because he had eaten a lizard and wouldn't stop vomiting.

She had your whole life in front of her. She gained access to your phone. You didn't call anyone during the night or early morning; so far, it was a good sign.

Natasha checked everything, even what she had no right to. Your bank account. Messages on WhatsApp and Instagram, and even your TikTok profile which only had videos of your cat playing.

Upon leaving college, you ordered an Uber and arrived at your internship. Your head was spinning, you couldn't concentrate on anything, and it resulted in your boss shouting at you in front of everyone.

Leaving work, it was already 8:30 PM. An hour earlier than the time you left yesterday. You notice the black car parked; when the windows roll down, your body paralyzes. The redhead gives you a smile and looks at the passenger seat.

You get into the car with your heart racing. Your hands were shaking. This was it; she had regretted letting you live and was going to kill you today. Your cat was going to spend the night hungry and would be without a mother.

The strangest thing was that neither of you said a word while in the car. When she stopped the car right in front of your building, you looked at her. "Thank you," your voice held a clear uncertainty. "No need to thank me, princess. I just don't want you to forget our agreement."

You gave her a faint nod and got out of the car. Natasha only drove away from your building when your house light was turned on minutes later.

The cycle repeated for an entire week. Until you finally got tired and carefully asked, "Why do you keep doing this?"

"You're the first person to complain about a ride late at night after a busy day."

Your breath, which had been held, released. Your eyes close and you shrink back. "I'm not going to tell anyone, you doing this only scares me even more."

"Natasha," the redhead says.

"Natasha?" You reply with mental confusion.

"My name is Natasha, Yn."

"Your name suits you, it's a beautiful name, Natasha."

……..

Two weeks later you were already talking more, but you didn't understand why you continued to speak. On a random Thursday, Natasha said she was going to take you out on Saturday; she didn't ask, she only informed you. However, she was sensible. She would never force anything. She observed over the weeks how you no longer flinched near her. How your not-so-discreet glances stopped on her lips.

On Saturday, you were nervous. You walked from the living room to the bedroom. Your apartment was small, so there wasn't much room to walk.

"Milo, I don't know what to do. My son, mommy is desperate, I don't know what to wear," your cat, as usual, ignored you and continued to look out the window.

Your wardrobe was a mess; you already knew what to wear around the redhead who gave you chills. She could have killed you; you were supposed to be dead and your cat left with no one.

Minutes after doing a simple blowout on your hair, basic makeup, and putting on your favorite perfume, you decided on the outfit. A yellow dress.

At the scheduled time, you went down. Your hand held the strap of your bag. Natasha got out of the car and approached you.

"You look beautiful, princess."

"Thank you, you do too."

Your smile was shy and she noticed your nervousness. She opened the car door for you and then closed it.

On the way, she started a conversation, asking how your day was. You said your boss called you at the last minute and you had to work, but you left at five in the afternoon because it was Saturday. Natasha was bothered by the news but said nothing.

She felt strange. You caused feelings she had never felt before. It wasn't love yet; it was care. That's what she told herself every time.

The redhead drove to an Italian restaurant. When you saw the sign, Natasha noticed a smile on your face. She got the first part right.

You felt a little shy because none of this was normal. You had barely spoken during these weeks. The fear you felt for her was gradually distancing itself when you finally realized she wasn't going to hurt you. At least not yet.

With a hand on your back, she guided you to a discreet table with low lighting. The perfect environment. You placed your order and now came the part you have the most difficulty with: talking.

Natasha watched you with a gentle intensity. She wasn't the same woman you met in that alley. Her guard wasn't totally down, but it was already a big change for the redhead.

Even with the low light, she saw your face flushing. "Yellow suits you, it lights up the room," she said with a smile on her face while you laughed softly in response.

"Thank you, I didn't think you noticed those things."

"I have my eye on even the small details, princess."

"So, tell me about yourself," she knew a lot about you, but she wanted to know the things she would never discover by reading documents and cloning your phone.

"Well, I go to law school from the morning until part of the afternoon. When I leave college, I go straight to my internship as you already know."

"Those things I know; tell me about what I don't know, your tastes and interests. After all, this is a date, I want to get to know you better," Natasha's gaze was intense, the look of someone who was holding back from saying something reckless.

"I have a cat, his name is Milo. I adopted him when I still lived with my parents and brought him when I started college. He's very special to me."

"One day I want to meet him," Natasha replies with a smile.

"Of course, he likes meeting new people."

"Continue, my dear."

"On weekends I like to go to the park with him, I always stop at the library to pick up a book to entertain myself over the weekend."

"I like reading very much; I also write quite a bit when I have time. I write romance but I have no intention of ever publishing. It's something very intimate," your gaze drops to the table.

"Your writing must be beautiful, just like you."

"You're making me feel bashful, I don't know how to react."

"React however you feel comfortable."

In the middle of the conversation, the waiter arrives with the wine; you politely thank him and go back to staring at Natasha. When she was already on her third glass, you were still finishing your first.

"I'm a bit of a lightweight, I prefer to have only one."

"That's fine, darling, whatever you want."

You had dinner and she took you for a drive around the city before dropping you home.

With only one glass, you already started to loosen up a bit more. You were staring at her more than necessary. She noticed and always smiled. On your street, she put her hand on your thigh and you struggled not to let out a moan.

This time she didn't wait for you to get out of the car; she got out herself and opened the door for you.

"You've been delivered, I bet Milo is missing you."

"Yes," you looked at her. "Thank you for tonight, I enjoyed it very much."

"I hope that's a confirmation that I can take you on another date."

"It is, Natasha," her name came out a bit husky from your mouth. The redhead approached you; you closed your eyes thinking she was going to kiss you on the lips, but she only left a peck on your cheek.

With a massive blush on your face, you went up to your apartment. The redhead only got in the car when she saw the light being turned on through your window.

…….

Weeks passed and suddenly you were on your third date. The first had been a walk in the park and now you were going to dinner at one of Natasha's favorite restaurants.

No kisses yet; it was always kisses on the cheek or forehead. In the park, you were the one who approached her and she took your hand; you walked hand in hand. Your heart skipped at every caress.

At the end of the day, you watched the sunset; she had her chin resting on your neck. Your hands were resting on the lookout railing and hers were on top of yours.

When it was already dark, the redhead left a kiss on your forehead. For her, it was something different. Natasha knew how to read people very well. She saw that you weren't afraid of her; she noticed that you felt safe with her. You never again mentioned the event that caused you to meet. She never stopped dropping you home during the night.

Now on the third date, you decided not to drink and she respected your decision by having only one drink. You had dinner; your confidence was already perfect because twice during dinner you caressed her hand.

On the way back home, she drove with her hand on your thigh. "I think it's time for you to meet Milo," you said with your heart racing. "Are you sure? I don't want to rush anything."

"I am sure."

For the first time in a month, she entered your apartment. It was a small apartment, but it was tidy. When the door opened, you heard a loud meow and Milo coming towards you. He tapped your leg with his paw and ran to where his food was. Natasha watched everything with a smile on her face. You put out food for him and invited her to sit.

"He is beautiful and hungry."

"He's always hungry and can get a little wild when he's ignored."

She sat next to you on the sofa.

"I really can't believe you're here right now, everything was so unexpected," you looked at her, your eyes shining, your face vulnerable.

"I will always protect you," she approached you and caressed your cheek, your eyes closed and this time your lips met in a hungry and passionate kiss.

………

Three months after that kiss, you were packing your things. It was late at night and Natasha was going to sleep over. She was putting the books from your shelf into the box; there were many books. You were packing your clothes into suitcases.

Natasha's house was large; she lived alone and had rooms to spare.

The next day, Saturday morning, you were locking your apartment. A few boxes and two suitcases of clothes. Milo was inside his travel carrier. When Natasha asked you to dinner and asked you to move in with her, the first thing you thought of was your cat, but she already had everything figured out.

Hand in hand, you went to her house, which was now your new home. It wasn't your first time at her house. The first time at her house was where your first moment of intimacy occurred. One of the best days of your life.

You knew the house was surrounded by security, so you didn't need to worry. A day before, Natasha had a meeting with her entire security team to announce that two new residents would be appearing. You and Milo.

One of the guards helped carry your things. Natasha took Milo out of the carrier, and he went running to explore the large garden of the house. The guards now had a new mission: protect Milo and not let him go too far from the mansion.

"I have a surprise for you before you decide to go to our room to set things up," she said, hugging you and leaving a peck on your lips. You let out a laugh and gave her another kiss. She covered your eyes and carefully guided you to the second floor of the house. When you opened your eyes, a scream left your mouth. You started jumping and finally jumped on Natasha, hugging her while kissing her whole face.

On your second date, you had mentioned in passing that one of your biggest dreams was to have a library at home, a safe and comfortable place to stay when things became too much. She listened.

You began to tear up and kiss your girlfriend.

"I love you so much, Tasha." "You are very special to me, my love, you are the most special woman in the world, I love you very much my beautiful Russian."

Natasha's heart was warmed by all of it. She wiped your tears for the second time in her life. This time she was wiping tears of joy.

…………..

You graduated from college. Natasha met your family. For the first time in your life, you saw a hint of nervousness in her.

"Love, they're going to love you; if I love you, they will too," you approached her wearing your graduation gown.

"It's not every day that I get to meet my princess's parents. I need to make a good impression."

"Tasha, you're good at everything you do."

That night you went out for dinner after graduation. At the end of the night, your face ached from smiling so much at the scene. Your parents adored Natasha. She may have lied about her profession; to them, she owned a large security company.

………….

Natasha had called you in the afternoon warning you she would be home late. You worried, but she already had a speech prepared. She said she would bring sushi from your favorite restaurant in town.

You were in the library when you decided to get some water in the kitchen. The rain was increasing every minute and you felt someone was missing. The guards were all sheltered at their posts. Two at the entrance gate and another in the pool area. They weren't getting wet; the house was covered, except for the pool and the garden.

Suddenly you hear a meow and let out a scream when you see your son's situation. The scream caught the attention of the guard who went to check. No questions were needed; he rolled his eyes and as he was heading back to his post, you called him.

"Ivan, please, could you help me?" He took a deep breath, left his gun in the kitchen, and picked up Milo. Milo didn't like the security guards at all. Now the cat was covered in mud. The only thing you could see were his eyes.

Ivan carried Milo, who wouldn't stop shaking himself. You ran to the laundry room to prepare his bathing materials.

"Hold him firmly while I try to wash him, just don't squeeze him too hard."

"Yes ma'am," he replied, trying to stay calm. Milo, on the other hand, meowed desperately when the water touched him. It sounded like someone was mistreating him.

"I'm not paid for this," the guard complains, and you take a deep breath but say nothing. When you try to put the shampoo on him, the first three lines of blood appear on your hand. He was fierce.

"My love, cooperate, don't hurt mommy."

Ivan held him tighter, but not enough to hurt him. The next scratch was on Ivan. He didn't even flinch.

After many desperate meows, Natasha finally entered the bathroom. You and Ivan stared at her with a startled look. Him for being in a bathroom with you, and you because Milo had made a mess.

She politely dismissed Ivan. When he left, she held Milo for you to finish the bath.

"He left your security guard all scratched up."

"That is nothing to Ivan; my concern is your hand," she said, looking at your hand.

She helped dry Milo; Natasha always helped you with him since you named her the stepmother. A position she didn't like very much.

With Milo dry and smelling good, she took you to the bathroom of the room you shared.

There she undressed you and washed your scratches. She wouldn't be upset with Milo, after all, he's a cat. It was funny to see his face at the end of all this.

In the middle of the shower, she adored you. She treated you with such care and affection.

One more thing she never thought would happen. An adventure with Milo.

……

Five years later, the house was no longer silent. Anya ran through the house with her red curls. Milo ran, trying to hide from the skillful hands that always squeezed him too hard to be a caress.

You were snuggled with your wife on the sofa.

Natasha, who before had nothing, now had everything.

Hiii I hope you all enjoyed it. I took a while to post because I was still thinking about whether to add something or leave some things out. The inspiration for Milo came from my own son, but he doesn't have that name.

The room smells faintly like dry-erase marker and burnt coffee. Academic despair in two scents. You cap your pen with a quiet click and glance up from the half-finished diagram on the board.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the marker against the margin. “If you’re still mixing up correlation and causation at this point, well, I’m going to assume it’s a personality choice.”

A couple of undergrads laugh nervously. One of them, Chad, perpetually confused, blinks at you like you’ve just delivered the entire tutorial in Latin.

“It’s just-” he starts.

“It’s just that you didn’t read the assignment fully.” you cut in, not unkindly. “Which is fine. But don’t try to gaslight the data you’ve collected, okay?”

More laughter. Looser this time. You soften, just slightly. “Look, I’m not trying to ruin your lives. I’m trying to make sure you pass this year.”

There’s a slight pause, and then the door creaks open.

You don’t look immediately. People drift in late all the time and half your job is pretending not to notice, but something in the room shifts, a subtle kind of collective awareness as chairs creak and backs straighten.

You glance over to the door. There he was. Not a student - and that’s just the first thing.

The man standing in the doorway was, in a word, hulking. Broad-shouldered, thick-chested, the kind of presence you feel before you even see him. 

He wore a smart dark suit jacket tailored to perfection, layered over an expensive polo with the top buttons undone to reveal a sweep of thick dark chest hair. A thin gold chain and medallion glinted against the soft expanse, and a gold signet ring on his pinkie caught the light with every subtle movement.

His smile was boyish, cheeky and slightly crooked, and his eyes raked over you in a way that makes the base of your spine tighten. Not subtle, and certainly not shy. It was bossy. There was a glint there, like he was teasing you already. A private joke between you both and you didn’t know the punchline.

You freeze, open-mouthed. 

He was older, maybe in his forties, and so clearly used to being in charge. You could tell in the tilt of his jaw, the way his weight shifts on those impossibly long legs, the lazy confidence that radiated from every angle of him. That grin of his was infuriating and magnetic all at once. It made your pulse skip and your thoughts a little less coherent than they should have been in a classroom setting.

He stepped inside, scanning the room, then locking his gaze on you. He didn’t just look, he leered. You held his stare for a second too long than needed, then turned back to the board, trying to act unfazed.

“As I was saying,” you continue smoothly, “if X changes and Y changes, that doesn’t mean X caused Y. It could be that-”

“Hey.”

The interruption is low, casual. Directed at no one in particular and somehow everyone all at once.

You stop and slowly turn.

“Yes?” you say, clipped. 

The room goes completely quiet.

He gestures vaguely toward the seats. “Is this class open, or…?” he asked in a thick New Jersey accent, voice smooth, eyes still twinkling with that teasing glint.

A beat.

You take him in properly this time. The confidence just oozes out of him. The faint smirk like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it.

“Are you enrolled in the course?” you ask.

He tilted his head, considering, letting that smirk linger. “Depends. What, I gotta take a test or somethin’?”

A ripple of laughter teeters around the room. Not yours. You don’t smile.

“That would be a yes or no question,” you say.

Another beat. His grin widened just a touch. “Then no.”

“Then no,” you echo, impatiently, turning back to the board. “This is a scheduled tutorial.”

“Right. Tutorial,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. 

“Statistics,” you continue flatly. 

“Statistics,” he echoes stepping inside anyway. “Sounds important.”

“It is.”

A couple of students glance between you like they’re watching a tennis match. He doesn’t move. Just watches. Relaxed, confident and faintly amused. Like you’ve surprised him.

“Right,” he says finally, nodding once. “Got it.”

He stepped back toward the door, then froze, eyes still on you. His gaze traced slowly, deliberately, from the curve of your ankles, up the long line of your legs, pausing where it wanted, lingering, hungry, and unashamed before sliding over your hips and chest, taking it all in. His dark eyes snapped back to yours, sharp and possessive.

“You the teacher, or something?”

A flicker of irritation flashes hot up the back of your knees. 

“Something like that, yeah. I’m the teaching assistant,” and it slips out before you can stop it, “I have a Doctorate and everything.”

Christ, why did I say that? I don’t need to impress this man. I shouldn’t even want to.

His eyes move over you slowly like he’s taking inventory, assessing. Measuring. Deciding. And something about the way he does it makes your skin prickle, a feeling not entirely pleasant.

“That right?” His gaze flicks to the board, then back to you, assessing whether you could keep up with him. “That tracks. You do seem like the one in charge, Doc.”

The nickname lands heavier than it should, a little too possessive and familiar. You ignore it.

“Is there something you need?” you ask hotly. 

“Yeah,” he says casually, leaning against the door frame again, crossing his arms. “My daughter. Meadow Soprano. I'm here to pick her up.”

And there it is. 

Of course. 

You’d seen his face before. Not in person, but on the news, in the headlines, in those careful, noncommittal reports that said words like alleged and suspected all the while meaning something far more certain. He was the kind of man who existed in the margins of legality and somehow never got caught in the center of it. They’d been trying to catch him in a RICO for years. 

Racketeering. Corruption. Organised Crime. 

Charges which hung around him like a smoke which never cleared.

Tony Soprano. 

Obviously. 

The University knew, everyone did. 

But money talked and had a way of smoothing edges and turning discomfort into polite silences. Tony had donated over $50,000 to the school board, all for Meadow’s name on a plaque on the new Colombia Teaching Centre. 

Your stomach tightens. Looking at him now, it’s not just confidence and charm you see, it’s what sits underneath. Worse, it doesn’t stop the pull. If anything, it only strengthened it.

You scan the room. Meadow isn’t here.

“She’s not in this session,” you say, turning your attention back to the rest of the class. “Unlike you guys, she handed in the coursework on time.” The room shifts, guilty students averting your eyeline.

He shrugged, slow and loose, one broad shoulder lifting higher than the other, that crooked corner of his mouth hooking into a smirk that promised mischief. “Figures.”

Another pause stretched. He didn’t leave. 

You feel it before you look at the weight of him still in the doorway. Not just standing there, but occupying the space. One massive hand braced casually against the frame, fingers splayed, gold ring catching the light with every subtle shift. His posture was lazy, effortless but deliberate, every inch calculated. Like he knows exactly how much room he’s taking up. 

Exactly how much attention he’s pulling. And worse of all how much of yours.

You set the marker down more carefully than necessary. A small, controlled movement. “Anything else, Mr Soprano?” you ask.

He studies you again.

Not a glance. Not polite. His gaze crawled over you, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the curve of your neck, the line of your shoulders, the subtle sway of your hips. It lingered, heavy and knowing, before sliding back up to lock on your eyes. His jaw flexed just enough, a quiet, unspoken calculation there, mixing with amusement, curiosity, desire. Something that made your pulse hitch and your thoughts scatter in delicious disarray.

“Nah. Guess not.” he says finally.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s a beat where he just stands there, weight tipped slightly forward, like he might step back into the room instead of out of it. Like leaving is optional.

Your pulse spikes, and you hate how aware you are of every detail, the subtle stretch of his sleeve over a strong shoulder, the effortless ease in the way he holds himself, the quiet command in his stillness. No fidgeting, no hesitation. Just… him.

He just… waits. Like the room will adjust around him.

Your students start to relax before you do. A chair creaks. Someone exhales. And the moment is broken.

With an uncomfortable cough, you pick the marker back up, forcing your attention forward. “Okay, so if you’re done disrupting my session,” you say, voice cool and measured, “I’d like to continue with the class.”

Then there's that low chuckle again.

It’s quiet, almost to himself, but it lands anyway. You feel it, something warm and rough that settles low in your chest in a way that immediately irritates you.

“Alright,” he says. This time, he shifts pushing off the doorframe, straightening. But even that movement is unhurried, more like he was choosing to leave, not being dismissed. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You look at him.

You shouldn’t. But you do.

And he’s already openly staring at you.

Not surprised. Not caught.

Waiting for you.

There’s something in his expression, not just amusement, but recognition. He’d clocked something in you. Something you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Your stomach tightens as he holds your gaze a second too long.

Then he steps back into the hallway, the door swings shut and the entire room exhales.

You turn back to the board immediately, picking the marker up again, writing before your thoughts can catch up.

“...Okay…” you say. “Where were we?”

Your handwriting is sharper now. Pressed harder into the board than usual. You keep talking, keep teaching, trying to keep your voice steady. But your focus isn’t clean anymore. Because under the irritation, under that very real, very rational awareness of exactly who he is, what he represents, everything about him that should put you on edge, there was something else.

Something quiet and dangerous. You can feel it in the undeniable heat building between your legs. That way he looked at you. Like he had time. Like he’d already decided you were worth it. The way he didn’t rush. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t try. Just stood there, solid and certain, like the room would bend around him if it had to.

Like you might bend. 

Your grip tightens on the marker.

You can feel the burn of his gaze, lingering where it shouldn’t. Like he already decided you were worth it. Your hips. Your mouth. The back of your knees, for some ridiculous reason.

God.

You press the marker harder against the board, the squeak sharp and slightly unhinged.

Annoyed.

At him.

At yourself.

At the fact that of all the reactions you could be having to a man like that, your brain has apparently decided to fixate on the way his New Jersey accent had sounded when he said “Doc.”

… Or the deeply unnecessary amount of chest he was showing in a strictly academic environment.

… Knowing he could pin you against a wall or scoop you up in a heartbeat and that you’d trust him, want him to…

You exhale through your nose, writing faster now.

Because attraction? Attraction is inconvenient. Attraction, in this case, to a student's parent, a suspected Italian crime boss no less, is frankly a terrible professional decision. And yet, it lingers in your mind. A certain heat. Persistent. And embarrassingly wet.

You underline something on the board a little too aggressively, “and that,” you say, voice just a touch tighter than usual, “is why we don’t jump to conclusions based on incomplete data.”

A pause. You glance at what you’ve written. It’s… not what you meant to write.

You’ve drawn an arrow pointing to absolutely nothing. Chad raises his hand, hesitant. “Uh… is that part of the model?”

You stare at the board for a beat. Then, very calmly, you cap the marker.

“…No,” you say. “That’s what we call a confounding variable.” before wiping it away and cursing under your breath.

It was the kind of afternoon where the campus corridors smelled like warm books and cheap cafeteria coffee. You were walking past the student dorms, mind buried in your teaching planner, when you noticed it.

The corkboard in the common area was exactly as chaotic as ever,  layers of flyers stapled over each other, corners curling, ink fading, a graveyard of forgotten sign up sheets and half-committed study groups.

And there it was.

Your TA tutor flyer.

You’d spent hours on that flyer in the copy room. Formatting it properly. Clear headings, legible font, your contact details neatly aligned, eye-catching pink paper and, yes, the little tear-off tabs at the bottom, each one carefully cut so they’d come away cleanly.

You step closer. And immediately feel your mood sour.

The tabs were wrecked.

One had been ripped off, not torn, ripped, jagged and uneven, like someone had just grabbed and yanked at it without even looking. And in the process, they’d taken two, maybe three other tabs with it, half-detached and hanging there uselessly, your number now split awkwardly across what remained.

You stared at it, incredulous.

Seriously?

You reached out, flattening one of the bent strips back into place, though it didn’t fix anything. It just made the damage more obvious.

It had been fine this morning.

In fact, you squint slightly, it had been fine for weeks. No one had touched it. Not one tab gone. You’d actually been considering taking it down yourself and re-printing something less optimistic.

And now suddenly?

Someone decides to grab one like a barbarian.

You huff under your breath, arms folding for a second as you look at the mess. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, more annoyed than you should be.

Students, obviously. Who else?

Except…

You pause.

Your eyes linger on the tear again, the way the paper had been pulled sideways, not down. Too rough. Too careless. Not rushed, just completely unconcerned.

Not someone who seemed like they wanted to study to pass an exam. Just someone who wanted the number. Your mouth presses into a thin line.

“Of course,” you mutter, though you’re not entirely sure why that thought feels so specific.

Jesus Christ Y/N, stop obsessing over that guy. 

You smooth the flyer one last time, futile, and step back, still faintly irritated.

Because it’s not just that someone ruined the flyer.

It’s how they did it. Like the rest of it didn’t matter.

And for some reason, that bothers you more than it should.

—

Later that evening, the landline on the desk rang out while you were grading papers, a red pen poised mid-critque in one hand, and a glass of pinot grigio in the other. 

You sighed as you braced yourself for the usual panicked question from your mentees, picking up the phone with a soft click.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Doc.” came a low, teasing voice sliding through the line, smooth as silk.

You froze. That voice. His voice.

Your fingers tighten around the receiver before you can stop them, your pen rolling forgotten across the desk.

“I’m… sorry, who’s this?” you asked, keeping your tone professional and carefully neutral.

There's a soft chuckle and you can practically see the smirk on the other end.

“Tony. Tony Soprano? Meadow’s Father.”

Oh.

That Tony Soprano.

The man who had barged into your study session earlier, cheeky smile, eyes raking over you in a way that made your pulse stutter. Immediately, your spine straightens, like he can somehow see you through the phone. Your eyes flick to your bedroom door out of pure instinct.

“And how did you get my number, Mr Soprano?” you asked cautiously.

“Relax,” he says, smooth and casual.  “Saw it on the study board. Little pink flyer with those little tabs? Very cute. And convenient.” 

You close your eyes briefly exhaling. “Unbelievable.”

Of course he did. 

“Technically,” he continues, voice low and amused, “you put it out there.” 

“Technically,” you repeat dryly, eyebrows raised.

“Technically.” he echoed playful, as if daring you to hang up.

You shift in your chair, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder as you try to sound unaffected. Your fingers reach for the cord without thinking, wrapping it once, twice around them.

Bad idea. What am I? A horny teenager?

“Look,” you said, straightening in your chair, trying to regain control, “I don’t even know why you’d be calling me. You’re not a student. You shouldn’t be-”

“Meadow,” he interrupts smoothly, “I wanted to talk about Meadow’s grades.”

You pause. Reasonable. Plausible. Safe. 

You let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from your shoulders though your fingers don’t stop twisting that damn cord attached to the phone.

“I see,” you said cautiously. “Well, you know I can’t discuss student grades with parents over the phone like this. Strictly teaching protocol.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. “I get it. I'm not asking for any numbers.” A pause. Then, softer, “Just wanna know how she’s doin’. From the source.”

There’s something about the way he says it, from the source, that makes your stomach flip in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with Meadow, or your study hall class.

You clear your throat. “She’s doing well. Smart. Stubborn. Likes to argue and debate.” A beat. “Sound familiar?”

He hummed, pleased. “Ah,” he said, mock-serious, “the apple doesn’t fall far. Makes sense.”

“Unfortunately.” 

That earns you a low laugh, sweeter this time, like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

There’s a pause. Not empty. Not awkward. Just… lingering.

And you realize, with a slow, creeping awareness, that your finger is still looping the cord tighter and tighter, the plastic pressing faintly into your skin. 

His voice drops just slightly when he speaks again. “But, truthfully…” he says, unhurried, “that’s not really why I called.”

Your breath catches just a fraction. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, and you can hear the smile now, clear as day. “Just wanted to see if the woman who runs that classroom like a freakin’ courtroom talks as good as she looks.”

Your grip on the receiver tightened, a shiver running through you. You crossed your legs, trying to focus. “That’s-” you started, then faltered.

Reset. 

Come on, back to Teacher mode.

“That’s inappropriate.”

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. Too easily. Like he’s been waiting for you to say it. “I know,” he adds, softer. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

Your pulse stutters. Annoyingly. You tug the cord loose, only to start winding it again a second later. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” you mutter. “You can’t just show up to my class, steal my phone number, call me in the middle of the night-”

“Sure I can.” 

You inhale sharply. “You’re not serious”

“Oh, I’m serious.”

You open your mouth, quickly closing it again.

Damn him.

The silence stretched just long enough to feel deliberate, before he spoke again, voice light but threaded with something intimate, something you couldn’t place.

“Listen,” he says, “no pressure. Just figured I’d take a shot. Maybe we could grab lunch, you know? You grade your papers, I… keep you company. Learn a thing or two.”

“You mean to distract me.” you say.

A quiet beat. Then, softly, “Maybe.”

You hate the way that lands.

“I’m not looking for distractions this semester.” you say, more firmly now.

He laughs low, smooth, pleased. “Sure,” he says. “No distractions. Just a very interested man trying to charm a very clever woman.”

Your cheeks blush despite yourself. You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs like that might help ease that undeniable ache spreading from your stomach to the inside of your thighs.

It doesn’t help.

“I…” You hesitate. God. “I’ll think about it.”

There’s a pause and you can practically feel his satisfaction through the line. “Perfect,” he purred. “Think about it. Just don’t think too hard, now.”

“Mr Soprano-”

“I’ll bring lunch,” he cuts in, easy as anything. “Something good. Not that cafeteria crap.” A beat. “You’ll like it.”

Before you can respond-

Click.

The line goes dead.

You slowly lowered the receiver, still loosely looped in your fingers, feeling the faint pressure of the cord against your skin. Your heart was racing, your cheeks flushed. Grading papers forgotten, your thoughts entirely his.

You stare at the phone for a long second, then at the paper in front of you. Then back to the phone again… 

“…Unbelievable,” you mutter.

You reach for your pen again, writing one word…

Before you stop again.

Because all you can hear is his voice.

“Doc.”

You drop the pen to the desk, reaching into the bottom drawer of your bedside table…

The room fills with a low buzz. Grading papers be damned, you shove your sweatpants down, your finger dragging slowly through the soaked mess he’d made. 

“…I really need to take that fucking flyer down.”

…

You came three times that night. 

The knock came just as you were trying (and failing) to sort through a stack of papers during lunchtime the next day. 

You don't even need to look up, because you already know who it is. 

You’d been up all night imagining what those hands might feel like on your tits, for Christ’s sake. 

And sure enough, there he is. 

Tony leans against the doorframe, one shoulder braced, his body loose and unbothered. The silk cuban collar shirt he’s wearing is loud, dark, glossy, hanging open just enough to show a white wife-pleaser beneath.. and the solid, immovable shape of him was underneath it.

So broad, and heavy. Your stomach twists again. 

It’s all very fucking unhelpful. 

His grin hits next, slow, easy, like he’s been enjoying this moment since before he knocked. And then the scent reaches you, warm, expensive, something smoky underneath it, like cologne layered over cigars and pure confidence.

Fuck.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar already in a way it shouldn’t be. “I brought lunch.”

He lifts the paper bag slightly, like a peace offering he already knows you’re not going to refuse.

“Thought you’d be hungry, working hard like you do. Thought I’d make this… study session of ours a little more civilised."

“Civilised, huh?” you mutter as he pulls out a small bottle of wine. “Mr Soprano, this isn’t exactly-” You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly, like you can physically press the reaction out of your body.

“Classroom appropriate?” he finished for you, grin widening. “Yeah, I know. 

He pushes off the doorframe then, finally, stepping inside without waiting to be invited.

“Oh sure, ‘come on in, Mr Soprano!” you call, dryly, already resigned. 

“Don’t worry,” he adds, tone amused. “I’m here strictly in the capacity of… a concerned father.”

A beat.

“Very concerned.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Concerned fathers don’t usually steal my number from the students' noticeboard.”

“Hey, relax,” he says lightly, already crossing the room like it’s his. “Those tabs were there for a reason. If you didn’t want to make yourself so available…”

He sets the bag down on your desk with a casual sort of flourish, like he’s done this before, like showing up uninvited with lunch is a perfectly normal thing to do, and then, without asking, perches on the edge of your desk.

Too close.

Way too close.

His leg stretches out, brushing near yours, his shoulder just there in your space, like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate.

Heat creeps up your neck and you feel yourself swallow. 

“I’m here for Meadow,” he says, like that explains anything, eyes locking onto yours with that same glint, playful, yes, but sharper now. More deliberate. “Technically.”

A pause.

“Well, mostly…” His gaze drags over your face, slow, unhurried,“I figured I’d like to spend some time with the woman who keeps all those rich smart kids in line.”

Your throat tightens.

You lean back in your chair, subtle, controlled, but you feel it then, how little space that actually gives you. How he just… fills it anyway.

“Technically,” you say, voice a touch tighter, “I don’t even know why you’re here. Meadow is doing just fine this semester.” Your hand shifts on the desk, steadying yourself against the edge. “I don’t even know how you can possibly think this is acceptable.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. Leans in slightly, just enough to follow you. Just enough that you notice the heat radiating off him.

“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping, quieter now, rougher at the edges, “I like a fuckin’ challenge.” His eyes flick down quick, but not quick enough to miss him leering at your chest then back up again. “And maybe I like watching you try to act all professional while looking like this. All flustered.”

Your breath catches. You hate that it does.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he whispers, leaning just a fraction closer, like he’s sharing something just with you.

A slow beat.

“Door’s still open.” His eyes flick briefly to the frame, then back to yours, dark and assessing. “That… tells me everything.”

Your lips press together. You can feel the heat in your face now, creeping higher, betraying you in real time.

You should tell him to leave.

You should stand up. Create space. Reassert control.

Instead, “I… need to focus on these papers,” you stutter out.

Weak. Jesus Christ.

You hear it. He hears it.

“Focus?” he echoes, tilting his head, grin turning sharper, more knowing. “Sure.”

He reaches for the bag, unwrapping it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got all the time in the world, like he knows you’re watching even when you’re pretending not to. “But let’s focus on lunch first. I’ve seen Meadow studying, you career girls don't eat enough.”

The paper crinkles under his touch. The smell hits you next, fresh bread, something hearty and rich. “Italian,” he says, setting it down beside your papers like it belongs there. “Extra provolone.”

He glances up, eyes lingering. “And some fruit. Brain food.” His tone is soft, teasing, like he’s indulging both your appetite and your curiosity.

You exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, shaking your head.

“Ton- Mr Soprano, I’m not… this is…” You gesture vaguely, like you can physically indicate how inappropriate this is. “This isn’t okay.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. Too easily. “I know.”

And then, quieter, just for you, “That’s what makes it fun.” 

Your stomach flips again. Annoyingly becoming a habit now.

You drop your gaze to the papers in front of you, trying to anchor yourself in something normal. Structured. Safe.

But it’s impossible.

Because he’s right there, close enough that every small movement registers. The shift of his weight, the brush of fabric, the quiet confidence in how comfortable he is in your space. It’s like he’s already decided he belongs there. And worse, like part of you is letting him.

You pick up your pen. Try to read the exam paper in front of you, failing immediately.

Because the words on the page blur, all you can feel is him, how easily he’s walked into your life, how close he’s sitting, how he hasn’t once acted like you might actually say no.

To whatever it was he wanted to ask you. To take from you.

You press the pen harder against the page, gripping it like it might anchor you.

“…This is a terrible idea,” you mutter under your breath.

“You know,” he says softly, pressing closer just enough that his voice brushes the shell of your ear, intimate and deliberate, “I don’t usually get this kind of one-on-one attention.”

Your breath catches. “Those students are goddamn lucky, huh?” he continues, quieter now. “Getting to listen to you talk for hours every week.”

You cough lightly, flustered, shifting your notebook like it might shield you from the way his voice seems to settle under your skin.

“I- I need to grade these,” you say, a little too quickly, flipping a page you don’t actually read.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, not budgin’. If anything, he shifts a little closer, shoulders relaxed but deliberate. “I’m right here, Doc… ain’t like you can ignore me.”

He’s so close that you can feel the warmth of him at your side, the subtle shift of his weight as his elbow comes to rest on the desk behind you. Casual. Boxing you in without making a show of it.

“Funny thing,” he goes on, voice low, conversational, like he’s sharing something just with you, “I stopped by one of Meadow’s lectures last week.” 

You blink. “You what?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Just sat in the back. Thought I’d see what all the college fuss was about.”

A beat.

“Boring,” he decides.

You turn to him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“Not you,” he says quickly, amused, hand lifting slightly like he’s calming you down. “Relax. Some old guy. Glasses halfway down his nose, droning on about… what was it? Economic models or some shit.”

He leans a little closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “The guy kept licking his finger to turn the page,” he adds, making a face. “I’m tellin’ you, Doc, I almost walked out right there. Breath coulda knocked a guy over.”

Despite yourself, you laugh, and the nickname that had been making its way around the staff coffee room slips out, “I bet it was Halitosis Hawkins, right?”

It slips out before you can stop it.

He catches it instantly, eyes lighting up, nodding like he’s just solved the world’s greatest puzzle. That grin, boyish and wide, spreads across his face, the kind I’d seen on boys half his age in the classroom when they'd successfully chatted up a girl. His knees start bouncing a little, like he can’t contain himself.

“Yeah, Hawkins! That guy,” he says, voice teasing, almost giddy. “Seriously, the guy smells like he gargles old gym socks for breakfast. That was one long parent-teacher conference, I tell you.” He laughs at his own joke, eyes sparkling, clearly thrilled that you’re laughing too. 

And yeah, it was pretty cute. Annoyingly cute. 

Looking deeper at him now, Tony’s face was disarmingly young, almost reckless in its expression, yet those eyes, so steady, dark, knowing, gave away the man underneath. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to laugh with him or melt under his gaze, and that uncertainty made your heart hammer.

Stop it now…

“See?” he murmurs, resting on the edge of the desk just a hair closer, voice low and teasing. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re wasted on those classes.”

Your stomach flips. His eyes, seemed to flick over you with a playful curiosity, as if he were seeing you for the first time and could already guess what you were thinking. Your pulse caught every time they landed on yours, too sharp to look away, too warm to resist.

You look back down at your papers quickly, trying to recover. “I am not ‘wasted,’ I’m- I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah,” he says, twinkling eyes still on you. “Yeah you are.”

The way he says it makes it sound like something else entirely.

Your pen hovers over the page, unmoving.

You can feel him watching you again, that same slow, patient attention, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

“I’m not… easily charmed, you know,” you say, quieter now, not quite as convincing as before.

“Yeah?” he says.

He shifts, just slightly but it's enough that his knee brushes yours for half a second before settling, as if it had always belonged there.

“You’re already laughing at my jokes,” he points out, voice soft, teasing and smug. “That counts for something right?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weaker this time. “I’ve heard better.”

“Hey, hey… don’t go sour on me now,” he says, leaning in like he owns the space, eyes dark and amused. “You coulda’ hung up on me last night, you know.”

A beat.

“Coulda’ told me not to come.”

Another.

“And you still haven’t kicked me out.” Your breath catches.

Damn, he’s right about that. You hate how accurate that is.

“I don’t even know why I’m letting you sit there,” you huff, though there’s no real bite left in it.

“Because,” he says easily, tilting his head, watching you like he’s already figured you out, “you’re curious.”

His gaze drops to your chest, watching the thin fabric of your shirt showing your pounding heart, then comes back up.

“Admit it.”

Your throat feels dry.

“And,” he adds, intimately like it’s just between the two of you, “you might be enjoying this more than you wanna think, Doc.”

Heat blooms at the back of your neck, impossible to hide.

“Don’t push it, Tony,” you murmur, voice weaker than you’d like.

“Push it?” he echoes, shifting back just slightly but not far enough to give you real space. 

Never that. 

“Me? Nah… never,” he says, grin slow and dangerous. “I’m just checkin’ on Meadow, makin’ sure she’s gettin’ what she needs. That’s all.”

Your pen hovered over your papers, shaking slightly. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook, and his knee nudged yours, deliberately, or maybe “accidentally,” enough to make your stomach do little flips.

You tried to focus, tried to grade, but your eyes kept darting to him, to that grin, to the way he leaned just a hair closer than necessary.

“So… Doctorate, huh?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, tilting his head toward your notes. “Impressive. What made you go all in? Most people shy away from this kind of work.”

You cleared your throat, cheeks glowing pink. “I… like the challenge. The research. Solving problems.” Words that normally slid off your tongue smoothly now felt heavy, deliberate.

“Mm,” he said, eyes sparkling, voice teasing. “Smart and… disciplined. I like that in a woman. But tell me, what about outside work? You can’t be all papers and grading.”

“I… I read. I cook sometimes when I have time. I run…” you muttered, trying to sound casual, trying not to notice the way his gaze followed your arms, down your legs, then back to your face.

“Running,” he repeated, leaning just a little closer so you felt the warmth radiating off him, his knee brushing yours again, for longer this time. “Good. I can certainly see that….” He licked his lips slowly, “But what about fun? Dangerous hobbies? Wild secrets? Any skeletons in the closet?”

Heat crept up your neck, and you scowled, half embarrassed, half irritated. “I don’t have wild secrets. Or skeletons in my closet.”

“Not yet,” he said smoothly, edging closer so that your shoulders almost touched, his voice dropping lower, teasing. “But I’m willing to keep asking questions until I find one.”

You laughed despite yourself, trying to sound stern. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the corner of your notebook as he leaned back, thick fingers grazing yours. Your breath caught. “But you’re smiling again. I’ll take that as progress.”

His eyes lingered, dark and playful. “You know,” he added, almost conversationally, “there’s something about a woman who’s… professional. Sharp. Headstrong. Reminds me… of someone I know who knows exactly what she’s doing with people’s heads.”

“And you,” he said softly, voice low and intimate, leaning even closer so that the heat of him pressed against your arm, “you’ve got that same… control. That same… knowing. It’s… very hard to resist. Sexy.”

You bit your lip, heart hammering in your chest trying to focus on your papers. But the desk suddenly felt impossibly small, the air between you electric and every subtle movement of his, brushing just a hairs breadth away against your arm, pulling your attention away from everything else. 

You flushed, fumbling the pen in your fingers, and muttered, “Tony…” as a faint, deliberate nudge caught your attention.

Tony’s shoe.

Light, teasing, precise, he had nudged yours under the edge of the desk.

You froze. Heart skipping. Was he… doing this on purpose? Seriously? Playing footsie? 

“Hmm?” he murmurs, leaning back, one arm draped over the chair like he’s got the whole room under control, smirk crooked and sharp.

A soft, low, husky laugh escaped him, vibrating through the small space. Your stomach lurched. “What?” he asked innocently, though his thigh had already pressed lightly against yours, brushing slowly, teasingly.

Every rational thought screamed at you to stop him. Draw a line. Maintain professionalism. And yet… the closeness, the thrill of his teasing, dangerous energy made it impossible to act entirely detached.

“Nothing,” you muttered, cheeks burning, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Harder?” His voice dropped, just a hair lower, teasing. He leaned in so slightly that the heat of his shoulder pressed near yours. “Sweetheart… I’m barely trying.”

Your hands trembled slightly. You scribble faster, trying to convince yourself you were still in control. But under the desk, his shoe nudged yours again, slow, intimate and testing. 

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours, smirk widening. “You’re… very easy to… distract.”

Your cheeks flamed, heart racing. Part of you wanted to snap, slam the brakes, pull the line tight. 

Part of you… oh God, part of you wanted to see just how far he’d go if you let him.

You dared a glance upward. Mistake.

He was watching you, that infuriatingly confident grin curling on his face, every inch of him knowing exactly the effect he was having. The room felt too small, your chest too tight, your pulse too loud.

And you were utterly, helplessly, fascinated.

Tony reached under the table, his large hand sliding from your knee to your thigh slowly, watching your face the whole time as if he was waiting for you to slap him away. 

Tony’s grin widened, so confident and smug. He’d expected protest, pushback. When you didn’t, when you bit your lip instead, he took that as permission.

His hand stroked up the meat of your thigh again, heavier this time, caressing upward, warm and solid, moving ever closer to the edge of your pencil skirt. Every subtle inch, he watched your face, cataloging every reaction, reading you with dangerous precision.

You didn’t pull away. And that told him everything.

He leaned closer, letting his voice drop, low and rough, silk over steel. “Look at you, biting your lip like that,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up to you eyes, “... makin’ it real hard for me to leave, Doc.”

You swallowed hard. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The air between you vibrated, thick, electric.

“I told you,” he goes on, voice velvet and tease wrapped together. “I’m barely trying.”

A beat.

Then his thumb brushes beneath the hem of your skirt, light as a feather, but it felt like fire shooting straight through your spine.

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he says voice velvet-thick, his thumb traces slow, deliberate swirls, inching higher. “Hell…” His smirk widens. “...you’re not even breathing right now.”

Your chest is tight. Pulse hammering in places it shouldn't be pounding during office hours with an overinvolved parent.

You found your voice, thin, breathless. “This… is so far outside professional boundaries.”

“Mmm,” he said, nodding slowly, feigning thoughtfulness. “Probably true.” Then his eyes locked on yours again, darker now, dangerous charm coiled beneath the surface. His grin teasing, but the glint in his eye made it clear, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“But we both know you’re not calling HR about this little visit.”

Another pause. "So what's gonna happen now?"

You can’t help the soft involuntary sound that leaves your lips as his hand squeezes hard at the inside of your thigh, your legs parting open on the chair almost subconsciously. You want to fight him, but this is the horniest you think you’ve ever felt. 

You don’t answer, because you can’t. 

Because your body is already reacting, heat pooling low, pulse racing, your breath uneven.

Because he’s right. 

And you hate that he’s right.

The soft moan hits him like a spark. Tony’s breath hitches and his eyes darken, full of fire and something hungry. He sees it all. The way your legs part, the way you glance at the door not to escape, but to check if someone might walk in. That look, that flicker of nerves and want, makes his grin go crooked, pure sin and filth shooting right to his groin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough now, low as smoke, watching you like he’s memorising every reaction, “there she is.”

His hand slides higher, thumb brushing against the damp outline of your now swollen folds through your panties. Possessive.

“You thinkin’ ‘bout who might catch us?” he asks, licking at his lips suggestively. “Huh? Wondering what they’d see?”

You can’t answer. Just bite your lip again, harder this time, almost breaking the skin.

He leans in closer still until his lips are almost grazing your ear. Warmth floods from him, the heat of his body, that thick cologne wrapping around you like a promise.

“I’ll tell you what they’d see.” His voice drops to a growl. “They’d see me with my hand up your skirt... making you make that sound again…”

“And sweetheart,” he adds silkily, pulling back just enough to watch your face flush deeper under his gaze, “you ain’t fighting me…”

He shifts a little in his chair, the bulge in his slacks impossible to ignore. His thumb continues its idle, possessive strokes down the length of your pussy through lace, mapping you out. You're flushed all the way down your neck and collarbones now, heart hammering so hard you're surprised he can't hear it. Tony's lips quirk in a knowing smirk.

"You're so quiet," he comments, voice teasing. 

His finger circles your clit.

You swallow hard. Can't even think straight. There's a part of you that wants to protest, to stop this before it gets too far. But you can't deny that crude desire in you to find out just how many of his fingers you'd be able to take. 

He was just so big.

“Wouldn't be nearly as fun if they didn't almost catch us, would it?”

He circles you again slower.

Another soft moan trembles out of you before you can stop it, and this time his hand stills completely because even he's holding his breath now at just how responsive you are. 

There’s a shift in him then, subtle but unmistakable. Something in the way his posture changes, the way his gaze sharpens. Like he’s made a decision. 

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, everything stills. The room. The tension. The space between you. Then he moves up fast enough to catch you off guard, but slow enough that you can see it coming. Tony’s hand leaves your thigh as he stands up from the chair and coolly saunters to the door of the office, closing it with a soft click and locking the latch. 

The click of the lock echoes in the quiet office like a verdict. 

You barely have time to process it before he’s rounding the desk with that predatory grace of his, closing the distance properly this time. Papers get swept aside without ceremony. No more pretense. No more games.

Just him. Too close again. And somehow not close enough.

He leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other cradling your jaw with firm insistence. His thumb drifts over your bottom lip, soft but deliberate, teasing as he tilts your face toward his. Without thinking, your tongue flicks out, brushing the tip, and a low, needy groan slips past your lips.

Those brown eyes of his eyes bore into yours. Not laughing now. Not teasing. Just hungry.

“You gonna keep lookin’ at me like that, Doc.” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges now, “or you gonna do somethin’ about it?”

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

Your chest rises fast. Pulse fluttering in your throat where his large hand was resting.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, his body betrays him: hips shifting slightly forward against the edge of the desk like they’re aching for contact; breath hitching when you don’t pull away from his touch but lean into it instead.

Not should we. Not is this okay. 

You want this? 

His thumb lingers against your bottom lip, then slides in, meeting your tongue with a deliberate, teasing pressure. A shiver races through you, trembling under the heat of it, caught completely in the pull of him.

And god help you, you breath out:

“I want you.” 

And that's enough for him.

Tony stalks around the desk, heat in every step, and hoists you up onto the desk pushing in between your legs brutishly. The world narrows to just the feel of his hulking body between your thighs, how easily he took control and just how much you want him this way. You gasp and shudder, legs falling open wider without thinking, hands trembling as they slide to his broad shoulders. His large hands paw and grip at the waistband of your skirt, fingers spreading across the bare skin beneath your shirt now. He’s closing the distance, heat radiating off him, close enough that you can feel the rapid rising and falling of his chest.

He leans down to groan directly in your ear, “Still thinking about those papers, Doc?” His voice a rough growl, as he licks the shell of your ear, down to your throat.

You finally break and your hands move before your brain catches up, grabbing the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. You pull his face down to you, mouth crashing into his in a desperate tangle of heat and tongue and need that makes your head spin. He responds instantly, taking control like he was born to dominate, pushing you back against the desk, hands roaming to grip your thighs to spread you open wider, making room for his big body between them.

You gasp softly, arching into him, pressed against the hard planes of his chest and stomach against yours. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your sides, grounding you and anchoring you to the desk like you might drift off if he let you go.

His grip slides to your thighs, drawing you flush up against him, letting you feel every inch of him, how thick and hard he is, how much he wants you, pleasure shooting straight through you. And then he finally pulls back just enough to break the kiss, lips swollen, bruised, and maddeningly warm.

"You've been driving me crazy all day... Doc." He groans into your mouth, guttural and hungry. One hand fists in your hair, the other dragging down your back to pull you flush against him, erasing any last pretense of space between you.

You whimper. God, it feels good, wrong, but so good, the way his tongue owns yours like it already knows every secret part of you. His lips are rough and sure and hot as sin. You arch into him without shame, letting go, because fighting was just an act. You wanted him to ruin your control.

He breaks the kiss just enough to drag slow, heated nips along your jaw, finding that tender spot beneath your ear before his voice drops to a whisper.

“I want your lips…” Another bite, sharp, deliberate. “I want your body… your mind…” His breath ghosts lower, sending a shiver through you. “Still wanna be professional?”

His hips roll forward once, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against where you’re already aching through his slacks, and a soft gasp slips free of your lips, he feels it. Like the cat that got the cream.

His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, dragging the fabric of your shirt higher and higher to expose your skin as he claims your lips again with a hunger that makes your head spin. A soft sound slips from you, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to pull a low, rough reaction from him. “Touch me,” you whisper, the words barely there, more felt than heard.

And then…

A knock. 

Hard and sudden at the door.

You freeze against him mid-kiss.

Tony doesn’t stop right away. He lingers for one more slow, filthy stroke of his tongue against yours before finally pulling back with a dark chuckle. His lips glisten from you both and his gaze heavy with want and something dangerously close to "I don't give a fuck."

He turns toward the door without stepping back from you, still caging you between his arms on the desk, and calls out smooth as silk:

“Occupied.”

Another beat of silence on the other side... then footsteps retreating down the hall.

For half a second, there’s complete stillness.

Then Tony huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin, low and disbelieving. “…Fuckin’ students,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. His forehead drops to yours, lingering there, breath warm, and a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“You hear that?” he murmurs. “That’s fate cockblockin’ me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, trying and failing to compose yourself. “This is  a classroom, I mean-”

“No, seriously?” he cuts in, lifting his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark but glinting with amusement, “I had no idea.”

You try to hold his gaze, to stay firm, but he’s already watching you, already reading you.

“C’mon…” he murmurs, softer now, smirk easing into something warmer, almost fond. “You were right there with me.”

And just like that he leans back in, stroking your face with the same fingers he’d traced your wet folds with earlier, the smell of you musky and hot. “Where were we?” His voice drops lower than before, his touch so familiar now it makes your breath catch. “That’s right.”

He paws his hand under your shirt, dragging his thumb over your pert nipple, before pinching hard and teasing it. 

“You wanted me to do that…”

The pathetic mewl that leaves your lips is wanton and desperate as your hands dart down to the belt around his waist, making quick work of it as he unbuttons your shirt, head diving down to lave and suck at your nipple through the fabric of your bra.

You arch into him with a gasp soft, desperate as his mouth finds your nipple through the lace, sucking hard, tongue flicking in slow, deliberate circles that make your toes curl and your hips lift off the desk without permission.

His belt gives way under your fingers just as he ruts against you slightly, grinding the thick length of him where you need it most. You’re reckless now, needy and wanting, and Tony lets you touch him, palming at his hard length through his boxers.

God, he felt big. You knew he would be. He had to be. 

He growls against your skin, one hand sliding up your skirt, thick fingers pulling aside your already soaking panties to find your hot centre.

“Jesus… look at you.” His voice was thick and raw. “So damn eager for me.” he murmurs, voice dropping lower now, rougher, like the good cop act he'd been playing was long gone.

You feel yourself coming undone against his hand, his fingers languidly dipping into your wet heat and swirling up to your clit in a way that makes you shiver and he can't deny it.

"That's it…" He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear. "You're so fucking wet for me, sweetheart…"

That word, sweetheart, on his lips sounds like a sin, dangerous and tantalizing all at once. He knows the effect it has, the way it makes you tremble, how it makes you cling to him tighter like he's the only thing holding you together.

"Can you stay quiet for me?"

He’s pushing his fingers into you now, stretching you out, his thick index and middle fingers making a scissoring motion. He was getting you ready for him. You quietly thank God that he moved those papers you were grading earlier because the desk underneath you was a slick mess.

“Uhuh…” You pant out, him releasing another slew of filthy words against your neck and shoulder.

"Jesus Christ, you're beautiful like this... falling apart for me…" 

A part of you wants him to make you scream his name for all the office to hear. And then tell them he's the reason. But you stay buried into his neck, kissing and panting against the skin there, as lewd slick noises fill the room, his fingers pumping into you over and over.

Then he crooks his fingers up to hit that perfect spot inside of you that makes you see white. He leans down, lips feather light against your ear, his voice dropping to a growl. "That's right... all over my hand," he growls, watching you come apart with a dark satisfaction in his eyes.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body arching toward him like you can't help yourself, and you can't, not when he’s stretching you so perfectly, curling those thick fingers just right.

“Tony-” Your voice cracks on his name again, barely above a whisper.

He picks up the pace, fucking you deeper now, smirking against your neck. “Yeah? You wanna say it again? Louder?” He crooks his fingers deep. “I know you want to scream it.”

You shake your head frantically, but it’s weak. Your hips are grinding up on his hand now without shame or thought. 

“You don't? Afraid someone will catch us?” He pants into your ear, he's working you hard now, his voice teasing you.

“Mmm… liar.” He adds a third finger slowly, filling you completely now, relentless and slick as sin. “I think you want to be caught.”

With this you’re coming hard and fast, squirting onto the desk and the front of his boxers, practically falling into his arms. 

"Oh I know, I know… good girl," he coos, catching you as you tremble in his arms, so soft, pliant, and utterly wrecked. His fingers slow but don’t leave you just yet, drawing out every last pulse of your release like he’s savoring it. You’re breathing hard against his neck, skin flushed everywhere he touched and more. 

He holds you through it, fingers gently stroking your back with a surprising tenderness while your hips ride out each contraction, before slowly pulling away. He raises his fingers to his mouth to taste you, his tongue deftly licking and sucking each thick digit, groaning aloud.

He’s holding you close, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing softly against yours in slow, tender kisses. His hands cradle your hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles over the tender skin above your skirt, and each press of his lips makes your chest flutter, pulse hammering in delicious anticipation.

“You taste just like I imagined,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, rough with need but softened by that rare tenderness he’s giving you. “And better than I deserved.”

You can’t stop the shiver that runs through you, the small moan that escapes as his fingers press just a little closer, brushing along the curve of your hip. “Tony…” you murmur, voice trembling, barely more than a whisper, tilting upward to press a kiss to his lips.

His lips meet yours briefly, breaking to trail down to your jaw, teasing your ear with soft, wet kisses.“You’re… something else,” he whispers, nipping gently, careful and patient. “Smart, stubborn… gorgeous…”

You shiver, pressing as close to him as you can, hands clutching at his shoulders and nervously glancing at the clock on the wall. Lunch was practically over already.

“I… I wish I had more time…” you murmur, voice small, cheeks flushed. “I want… to… you know… return the favour.” Your hand slides down to grab at his ass, the other slipping up his shirt and scratching your fingers through his chest hair.

Tony’s low chuckle vibrates against you, his large hand pressing just a little more insistently to your hip. “Yeah? You wanna make me come?” he teases, grin soft but devilish.

He tilts your chin up, pressing his lips to yours with slow authority. “Mmm…” he growls, nipping your bottom lip, eyes dark and sharp. “Yeah… that’s what I like to hear. You want me… just like this.”

You can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes your throat, breathy, light, both hands now continuing to map the expanse of his chest, stroking down that sinful trail of dark hair that disappeared below the waistband of his boxers. “I don’t- I don't usually do this… but I thought about you all night.”

He lets out a short, amused laugh that rumbles through his chest against yours. “Yeah I figured… and by the way? That laugh of yours?” he murmurs, “that’s my favorite sound right now.”

A boyish grin tugs at his lips. “Well… my second favorite, anyway.”

He tilts your chin up, lips brushing yours again. “And I swear… I’ve been thinking about you too.” His grin softens, almost bashful, like a kid confessing a crush on the playground.

Bong.

The college bell cuts through the haze of the classroom, a sharp reminder neither of you can ignore. Tony groans, reluctantly pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you, lips curved in that infuriatingly dangerous grin.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, low, amused. “Not enough time to fuck you.”

Your chest rises and falls, cheeks flushed, pulse hammering as your hand slides over the thick bulge pressing against him. “I… I wanted to…” you whisper, soft, almost pouting, letting your palm linger.

Tony’s grin softens, warm and mischievous, tilting close enough that his lips brush your ear with a featherlight touch. “I know,” he murmurs, his hand resting possessively at your hip, grounding you. He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, then threads his fingers through your hair, holding you close without rush. A soft laugh escapes him against your ear, tender in contrast to his usual confident swagger. “You gonna be okay, or do I gotta carry you to your next class?”

He exhales a low, triumphant chuckle, breath warm against your neck. "Yeah... thought so."

Careful, almost gentlemanly, he starts fixing your clothes, tugging your shirt into place, straightening yours and his own pants, clearing up the forgotten lunch on the desk (and the floor) like he hadn’t just unraveled you completely.

"One problem though," he says quietly as he tucks himself back in and straightens up.

“What?” you whisper, still dazed, fumbling with your buttons.

"This… was way too much fun..."

He leans close, lips grazing your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “…So we’re doing it again. Dinner. After your last class.” That grin, boyish and infuriating, lights up his face.

“You know…” he murmurs, voice low and playful, tracing a finger along the line of your jaw, “I’ve been thinking about something… very academic.”

You blink, chest still fluttering. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head, eyes glittering. “There seems to be a… strong correlation here.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “You being right here, me being right here… and you turning me into a horny teenager.”

You groan softly, laughter escaping, burying your face against his chest. “Tony…”

“Now, of course,” he murmurs, nuzzling your temple softly, “correlation doesn’t prove causation… but with us? I think it just might.”

If you enjoyed, check out the sequel!: It Ain't About the Money (It's About You)