#protector bucky

You wake up stiff and cold in the hospital chair. It’s still dark, maybe five in the morning, and the floor is quiet except for the soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes and the occasional beep from a monitor down the hall.

Your sister is still asleep, breathing slow and even. The swelling on her head hasn’t gotten worse. That’s something. That’s enough to keep you from unraveling, barely.

You stretch, your back aching, and glance at your phone. Low battery. One missed call -from the restaurant. No message. That’s not a good sign.

You’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’ve got about an hour before you need to get back to the apartment and make sure the others are up and ready for school. You still have to walk them there. You can’t afford another call home from the principal about them being late again.

You write a note for the nurse, just in case your sister wakes up while you're gone, and slip quietly out of the room.

The early morning air hits your face like a slap. You walk fast, hands jammed into your jacket pockets, already calculating what time you'll need to be back, how to fit everything in. Drop the kids at school. Run to your cleaning shift—thank God it's only three hours today. Then maybe swing by the restaurant and beg for your hours back. Then return to the hospital.

Your thoughts are spinning too fast when your phone buzzes again.

A new message from Bucky.

"You sure you don’t want help? I meant it."

You stop walking.

You shouldn’t reply. You don’t want to owe anyone. You’ve survived this long without leaning on anyone but yourself. But there’s something in your chest, tight, aching, exhausted, that wants to believe someone might mean that.

Your fingers hover over the screen before you type:

“What kind of help?”

The answer comes quick:

“Groceries. Watching the kids. Rides. Whatever keeps you standing.”

You stare at the message. You don’t know why it hits you so hard, but it does.

You want to say no. You almost do.

But instead, you text:

“Could you maybe… pick up the kids from school today? I just... if the hospital keeps her another night…”

You don’t even finish the sentence as you send it.

Bucky replies:

“Tell me where and when.”

That’s all.

No questions. No pity. No lectures.

You blink hard and wipe your face with the back of your hand, then start walking again, faster this time, because now, you might actually have a minute to breathe.

Not because everything’s okay. Not because it’s fixed.

But because for the first time in a long time… You’re not carrying it completely alone.

You make it back to the apartment just as the sky starts to lighten. Miss Carla is already up - she answers the door in a robe, her hair wrapped in a scarf, and gives you a soft look when she sees your face.

“They were fine” she says, nodding toward the kitchen where your other two siblings are eating toast. “Did their homework. Brushed their teeth. They’re good kids.”

You thank her, again, and she waves it off. “You just focus on your little one, honey. I got these two covered if you need me.”

You want to cry again, but you don’t. You’re past crying. Past tired. Right now, you’ve got things to do.

You get the kids dressed, pack their lunches with whatever’s left in the fridge, some crackers, a few pieces of fruit, peanut butter sandwiches. It’ll have to do. As you're zipping backpacks and tying shoelaces, your phone buzzes.

Bucky: “I’ll be outside the school at 2:45. Let me know if anything changes.”

You stare at the message a moment before replying.

You: “Thank you.”

Just two words. You wish you had better ones. Bigger ones. But you're still learning how to ask. Still learning how to let someone help.

After walking the kids to school, you sprint to your cleaning shift, running on fumes and vending machine coffee. You mop floors, scrub stairwells, collect trash bags heavier than they should be. Every muscle aches, but you keep moving. The hospital bill is coming. Rent is due next week. You don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

By noon, you’re back at the hospital.

Your sister’s awake, groggy but alert, and coloring in a kids’ activity book one of the nurses brought. She looks up and smiles when she sees you. “Did you eat today?” she asks in a small voice, and you almost laugh, because even concussed, she’s worrying about you.

“Working on it” you tell her, ruffling her hair gently.

The nurse says she might be discharged tomorrow, as long as the next scan is clean. You nod, say “thank you,” ask if there’s anything she needs. But your mind is elsewhere, already skipping ahead. Groceries. Medicine. A plan for tomorrow.

At 2:30, your phone buzzes again.

A photo from Bucky.

Your two siblings, backpacks slung over their shoulders, standing next to his bike on the sidewalk. Both smiling like it’s just another normal day.

Then another message:

“Got them. They’re safe. Dropping them off at Carla’s unless you say otherwise.”

You stare at the photo, heart twisting. They look okay. Better than okay.

It hits you, again, how much of your life you’ve spent holding everything together with raw nerves and duct tape. And now, for once, someone has reached into the chaos- not to fix it, but to carry just one piece.

You breathe in deep and text back:

“Carla’s good. Thank you again.”

Then, before you can stop yourself, you add:

“I owe you.”

The reply comes fast:

“You don’t.”

And somehow, that’s what finally makes your throat tighten.

Because you’ve spent so long believing that everything comes with a cost. That needing help means being weak. That survival means staying silent.

But maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to. Maybe surviving doesn't mean doing it alone anymore.

You take the new job without thinking too hard about it. You can’t afford to.

It’s night shifts, stocking shelves at a 24-hour convenience store two subway stops from your apartment. Midnight to 4 a.m. Five nights a week. It’s quiet, mostly. Just you, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the sound of boxes being opened, stacked, moved. You don’t even tell anyone you’ve taken it. Not your siblings. Not Bucky. Definitely not Miss Carla.

The hospital bill had come folded twice, like that might soften the blow. It didn’t. You didn’t even finish reading the second page before flipping it over and shoving it in your drawer next to the other ones. But it doesn’t matter. You’re going to pay it. Like you always do.

Somehow.

You rearranged everything again - like a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit but have to. You extended your siblings’ after-school programs. Convinced a friend’s mom to let them hang around after dinner once a week. Promised them all you’d be home for bedtime. Lied.

And for a while, it works.

You stretch yourself thin, live off black coffee and vending machine crackers. You skip breakfast, sometimes lunch. You forget dinner until it’s midnight and your stomach turns at the thought of eating. Your hands start to shake sometimes, but you keep going. You keep moving. That’s what you do.

Until one day, your body stops moving for you.

It starts small. You’re walking home from the morning shift at the diner, you added that one too, just once a week, and suddenly the ground doesn’t feel like it’s under you anymore. Everything blurs around the edges. You think maybe you’re dreaming, but then the noise comes back too loud, too bright. Your knees buckle.

And then everything goes black.

When you come to, you’re in a place that smells like antiseptic and metal. Again.

Another hospital.

A nurse is speaking softly, asking your name. You're too tired to answer at first, but you nod.

Dehydration. Exhaustion. Malnutrition. That’s what they say.

You try to argue, but it’s a whisper, and they just shake their heads. "You need rest" the nurse says, “More than anything.”

You close your eyes again, guilt flooding your chest. The kids. Who picked them up? Did anyone notice? Did they eat? Are they scared?

Your phone buzzes weakly in your pocket, and the nurse sets it on your tray.

Two missed calls from Bucky. One from Carla. Ten unread texts.

And one new message, just now:

Bucky: "You didn’t show up at the school. Carla says you never got home. I’m at the hospital now. They wouldn’t tell me much, but I’m not leaving until I see you."

You stare at the screen, throat burning.

Then another message pops up:

"You don’t have to keep killing yourself just to prove you’re strong."

It cracks something open in you.

Because for the first time, someone sees you not as a burden, or a fighter, or a survivor but just a human being. One who needs rest. One who needs help.

One who doesn’t have to do this all alone.

You let the phone fall to your chest.

And for once, you stop fighting the sleep.

Because someone’s out there. Watching the door. Picking up the pieces.

Just until you’re strong enough again.

You wake to the sound of a chair scraping gently against the floor.

Your eyes open slowly, the world swimming in and out of focus before it settles. You’re still in the hospital, still wearing the paper-thin gown, still hooked up to an IV. But there’s someone sitting by your bed now.

Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He’s leaning forward, arms on his knees, watching you with a look you’ve never seen on his face before, tired, sure. But there’s something else underneath it. Worry. Frustration. Something heavier.

“You scared the hell outta me” he says finally, voice low. “I thought-” He cuts himself off, rubs a hand down his face. “Never mind.”

You try to sit up, but your body protests immediately, everything aching deep in your bones. Bucky moves quickly, one hand out, not touching but ready to catch you if you fall over. “Don’t. Just… stay down.”

You let yourself sink back against the pillow, jaw tight. “The kids…”

“They’re okay.” His voice softens. “I picked them up from school. Carla’s with them now. They had dinner. I made sure they brushed their teeth. They're safe.”

The pressure behind your eyes gets worse.

“I’m sorry” you whisper. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t” Bucky says firmly. “You don’t need to apologize for falling apart. Not when you’ve been holding the whole damn world on your back.”

You blink hard, trying to stop the tears before they come. You’re too tired for pride, but part of you still wants to act like you’re fine. That you can bounce back like always. But you can’t. Not this time.

He leans back in the chair, studying you. “You didn’t tell me anything. Not about the other jobs. Not about the hospital bill. Not about how little you were eating, or how close you were to dropping.”

“I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly. “You’re not a problem. You’re someone doing everything for everyone else. And it’s eating you alive.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’ve never had anyone say it like that. With no pity, no judgment - just… truth.

“I’ve been trying to fix it” you say, barely audible. “I took more work. I figured if I could just hold out a little longer-”

“Longer until what?” he interrupts gently. “Until you break for good?”

You look away, ashamed. But then you feel something, warm, steady.

Bucky’s hand, resting over yours. Not pushing. Just there.

“Let me help” he says. “Not just for today. Not just when things fall apart. Let me be part of it. Not because I feel sorry for you. Because I see you. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

You close your eyes. And for the first time in a long, long while, you believe someone when they say they’re not going to leave.

Not when it gets hard.

Not when it’s messy.

You nod, once. It’s all you can manage.

And Bucky doesn’t say anything else. He just stays there. Quiet. Solid. A presence in a world that’s taken too much from you.

Tomorrow, you’ll go home.

Tomorrow, you’ll face bills and work and all the pieces you still have to juggle.

But tonight?

Tonight, you rest.

And for the first time, you don’t rest alone, because Bucky is there.

You wipe your hands on your jeans as you step out of the subway, the stale city air brushing against your face. It’s Friday. That means an hour with Bucky. Just one hour. Just enough.

You don’t say much when you knock on his door, and he never asks. He lets you in with a nod, his expression unreadable, maybe curious, but he doesn’t press. You do what he needs, small jobs, errands, sometimes helping him organize things he doesn’t want other people touching, helping him understand technology or social media. You’re good at staying quiet, at being invisible when you need to be.

The money he gives you afterward is more than you expect every time. He just slips it into your hand without looking and you never ask why. You don’t tell him it goes straight to rent, or that the second it's in your pocket, you're already planning how much of it will cover groceries, how much you’ll save for your little brother’s school uniform.

You’ve never told him that you have three other jobs, that right after this you’re heading to a restaurant to wash dishes until your fingers prune. That tomorrow morning you’ll be sweeping a building’s front steps and emptying bins until your back aches. That Sunday, before the sun even rises, you’ll be scrubbing bathrooms in a downtown office that no one ever really looks at.

You’ve never told him that you have three younger siblings waiting for you in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with peeling wallpaper and a window that doesn’t shut all the way. That you read to them every night so they don’t hear the sirens. That you teach them how to be small, how to stay quiet if anyone knocks who isn’t you.

You’ve never told him the real reason you left. That you ran. That the bruises weren’t fading fast enough, and your sister screamed too loud one night, and you knew you couldn’t stay, not even one more day. That now, every knock at the door makes you jump. That you live every day with the fear of being found.

You’ve never told him any of this.

You just take the money, thank him quietly, and leave. You carry it all alone, because if you stop to explain it, if you let even one word out, you’re afraid the whole fragile thing will shatter. And you can’t afford that.

Not when they’re counting on you.

_______________________

Your fingers hover over the call button longer than they should. You hate doing this. Cancelling means less money and less money means something else has to break. Food. Rent. Something.

But your youngest is in the hospital, and the message from the school was panicked, something about a fall, a head injury, a concussion. You saw the blood. You rode in the ambulance. And now you're sitting in the ER chair with a dry mouth and shaking hands, trying to figure out how the hell you're supposed to keep everything from falling apart.

You hit “Call.”

It rings twice before Bucky answers. His voice is gruff but low, familiar. "Yeah?"

“Hey” you say, your voice tighter than you want it to be. “I-I'm sorry, I have to cancel tonight. My sibling - my youngest- got hurt at school. We’re at the hospital. Concussion, maybe more, they’re still checking.”

There’s a pause on the line. You think maybe he’s annoyed. Or worse, cold.

But then he just says “Shit. Are they okay?”

“They’re stable. But I can’t leave them.” You glance over at the small figure curled up on the stretcher, IV in their arm, dried blood on their temple. “I have to figure out how to be here and also… take care of the others.”

You're rambling now. You hate it. “I still have to go to my other jobs - at least two of them, I can't lose those shifts. And I don’t know what to do with the others while I’m at work. One’s too young to stay home alone. I can’t afford a sitter. I don’t even know how I’m going to get dinner made tonight.”

You're trying to keep your voice down, but it cracks anyway.

You press a hand over your eyes. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t your problem. I just… I didn’t want to disappear without saying something.”

Silence.

You wait, thinking maybe he hung up, because you shared too much.

But then Bucky says, quieter now, “You need help.”

It’s not a question.

“I’m fine” you lie, because it's reflex.

“No, you're not” he says, and there’s no edge to it. Just a statement. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details. But there's something in his voice that doesn't sound like judgment. It sounds like understanding.

You bite your lip hard and swallow.

“I’ll figure it out” you say.

And you will. You have to.

After the call ends, you sit for a moment, the fluorescent lights buzzing above you, your head full of schedules, maps, plans. You need to find someone to watch the younger ones. Maybe that older lady down the hall. Maybe you trade shifts with someone. Maybe you lie, say your sibling is your child, and see if you qualify for a hospital overnight voucher.

You start listing every backup plan you can think of.

Because that’s what you do.

You patch the holes. You hold the weight. You keep going. Even when your hands shake.

Because your siblings need you.

The doctor comes back before you can start panicking properly.

“She’s stable” he says gently, looking at your little sister, eight years old, too pale, too still. “She has a mild concussion. No skull fracture, but we want to keep her overnight for observation.”

You nod, because it’s the only thing you can do. Your voice is gone, choked under the weight of everything you're already planning. One night in the hospital means one night not home. One night not home means the others are alone. You can’t have that.

As soon as the doctor leaves, you pull out your phone again. You’ve got two numbers you can maybe try. One’s your neighbor, Miss Carla. She’s always been kind to the kids when she sees them in the hallway. The other is the dishwasher shift lead who sometimes covers for you if you bring him an extra sandwich.

You call Carla first.

She agrees. Says she’ll watch your other two tonight. You almost cry with relief. You give her the door code, where the extra food is, and apologize about a hundred times. She just says “They’re sweet kids. Don’t worry, just take care of your girl.”

You hang up and call the restaurant next. No answer. You send a voice message instead, trying to sound calm. “Family emergency. My little sister’s in the hospital. Please let me make up the shift, I can come early Sunday.”

You hit send, then sit back in the stiff hospital chair, breathing hard. Your sister stirs a little, her eyes fluttering open, dazed.

You stand and lean over her immediately. “Hey. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

She whispers something you can’t make out, and then her eyes close again.

You brush the hair from her face, trying to steady yourself.

Your phone buzzes again.

It’s Bucky.

The message just says:

“Let me know if you need help. Not for the job. Just… help.”

You stare at it, surprised. Not because of the offer, but because somehow, he knows the difference.

You don’t reply right away. You don’t know how. You just tuck the phone into your jacket pocket, sit down and watch the machines beep gently beside your sister’s bed.

Tomorrow, the weight will still be there. The jobs. The rent. The school bills. But for now, you’re here. You did what you could. You’re still holding it all up.

Somehow. Still standing. Still surviving.

You don’t know how long you sit there, folded into Bucky’s quiet embrace. Time slips sideways - your body aching, your mind heavy with noise, but your breath gradually beginning to slow. His arms stay around you, unwavering, like he understands that right now, words would only bruise the silence.

When the tears finally stop - leaving your face tight and raw, your chest sore - you pull back, just barely. He lets you, hands loosening but still resting lightly on your arms like he’s not quite ready to let you drift away again.

You sit back against the wall, legs drawn up, head tilted to the side. Bucky sits beside you this time, not in front of you. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Solid.

You finally whisper, voice hoarse and barely audible “It was them.”

His head turns. He doesn’t ask who. He knows.

“I was off shift. I was walking home” you say, eyes fixed on the floor. “I heard my name. Not - my name now. The other one. The one I buried.”

Your breath shudders. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to keep walking. Pretend I didn’t hear. But they were already too close. I didn’t even look. Just kept moving, but… they grabbed me. My - my arm - ” You look down at the faint bruises forming around your bicep. “I got away. Fell. But I ran.”

You pause. Your voice drops lower. “They know where I am.”

Silence stretches thin in the air.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose. “Did they follow you?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. I took a long route home. Through alleys. Doubled back. I… I think I lost them.”

But you’re not sure. That uncertainty wraps around your spine like a vice. You feel it pressing on your lungs with every breath.

“I’m not ready” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I thought I was. But I’m not. I can’t move them again, not right now. They just started feeling safe again. I just got them in school. Got clothes. Got a routine.”

Bucky is quiet for a beat. Then he says, low and firm “Then we don’t run.”

You blink.

He’s looking straight ahead, eyes narrowed - not at you, but at whatever threat lies beyond the apartment walls.

“You’ve done more than most people ever could” he says. “You ran. You survived. You built something solid out of nothing. You carried three kids on your back. But you’re not alone anymore.”

He turns toward you, jaw set.

“You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You almost laugh - short and bitter. “What does that mean, Bucky? What, are you gonna stand at the door with a knife and scare them off?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

You stare at him.

He’s not joking.

That quiet weight behind his voice - he means it. Every word.

“You can’t just fix this” you whisper.

“I know” he says. “But I can stand between you and the fire. And maybe it’s not enough, maybe I can’t stop them from trying to reach you - but I’ll sure as hell make it harder.”

The silence after that is different. Still thick, but less suffocating. Less hopeless.

Eventually, you murmur “The kids like you.”

“I like them too.”

“They miss you when you’re not around.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching your profile. “What about you?”

You hesitate.

The question hovers in the dark like a gentle touch against a bruise.

“I didn’t think I would” you say. “I didn’t want to. But I think I got used to you.”

Bucky smiles - small, but it reaches his eyes. “I’m okay with that.”

You nod, just once, gaze falling to your scraped palms.

“I should clean those” he says softly.

You don't stop him when he stands. You don’t flinch this time when he gently lifts your hand and guides you to the bathroom, the soft light flickering on like a sigh. You sit on the edge of the tub while he opens the cabinet, finds the antiseptic, the gauze, the bandages. His touch is careful, hands rough but warm.

The sting of the antiseptic doesn’t even compare to the ache in your chest, but you stay still. You let him tend to you. Let him see you.

And when it’s done - when your hands are clean, your skin wrapped in soft white strips - he doesn't move away.

He just says “We make a plan tomorrow. Okay? You sleep. I’ll stay.”

For once, you don’t argue.

You don’t say “you don’t have to.” You don’t say “I’m fine.” You don’t say “go home.”

You just nod, and whisper “Okay.”

And for the first time in what feels like years, when you crawl into bed, your body still aching, your heart still bruised - you sleep.

Not deeply. Not dreamlessly.

But you sleep.

And Bucky’s silhouette stays by the door. Silent. Watching. Unmoving.

Like a sentry. Like a wall. Like someone who isn’t going anywhere.

You wake up late. Later than you have in months.

The light slipping in through the cracked blinds is soft and golden afternoon, maybe. Your body aches in that deep, bone-tired way, but it’s not panic that greets you when your eyes open. It’s stillness. Strange, unfamiliar stillness.

You blink a few times, adjusting. Then the soreness in your shoulder reminds you of last night, the running, the fall, the way your name cut through the night like a blade.

You sit up slowly. There’s a blanket tucked over you, one you didn’t remember grabbing. Your bandages are intact. Your bedroom door is cracked open, the quiet sound of voices filtering in.

You strain your ears, heart skipping for a second.

Then you hear laughter. Your siblings. A muffled thud. Someone says, “No, no, don’t touch that - wait - ” followed by a chorus of giggles.

Bucky.

For a moment, all you do is sit there and breathe. Because the apartment is still here. The world didn’t crumble in your sleep. Your siblings are safe. They’re safe.

You get up slowly. Limbs stiff but moving.

When you step out into the hallway, the scene in the living room is something you never expected to become real.

Your littlest is curled on the couch, watching cartoons with wide eyes and a mouth full of cereal. One of the others is leaning over a coloring book, showing Bucky how they made the stars purple and the sky green “because space doesn’t have rules.” And the oldest is sitting at the kitchen table, working on a homework packet with a little furrow between their brows.

Bucky is… in the middle of it all. Barefoot. Wearing one of your too-small aprons you didn’t even know you still had. A pan of something cooking gently on the stove behind him. His hair is tied back. He’s listening to your sibling’s explanation with more patience than you’ve ever had time to offer.

No one notices you at first.

And you don’t say anything.

You just watch.

Because this - this scene, this impossible quiet joy - feels like a memory you never got to have. Something borrowed from a life you were never allowed to live.

When Bucky finally glances up and sees you, he doesn’t say anything. He just offers a small smile, nodding once. Like, you’re up. you’re here. good.

You clear your throat softly, and your siblings notice you too.

They don’t swarm you like they usually do. Your oldest glances over and gives you a quiet smile. Your youngest beams but doesn’t run. There’s a kind of unspoken understanding in the air - like maybe they know, in their own small way, that something cracked open last night.

You nod toward the stove. “You cooking?”

“French toast,” Bucky says. “Well. Attempting. One piece might be burnt but it’s… artfully done.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, playfully defensive. “Okay, I forgot how hot the pan was.”

You press your lips together, something like a laugh catching in your throat.

Your siblings are distracted again, and you move a little closer to Bucky.

Low, so only he can hear, you say, “You stayed all night.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

You look at him for a long second. The tiredness still lives behind your eyes, behind your ribs, but something else is there now too. Not quite ease. But… something lighter.

“I don’t know what comes next” you admit.

“I do” Bucky says. “First? You eat. Then we talk.”

You blink. “Talk?”

He nods. “About what you want to do. How we make this place safer. What I can do to help. What you need. Not what you think you should handle on your own. What you actually need.”

You look away, unsure.

Then you whisper “I don’t want them to know.”

Bucky’s voice softens. “They won’t. Not unless you decide to tell them.”

“They’re happy” you murmur, watching them from the corner of your eye. “I don’t want to take that away.”

“You’re not” he says gently. “You’re just protecting it.”

The toast dings behind him.

He steps away to plate it, and you watch him - this man who should’ve just been another hour in your week. Another paycheck. Another wall. But somehow, over time, became something more.

You don’t call it friendship. Not yet. Maybe never. The word feels too small.

But when he sets a plate down in front of you, fork resting gently beside it, he doesn’t ask for anything in return. No explanations. No gratitude.

He just sits across from you and says, “Eat.”

So you do.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - you don’t have to keep running. Not alone. Not anymore.

You don’t finish the whole plate, but you eat more than you have in days. It’s not about hunger exactly - it’s about the steadiness of the room around you. The fact that no one is shouting. That the floor isn’t trembling under your feet from the force of old, cruel voices. That your siblings are here. Laughing. Arguing over crayons. And Bucky’s here, like some kind of strange constant - never too loud, never too close, but always present.

When you finally set your fork down, you exhale slow and deep. Like something inside you had been clenching tight for weeks and only now realized it could start to let go.

Bucky watches you, elbows resting on the table, a cup of coffee cooling between his palms. “You look like you slept a hundred years” he says, quietly amused.

“Feels like I did,” you admit, rubbing your eyes. “Still not enough.”

“Then tomorrow, you sleep in again.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy to, and… maybe you don’t want to. Not this time.

Your siblings begin to drift from the table, one by one. A mess of sticky hands and tangled hair, grabbing at toys or dragging homework to the floor. The apartment is small, but somehow they’ve made it their kingdom. You let them move freely. You let them be.

Once the soft noise of cartoons picks up again in the living room, you glance at Bucky, voice low.

“I think they like you more than me.”

He raises a brow. “They’re allowed to have taste.”

You snort. It's weak, but it's a laugh.

Then quieter “They call you the ‘cool uncle.’ Did you know that?”

Something flickers across his face. A warmth that makes your chest twist a little, too sharp and too soft at the same time.

“I’ve been called worse” he says, smiling faintly.

You nod. Fiddle with your sleeve.

“I still don’t know what to do” you say eventually. “If my parents really do know where we are…”

“We’ll handle it.”

“What does that mean?”

He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze steady. “It means we find out what they know. How they found you. We take that information and we build around it. Better locks. Cameras. People to call if anything happens. We make it harder for them.”

Your voice is barely audible. “And if that’s not enough?”

“Then I make sure they know they don’t get to come near you. Or your siblings.”

You stare at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less” he says simply.

It shouldn’t be comforting. But it is.

You both sit in silence for a while, the sounds of your siblings drifting in from the living room like soft static. Eventually, Bucky leans back, sips his coffee again.

“Have you ever talked to someone about what they did to you?” he asks, quiet but direct.

You freeze for a second. “Why?”

“Because you carry it. In your voice. Your walk. Your eyes. You survived, yeah. But you’re still bleeding, even if no one sees it.”

You say nothing. Not at first.

Then “I couldn’t afford to bleed. I didn’t have time.”

“I know” he says gently. “But you might now. Just a little.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t tell him to stop, either. That’s progress, maybe.

Eventually, your youngest crawls into your lap, thumb in mouth, eyelids drooping. The weight of their small body against yours sends another crack through your armor. You wrap an arm around them and rest your chin lightly on their head.

“They trust you” Bucky says.

“They shouldn’t have to” you whisper. “They’re just kids. They should have school and toys and scraped knees. Not escape plans.”

He nods. “That’s why we make sure they don’t have to run again.”

The room falls quiet again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the silence of two people standing on the edge of something terrifying - and maybe, maybe, something better.

Eventually, Bucky rises. Begins cleaning up without asking. You let him. It’s easier to let someone help when they don’t ask for permission. When they just do it.

As the evening bleeds into night, he stays. He stays through story time and brushing teeth and lost pajamas and nightlight arguments. He helps tuck each one in, listens when your middle child wants to show him a crayon drawing of a “protector robot” which you swear might actually be him. He smiles, and doesn’t deny it.

And later, when the apartment is quiet again - doors closed, lights dimmed - he stands by the window, eyes on the dark city outside. You stand beside him, arms crossed against your chest.

“What if this is temporary?” you murmur. “What if it all falls apart?”

“Then we build it again” he says, without hesitation.

You turn to look at him. His profile sharp in the low light. His eyes still watching the shadows. A steady shape in a world full of shifting ground.

You nod.

You don’t know what this is. Not friendship. Not yet. Not love. Not yet. But maybe it’s trust. Maybe it’s the start of something that could grow.

And for now, that’s enough.

Part 6

The clatter of dishes echoes around the kitchen, harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead. It’s the middle of your nightshift - another endless loop of scrubbing, rinsing, drying. Your body is exhausted, every muscle screaming for rest, but you keep moving. The rhythm is familiar, it’s something you can do without thinking, a small pocket of control in the chaos.

Then, suddenly, your manager’s voice cuts through the noise, shaky and confused. “Hey, uh… can I talk to you for a second? Outside?”

You wipe your hands quickly on your apron, heart pounding. The moment you step outside, the sight before you steals the breath from your lungs.

Two police officers stand near the entrance, their badges catching the streetlight like cold, hard warnings. Behind them, your parents - faces tight, eyes burning with a mixture of anger and something darker. You swallow hard.

Your manager’s voice trembles. “They’re here asking about you… I’m so sorry.”

Before you can even think, before you can move, rough hands grab your arm. Your protest is swallowed in the tightening of cold metal around your wrists.

Handcuffs.

The words don’t make sense in your head. You’re being taken away, your shift forgotten, your coworkers confused stares burning into your back as you’re led toward the waiting police car. The world spins sideways.

Hours later, you find yourself in a cold interrogation room. The fluorescent lights buzz above, too bright, too relentless. Across the table, your parents sit like judges, their faces hard and unyielding. The police officers exchange knowing glances, friends of your parents, it seems, wielding authority like a weapon.

Questions come in waves, sharp and accusing.

“Where have you been living?”

“Who are you with now?”

“Why did you leave?”

You stay silent. Not because you have nothing to say, but because fear has cemented your tongue. Tears threaten behind your eyes, but you swallow them down, holding tight to the brittle shell of control you have left.

You know the truth won’t save you here.

And deep down, you realize something else.

You probably just lost your job.

The room is ice.

Not from the temperature, but from the pressure. From the way your father leans forward like he owns the space, like you’re a child again. Like you’re a mistake made flesh. His voice doesn’t rise, it doesn’t need to. His words are precision blades.

“You think you’re clever? Hiding? Running off with your siblings like a goddamn criminal?”

Your mother scoffs from beside him, arms crossed tightly. “We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us? Stealing our children?”

“They’re my siblings” you snap before you can stop yourself. It slips out, raw and hoarse from holding too much back.

That’s when the cop on the left leans in, his mouth twisted like this is entertainment.

“You’re not the parent. You don’t get to decide what’s best for them.”

You look at him. Really look. His badge gleams under the lights, but his eyes are already made of rot. He’s not here for justice. He’s here because he was told to be. Because someone whispered in his ear and he nodded like a loyal dog.

“Maybe” your mother says coldly “if you hadn’t always been so dramatic. So needy. Maybe we could’ve helped you. But instead, you drag them down with you. Living in filth. Working like a rat in some back alley kitchen.”

The words hit like fists. You don't flinch. You don't let them. But your breath is shallow. Your jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

“They were happy” you say finally, voice cracked.

“Children don’t know what’s good for them” your father hisses.

And then the other cop stands. Walks to the corner. Speaks softly into a phone. Muffled words. Then silence. For a long time.

You sit there. Wrists red where the cuffs used to be. Shoulders shaking, but not visibly. You won’t let them see you break.

Then, the door creaks open.

“We’re done here” the second cop says.

Your parents look at him, confused. “What?”

“You can let them go” he says flatly. “There’s nothing to hold them on.”

Your father starts to protest, but the cop just walks out. No explanation. No apology.

Your mother narrows her eyes at you. “You’re making a mistake.”

You say nothing. You don’t give her the satisfaction of a single word.

By the time you step outside, it’s nearly dawn. The city looks bruised. Like you.

You're cold. You're tired. You're humiliated.

But you’re free.

And all you can think is.. You have to get home. You have to see your siblings. You have to see if Bucky’s still there.

And you have to figure out how to survive. Again.

The cold night air hits your face as you step away from the station, the city’s restless hum beneath your feet feeling heavier than usual. Your lungs burn with each breath, but you don’t turn toward home. Not yet.

Instead, you walk. Past empty streets, shuttered shops, and flickering streetlights, until you find the cracked, graffiti-stained phone booth you memorized from the week Bucky gave you his number.

You shove the door open with a tired hand, step inside, and close it behind you. The stale scent of old cigarettes and rust clings to the air. You lift the receiver with shaking fingers, pressing the worn buttons until his number rings through.

The line clicks.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is brittle, almost breaking. “I - They came. The cops… my parents. They - ” You swallow hard. “I’m not coming home. Not tonight.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, steady and low, fills the small booth. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” The admission tastes like defeat. “I can’t go back. I can’t risk them finding the kids. You have to take care of them. Please.”

You hear the weight in his breath, the urgency rising beneath the calm. “I’m coming. Stay safe. Don’t do anything reckless.”

You close your eyes, trying to hold onto the pieces of strength you have left. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“No. You don’t have to be.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, then.

“I’ll be there. Just hold on.”

You hang up slowly, your fingers trembling as the receiver clicks back into place. For the first time in days, a sliver of something sharp and bright cuts through the numbness.

You don’t know what comes next. But you know you’re not alone anymore.

You barely get the phone back on the cradle before the door of the booth swings open. Cold wind rushes in, carrying with it the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps, quick, deliberate. Your heart hammers in your chest like a warning drum.

You swallow hard, stepping out into the empty street, trying with all your might not to let the tears spill. You’re so tired, tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of feeling like you’re never safe. Your breath catches in your throat, but you force yourself to keep it together.

Then, suddenly, rough hands clamp down on your shoulders, yanking you backward. Your body stiffens, shock spiraling through you. You’re spun around, and the cold eyes of your father bore into yours, filled with fury and accusation.

“Thought you could just walk away?” he snarls, shaking you like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re nothing.

You try to break free, but his grip tightens. Your knees wobble, breath coming in sharp gasps. Panic floods your mind, the desperate fear of what might come next, of losing everything all over again.

Your voice is barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of it all. “Please… don’t…”

But your plea is swallowed by the night.

And the nightmare isn’t over. Not yet.

Your father’s grip tightens around your arms, each shake sending jolts of pain through your bruised skin. The city around you fades into a blur of cold lights and distant sounds - the world shrinking until all that exists is his furious face and the sharp sting of helplessness rising in your chest.

You try to wrench yourself free, but exhaustion has leeched the fight from your limbs. Your knees buckle slightly, and your breath catches painfully in your throat. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away fiercely, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Let me go” you manage, voice trembling but firm, though it feels like a whisper lost against his rage.

He leans in, voice low and venomous. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. You ran off. You betrayed us.”

The words cut deeper than any slap could. Betrayed. Like you’re the villain in a story you never wanted to be part of.

Suddenly, a heavy hand clamps down on your father’s shoulder, and a gruff voice cuts through the tension.

“Enough.”

You freeze. The voice is firm, unmistakably familiar.

Bucky.

Your father jerks away, eyes blazing with anger, but Bucky’s presence fills the space between you like a wall - solid, unyielding.

“You’re done here” Bucky says quietly, but there’s steel beneath his calm.

Your father glares, but something in Bucky’s stance stops him. The threat is clear: back off, or face consequences.

Slowly, your father releases you, stepping back with a sneer but no further action. Your body trembles, not just from the fear, but from the sudden surge of relief.

Bucky steps forward, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Come with me,” he says quietly. “You’re not safe here.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you nod. Because maybe, just maybe, this time someone really is watching your back.

The weeks pass slowly, at first like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does. Instead, the days begin to stretch a little softer around the edges.

Bucky becomes… a presence. A steady one.

He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to take over. He just shows up - hands your youngest a jacket before school, helps with dishes when you’re too tired, makes pancakes on Sundays like it’s always been part of the routine. Your siblings adore him. You try not to look too closely at the way that makes something warm flicker in your chest.

You still work. You have to. But not at the cost of your health anymore. You let yourself sleep at least four hours a night, sometimes more. You’ve even started eating regularly, if only because Bucky started showing up with food and sitting at the table until you took a bite. You also still somehow work for Bucky even though you don't go over to him anymore he comes to you, you help him in your home with the things he doesn't understand yet. And you don't let him give you money for it, even though you would need it, he already does much for you.

He doesn’t ask you to be okay. Doesn’t push for more than you’re ready to give. He just… stays.

And eventually, staying becomes normal.

You catch yourself some evenings, sitting on the couch with him nearby, your siblings curled up against pillows, half-watching a movie. You see his legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his knee. Like he belongs there.

And it doesn’t scare you.

Not like it used to.

But then -

It starts small.

A strange voicemail from an unknown number. A piece of mail addressed with your real last name, even though you changed it when you left. A car you don’t recognize parked across the street for too long, too often.

You brush it off. At first.

But then your little sister comes home and says “There was a man asking where we lived. He had a clipboard and a suit. Said he worked for the school district.”

Your stomach drops. Even though your sister says she didn't tell him anything as you always had instructed.

You ask the school the next morning. They don’t know anyone by that name. There was no district visit scheduled.

That night, the panic takes root.

Hard. Heavy. Terrible.

Like it always does.

You can’t breathe right. You can’t think right.

They're close. They know. They're coming.

You go into lockdown mode instantly - socks on quiet feet, light switches kept off. You double-check the door locks three times before bed. You move your siblings backpacks closer to the front in case you need to run again. You start gathering documents, stashing a bag in the closet.

And through it all - you hide it. You have to. Because your siblings are laughing with Bucky in the other room, watching some superhero movie and arguing about whether it’s realistic that someone could actually fly with a metal suit.

They’re happy.

And you won’t take that from them.

You smile when you need to. You pack lunches like nothing’s changed. You listen to bedtime stories and fix ponytails and tape a broken shoelace instead of replacing the shoes.

But at night - when everyone is asleep - you sit on the kitchen floor, hands buried in your hair, chest pulled tight with fear that you’ve run out of time.

And still, you don’t tell Bucky.

You don’t know how.

You start sleeping less again. Not because you want to - but because you can’t not.

Every creak in the building makes your eyes snap open. Every unfamiliar noise on the street has you clutching your phone, breath frozen. You sit by the window some nights until sunrise, just watching. Listening. Waiting.

Waiting for them.

Your siblings don’t notice at first. They're wrapped up in their routines - school, homework, Bucky teaching your brother how to tie a proper knot because “it’s a basic survival skill” pancakes on Sunday mornings. You keep up the mask, keep your hands steady while brushing your sister’s hair, keep your voice calm even when your heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.

But Bucky notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say anything the first time he catches you staring at the front door like it’s going to explode. Or when he walks into the kitchen at 2 a.m. and finds you curled up in a chair, silent, face tight with exhaustion.

But the third time - when you burn dinner because you were too distracted by your phone and your shaking hands to notice - he speaks up.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

You don’t meet his eyes. “I’ve had worse stretches.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it. “Don’t lie to me.”

Your jaw locks. You hate how calm he sounds. You hate that he sees you.

And then, quietly: “Are they close?”

You freeze. The silence is louder than anything.

“I’ve seen that look” Bucky says. “The way you check the locks. The way your shoulders don’t drop even when you’re sitting down. You’re scanning for exits. You’re in survival mode again.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to lie. You want to say it’s fine. That it’s just in your head. That everything’s okay.

But it’s not.

So instead, you whisper “I think they know where we are.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t rush to ask how or when or why.

He just nods, slow and steady.

“Okay. What do you need me to do?”

You blink. “What? That’s it? You’re not going to tell me I’m overreacting?”

“No. Because I don’t think you are. I’ve seen enough to trust your instincts. So what do you need?”

You look at him - really look at him. He’s already scanning the room, like he’s planning three steps ahead. Like he’s not just someone staying over now and then. He’s already preparing to protect.

“I don’t want them to know” you say, voice breaking. “The Kids. I don’t want them to be scared.”

“They won’t be” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone says that - and you believe them.

You nod, swallowing back everything else.

And Bucky leans forward, voice low, certain.

“We’ll keep them safe. I promise.”

The days blur together in a strange new rhythm. Bucky’s presence weaves into your siblings’ lives like a steady heartbeat. Your youngest clings to him during storytime, begging for “one more” chapter. Your middle one tries to sneak pancakes out of the kitchen when Bucky’s cooking, grinning like they’ve just pulled off a heist. Even your oldest starts asking if Bucky will be around for their soccer game next week.

They miss him when he’s not there. You catch your little sister whispering “When is Bucky coming back?” after he leaves late at night. Your oldest brother asks if Bucky can stay over again, just so they don’t have to fall asleep in silence.

You want to feel relieved, that your siblings have found someone they can trust, but instead, your chest tightens. Because the more they get attached, the more you fear what will happen if they have to lose him too.

Then, one night, after your graveyard shift, you’re exhausted but barely thinking about anything except getting home. The street is quiet as you step out of the building, the cool night air brushing your face. Your thoughts are on your siblings, on the safe little fortress you’ve built around them.

Suddenly, a voice calls out your old name, the one you left behind with the past you’re still running from.

You stiffen. Try to keep walking.

“Hey! You! Wait!”

You quicken your pace. You don’t want to look back. You don’t want to deal with this now.

But a hand grabs your arm, firm and unyielding.

You whirl around.

There they are. Faces you’ve been trying to forget. Shadows from the life you fled.

Panic roars in your chest. You yank your arm free, but another hand clamps down on your shoulder.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Your voice catches, breath trembling as you whisper, “Please… don’t…”

They smirk, cold and knowing.

“Thought you could disappear, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just want to get away, fast.

But the grip tightens.

And the nightmare you tried so hard to outrun is suddenly right in front of you.

You go cold. Not the kind of cold that shivers down your spine. The kind that locks your joints, freezes your blood. A survival cold.

Your father’s hand is still clamped on your shoulder.

Your mother stands just behind him, half in shadow. Her smile isn’t a smile, it’s a baring of teeth.

“There you are” she says softly, like she’s talking to a stray dog. “Took us long enough.”

“We always knew you’d end up somewhere pathetic” she continues, taking a step forward. “But dragging the kids with you? Now that was low.”

You try to pull away, but your father’s fingers dig in deeper. Bruising. He always knew exactly how much pressure it took to leave a mark without breaking skin.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve” he growls. “Vanishing in the middle of the night like a coward. Taking our kids.”

“They’re not yours” you spit, twisting your shoulder. “You lost that right the first time you-”

He shoves you hard into the wall behind you.

Not a slap. Not a push. A calculated slam.

Your head bounces off the brick with a dull crack and your knees nearly buckle.

“Watch your mouth.”

Your mother tuts, shaking her head slowly. “Is that any way to talk to your parents?”

You gasp, sucking in air. Blood hums in your ears. “You’re not my parents.”

“We fed you.” Her voice sharpens. “We put a roof over your head. We made sacrifices. And this is how you repay us? By stealing from us?”

“I saved them” you choke out. “You were destroying them.”

Your father leans in close. His breath smells like smoke and something sour. “You think hiding them with some metal-armed freak makes you a hero?”

“We know you’re hiding. Lying. Playing house with a man who has blood on his hands.” your mother snarls.

Your chest seizes. They know about Bucky.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

He laughs. A low, bitter sound. “He’s playing daddy now, huh? Cute. You think we can’t tear that little setup of yours apart?”

“You don’t know where they are” you whisper.

“Not yet.” Your mother steps closer, her voice almost tender. “But we’ll find them. Kids talk. Neighbors talk. You should’ve been more careful.”

You lunge forward - desperation, rage, instinct - but your father catches you by the throat. Slams you back into the wall again.

“You took something from us” he growls. “And we’re taking it back.”

Your fingers claw at his wrist. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.

Then, he lets go. Just like that. And you crumple.

You hit the ground, gasping, the pavement tearing at your palms.

They look down at you like they’re already celebrating.

“We don’t need your number” your mother says calmly. “We just need time.”

And then they’re gone.

Just like before, leaving wreckage in their wake. Like they never missed a beat.

You’re still on the sidewalk, coughing, trying to pull oxygen into your lungs.

Every cell in your body is screaming. Not in pain, in fury.

They touched you. They’re coming for your siblings. And you don’t have time to be scared anymore.

You get to your feet, eyes stinging, heart pounding.

-----------------------------------

The apartment is quiet when you finally return. Too quiet.

It’s well past midnight. Maybe even closer to morning. You’re not sure anymore - you stopped checking the time after the adrenaline crashed and left you hollow, shaking and scraped raw. You don’t remember the walk home. Just the pain in your knees, the stinging on your hands where the pavement tore into you as you scrambled away. You don't remember when the tears stopped either, somewhere between running and hiding, maybe. Somewhere between surviving and breaking.

The key rattles in the lock because your fingers won’t stop trembling. You have to try twice. Maybe three times. Then the bolt turns and you slip inside, closing the door as silently as you can.

You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to.

You’ve lived in this place long enough to know where the creaky floorboards are, which doors squeak, which lights buzz. You move in shadows like you were made from them, like you’ve been surviving in the dark your whole life.

The apartment smells faintly of something warm. Something comforting. Pancakes, maybe. Or soup. The air is still. Undisturbed.

They're asleep.

You know that before you check. You don’t check.

You can’t.

Because if you look at their peaceful faces right now, if you see their soft breaths and tiny fists curled in sleep, if you see the safety that they still believe in - you might fall apart. You might scream. You might shatter so completely you’ll never gather the pieces again.

So you don’t look.

You lock the front door instead again. Once. Then again. Then again.

Click. Click. Click.

Each sound is a shaky breath. A silent prayer. A frantic attempt at control.

You step away but then double back. Check the windows. Close the blinds tighter. Pull the curtains. Lock the bathroom window too, just in case.

Still not enough.

Still not safe.

You walk down the hallway like a ghost, stripped of purpose, just movement for the sake of motion. The edge of your shirt brushes the cuts on your side and you flinch, but don’t stop. Blood’s dried in patches on your palms and forearms. Your legs ache, and your left ankle is swelling. You don’t remember when you twisted it - just that you didn’t stop running.

You reach your room. The door's already open.

It’s dark inside. Familiar.

You sink to the ground beside your bed, not on it, never on it. You can’t lie down. You’re still shaking, even if your body refuses to show it. The tremors are deep now, somewhere behind your ribs, somewhere between the part of you that ran and the part that wanted to fight back.

You sit there. Knees drawn up. Forehead on your arms. Breathing shallow. Trying not to replay what happened. Trying not to hear that voice saying your name. Your real name.

They know.

They know.

And you don’t know if you’re strong enough to run again.

You don’t hear the footsteps.

You don’t hear the creak of the floor.

You don’t know Bucky’s there until—

A gentle hand brushes your shoulder.

You flinch hard, twisting back like an animal caught in a trap, heart slamming against your ribs so fast it hurts. You suck in a breath like you forgot how to breathe.

But it’s just him.

Just Bucky.

He’s kneeling in front of you, eyes wide with concern, hand frozen mid-air from where he touched you. His voice is soft, grounding.

“Hey. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You stare at him like he’s not real. Like he can’t be. Your mind is still too full of gravel and blood and panic to process anything else. Your ears ring. Your stomach twists.

His voice comes again, quieter.

“I didn’t hear the door. I thought you were still at work… I was just checking on the kids.”

He stops himself. He sees it now.

Your scraped hands. The torn knees. The wild, haunted look in your eyes. The way your chest barely moves when you breathe.

His face shifts - goes from soft concern to sharp understanding. Not pity. Never that. But fear. For you.

“What happened?”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because if you try, you’ll fall apart, and right now you have to stay together, even if only by a thread.

Bucky moves carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal that’s been hurt too many times. His hand hovers just above yours, not touching, just offering.

You’re still trembling.

“I can clean those” he says gently. “You don’t have to talk. Just let me help.”

You swallow hard.

Your throat burns. Your eyes do too.

You shake your head once - small. But it’s not a refusal. It’s not no.

It’s not yet.

“I’m here” he says again, voice steady. “Not going anywhere.”

That’s what breaks you.

Not the pain. Not the memory. Not the blood.

It’s the truth in his voice.

The way he says it like he means it.

Like he’s not going to leave.

You reach forward, not with words, but by resting your forehead against his shoulder. The movement is so fragile, so quiet, it could’ve been missed. But he feels it. You feel him shift, arms wrapping around you without pressure, without force - just presence.

And for the first time tonight…

You let yourself cry.

No sobbing. No wailing.

Just silent, shaking tears pressed into his shirt. Hands curled against your own ribs. The kind of crying that comes from deep survival. From fear held too long. From knowing they found you. From wondering if you’ll ever outrun what you left behind.

Bucky says nothing.

He just holds you. Steady. Warm. There.

And in that dark room - between blood, silence, and shaking breath - you feel something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Not safety. Not peace.

But not alone.

Part 5

The next morning, the light filtering through the hospital blinds feels sharper than it should. You wake before anyone checks in, instinctively alert, because even rest feels like a stolen thing now. Something you can’t let yourself have for too long.

Bucky’s not in the chair.

For a second, your heart lurches-panic, automatic. But then you see the paper cup on the tray beside you. Coffee. Still warm. And a note, written in rough, familiar handwriting:

“Had to step out. Kids are good. Don’t go anywhere. – B.”

Your chest tightens. Not with panic this time, but something more complicated. Something closer to guilt.

You sit up slowly, your body still sore, head fuzzy with a dull ache from dehydration and the heavy sleep you’d fallen into. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You weren’t supposed to crack. Bucky’s offer was kind, too kind, but he didn’t sign up for this. Not the hospital. Not the reality of what your life really looks like behind the one hour you see each other once a week.

You reach for your phone and stare at the screen, unread messages piling up from work, missed shifts, automated reminders for overdue bills. The world didn’t pause while you rested. It just got louder.

You text Bucky.

You: “You don’t have to stay involved. I’ll handle it. I always do.”

It takes less than two minutes for the reply to come.

Bucky: “I know you can handle it. That’s not why I’m here.”

You stare at the words. You can feel the protest forming in your throat, even though you haven’t said it out loud yet. You’ve carried so much for so long that now, the idea of someone willingly stepping into the mess feels wrong. Like cheating. Like weakness.

You reply again, your fingers hesitating on the keys.

You: “I don’t want to drag you into this. It’s not your responsibility.”

You put the phone down, expecting silence or a gentle bowing out.

But instead, the door opens not a minute later.

It’s him.

He steps in quietly, holding a paper bag in one hand. His eyes meet yours immediately, and you can tell he already saw the message.

“Too late” he says.

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.

“Look” he says, coming to sit at the edge of the chair again. “You think this is me being dragged in. It’s not. You think I’m doing this because I feel bad for you. I’m not. I’m here because I chose to be. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

You look away, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not used to people staying.”

“I know” he says simply.

There’s silence for a beat. The weight of everything you’ve said or haven’t said, sits between you.

Then Bucky leans forward and pulls something from the paper bag: a bagel, still warm. He hands it to you.

“You don’t have to let me in all the way” he says. “But you do have to eat something.”

You huff a tired laugh, blinking back something suspiciously close to tears.

“I don’t know how to let people help.”

“You don’t have to know” he says. “Just don’t shut the door when they knock.”

You take the bagel, hands still trembling slightly, and nod.

Just once.

Because even if you don’t know how to lean, or trust, or rest. Maybe this is how you start.

You take a slow bite of the bagel. It tastes like cardboard at first, your stomach still not used to the idea of food but then the warmth sinks in, the realness of it. And you realize just how long it's been since you actually sat down to eat, not just survive.

Bucky doesn’t press you. He just sits there, one arm hooked over the back of the chair, his eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting it to suddenly betray you. The silence between you isn’t heavy. It’s calm. Steady. The kind of silence that comes with someone who isn’t trying to fix you-just stay.

“I’m being discharged later today” you say after a while. “They said as long as I rest, hydrate, eat. You know, the things I haven’t done in weeks.”

He nods, like he already knew that. Like he’s been planning for it.

“Carla’s keeping the kids for another night if you need it” he says. “I told her I’d bring them to school tomorrow if you’re not up to it.”

You pause mid-chew. “You really don’t have to do all that.”

“I know I don’t” he replies without hesitation. “That’s not the point.”

You shift, the IV tugging slightly at your arm. “I don’t want them to get used to you helping and then one day you’re just… gone.”

Bucky exhales slowly and leans forward again, this time resting both arms on his knees.

“You think I’m gonna ghost because things are hard” he says. “Because that’s what other people did.”

You nod. Quiet. Honest.

“I’m not other people” he says. “I’ve seen hard. I live with hard. What you’re doing? The way you’re protecting those kids, working every hour you can stand, dragging yourself through hell just to keep a roof over their heads, that’s not a burden. That’s something I respect the hell out of.”

You look at him, really look at him. For a moment, he’s not just the guy who hands you too much money for one hour of quiet work each week. He’s not just the ex-soldier with sad eyes and a quiet way of existing.

He’s someone who understands what it means to carry a past that never really leaves. To keep surviving even when it hurts.

You swallow the last of the bagel. “So what, you’re just going to keep showing up now?”

“Yeah” he says. “I am.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

He shrugs. “Peace of mind. Company. Maybe someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”

You raise a brow. “You think I have time to care about anyone else being broken?”

He smiles, small but real. “Exactly.”

You sigh, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “This is going to get messy.”

“I’m not afraid of messy” Bucky says. “But if you ever need space, or need me to back off, you say the word. I’ll never push.”

You nod again, slower this time. There’s still a knot of guilt and fear in your chest, but something else, too something like relief. A tiny seed of trust, cautious but alive.

You don’t say thank you. Not yet. You don’t know how to, not in a way that feels big enough for all this.

But you say “Okay.”

And in that small, fragile word, you let him in, just a little.

Enough to begin.

You glance at him after a long silence, the weight of everything between you still pressing at the edges of your ribs. The bagel wrapper crinkles in your hand, forgotten.

Then quietly, but not accusingly, you ask, “Did you… research me?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just leans back a little, like he expected that question eventually.

“Yeah” he says. No lies. No dancing around it. “After the first few times we worked together, I started wondering why someone like you only showed up for one hour a week, why you said you only have mostly time for one hour. Never asked for more time. Never said much. Always looked like you hadn’t slept.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, jaw tightening. “And you looked me up.”

He nods once. “Didn’t find much. You keep your name clean. No history. No accidents. No credit. That told me enough.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “So you assumed the worst.”

“No” he says gently. “I assumed someone was surviving in silence. I’ve seen that before.”

You look away, throat tight. “We weren’t friends, you know.”

“I know.”

You twist the hospital blanket in your hands. “You didn’t owe me anything. You still don’t.”

“I know that too.”

There’s a pause, the air heavy with words unsaid. Then Bucky adds, quietly “I didn’t help you because we were friends. I helped you because I saw you. And maybe you didn’t need a friend. Maybe you still don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit back and watch you burn yourself out trying to carry everything alone.”

You swallow hard.

Because part of you wants to yell at him. Tell him he crossed a line. That he shouldn’t have looked. That he doesn’t get to see you.

But another part, quieter, more tired, knows that he’s the first person who ever actually did.

And stayed.

You shift your gaze back to him, voice low. “So what now?”

“Now” he says, “you rest. I’ll get the kids to school. You let your body heal, and when you’re ready, we figure out the rest.”

You stare at him. Not a stranger. Not quite a friend. Something else. Something growing.

“Okay” you say again. A whisper, but a real one.

And you let yourself lean back. Just a little. Just enough.

You lean into the pillow, muscles aching with a weariness sleep can’t solve. For the first time in what feels like years, the weight on your chest shifts, just slightly. Still there, but not only yours.

Bucky sits with you for a while, not saying much. He doesn’t ask more questions. Doesn’t pry. He just stays. His presence is quiet, like gravity, undeniable, grounding.

A nurse comes in, checks your vitals, mutters something about discharge paperwork and fluids. Bucky stays through that, too. Doesn’t flinch when the nurse throws him a curious glance. He just nods, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Once the nurse leaves, silence settles again. You watch the daylight crawl across the tiled floor. You’ve never had time to just exist in a moment. There’s always a clock ticking. Always the next crisis waiting.

But now, here, it’s just this room. Just your breathing. Just him.

Eventually, you speak again. Quiet, like testing the floorboards of a new house.

“I don’t know how to let people help” you admit.

Bucky’s voice is steady. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let me try.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how much that hits you. How much it means.

He looks down at his hands, calloused fingers folding slowly together.

“I’ve lost people before” he says. “A lot of them. And I’ve let people walk away thinking they had to carry everything on their own. I don’t want to do that again.”

You nod slowly. It's not permission, not yet, but it's a recognition. Of what he's offering. Of what you might want to accept someday.

A minute passes. Then you exhale and murmur “The hospital bill’s bad.”

“I figured.”

“I took another job. Graveyard shift. Cleaning offices downtown. I just… I had to.”

His jaw tenses. Not in judgment, just understanding. Painful understanding. “How long have you been running like this?”

You almost laugh, but it comes out brittle. “Since I was seventeen. Since I got them out.”

He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t ask about your parents, or the night you left, or the court papers you forged to keep your siblings in school. He just hears the truth in your voice and doesn’t look away from it.

“Let me help” he says again. “Not to fix it. Not to take control. Just to stand beside you for once.”

You shake your head slowly. “This isn’t charity, Bucky.”

“I know” he says. “And I’m not offering charity. I’m offering a place to land when it’s too much.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And what you see there isn’t pity.

It’s recognition.

It’s someone who knows what it means to fight for survival while pretending you’re fine. Someone who’s stood in the fire and didn’t ask for rescue but found a hand anyway.

“I don’t want to need anyone” you whisper.

“You don’t have to” he says. “But if one day you want someone? I’ll still be here.”

The silence stretches.

Then, for the first time, you let your shoulders sag fully into the pillow. No tension. No forced edge.

And you nod. Just once.

It’s not surrender.

It’s trust. Or the beginning of it.

Part 4

The first few times you get flowers at work, you don't think much of it. But when you come home from work one night and see a big fat bouquet of flowers standing outside your door, you start to feel a little uncomfortable.

You unlock your apartment door and take the bouquet inside. Then you look at the bouquet and see that a small envelope has been attached to it. You take it in your hand and look at it closely. There is only your name on it, nothing else. No sender. No stamp from a company that could have sent the flowers.

Then you open it. Shocked, you realize that there are four pictures of you at work inside and a little note saying:

"You're so pretty, don't you know how dangerous that is?"

Immediately, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a lump forms in your throat that you barely manage to swallow away. 

You then quickly put the pictures and the note back in the envelope. You grab the bouquet and the note and stuff them deep into your trash can, deciding to empty it tomorrow morning, out into the big garbage can.

Then you go to sleep with a bad feeling.

_______________________________________

The next morning you are awakened by your doorbell. When you run to it and look through the peephole, you see no one. 

Just as you are about to go back to bed, the doorbell rings again. So you press on your speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"........"

But you get no answer. So you shrug your shoulders and turn away from the door. 

Then the doorbell rings again. 

This time you carefully turn the key in the lock and quietly open the door. You don't see anyone, but when you look on the floor, there is a box of chocolates with an envelope. Quickly you take it and go inside. You lock your front door again.

Then you sit down with both on the sofa, you open the box of chocolates and see that it is from a rather expensive brand. Then you open the envelope.

A picture of you in your bed appears. 

You take a closer look.

"Shit" your heart slips into your pants and then starts beating furiously as the realization shoots into your mind. 

"This must be from tonight, it's the new pajamas I just bought a few days ago and never wore until tonight."

You turn the picture over and see that there is a small note stuck to it with the message "So careless sleeping".

A glance at the clock shows that you are late for work. Quickly you change your clothes.

Then you pack the chocolates and the new envelope and throw it in the trash. Then you take the trash bag outside and throw it away before you leave for work. 

_______________________________________

While you are at work you get a message from Bucky.

"Hey Love, are you coming over for dinner tonight?"

"Hey Bucky, sure I'd love to, looking forward to it."

"See you later then, Love."

"See you tonight, Bucky"

Even though Bucky and you aren't together, you love that he calls you different cute pet names. Especially when he calls you 'Love', your heart does a little skip. He once told you that you are the only person he likes to give pet names and asked you if it bothered you, which of course you denied. It seems to make him happy when he gets to call you by nicknames.

Happily, the incident of this morning and last night fades into oblivion and you get on with your work.

_______________________________________

In the evening, you pack up your things and head for your car. On the way to the underground parking garage, you wish a few of your coworkers a good evening.

When the elevator comes to a stop, you get out. Your way to the car is lighted, which is exactly why you always pack there, not too far from the elevator and stairwell, but not too close either. 

You walk cozily to the car, fishing your key out of your pocket as you go.

"Ah, there it is" satisfied you click on the car remote controls and your car gives a signal. Then you go to the trunk and put your work bag in it. Then you close the trunk again.

When you go around the car, suddenly someone is standing there. Startled, you gasp. The person just looks at you. 

"Um, hello," you get no response. 

You keep walking to the driver's door, keeping your eyes on him. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, which doesn't help your anxiety.

Then as you reach the driver's door and pull it open. The person jerks into motion and comes toward you. You quickly jump into the car and lock the door. With shaky hands, you anxiously try to start your car. Which works after a few tries. At that very moment, the person has managed to get to the driver's side and knocks against your window with a creepy smile. Quickly you step on the gas and drive away from there, to Bucky. 

Arrived at his house. You sit in the car again for a few minutes to calm down.

"None of this means anything, y/n". 

"Your brain is just playing you something scary".

you try to reassure yourself.

You exhale deeply and let your head rest against your arms on the steering wheel.

The next moment there is a knock on your car window. 

Startled, your head jumps up and you see that Bucky is looking at you from outside, somewhat worried. His hand is still raised and he is about to knock again when your eyes meet.

Slowly a bit restless you open your door.

"Y/n, won't you come up, you've been sitting there for almost half an hour now, I saw you arrive from upstairs."

"Oh, uhh, sure" Nodding to him, you pull your car keys out of the lock. Then you want to get out. But it doesn't work, and frowning, you see that you're still strapped into the seat.

Your eyes snap again briefly to Bucky, who holds your door and watches you intently. Before you unbuckle yourself with a shaky movement.

Then you get out and smile at Bucky. 

"Let's go upstairs, Bucky".

"Hmm," his head nods at you in confirmation. As he does, you see his brow furrow briefly as he thinks about something.

He closes your car door behind you and you lock the car afterwards.

Together you go upstairs. He walks in front of you up the stairs and you briefly let your eyes wander over his handsome figure as you follow him.

Once inside, the smell of bolognese sauce hits you.

"I made spaghetti Bolognese, you like it so much, thought can't hurt to give you a little treat." 

"Thanks, Bucky, it smells good."

He gets two more glasses from the kitchen and joins you at the table. Afterwards, he pours you some water.

Then you start to eat.

You are not really hungry, you have a few forks, but otherwise you just poke around in the food.  You don't even notice that Bucky is already finished and puts his plate away.

"Y/n, did I cook that bad?" His voice sounds unexpectedly next to you.

"What, uh, no... you cooked well, but I'm not hungry."

"That's okay, how about you sit in the living room and pick a movie we can watch, maybe one of those Disney movies I haven't seen yet."

"Okay," you head into the living room and pick out the movie Cap and Capper.

Then you sit down on the sofa and pull your legs close to you. When Bucky arrives he sits down next to you and pulls himself against you. Immediately his warmth goes over to you, you lean a little more against him and your muscles start to relax a little.

"You tell me what's on your mind, I can literally hear your thoughts racing, Love."

"Nothing, I'm fine "

"Oh, come on, we both know that that was a lie, Love. So the truth, you know I don't bite unless you want me to" as you look up into his face you see him wink briefly at you.

You let out an exhausted sigh.

"I.... Hmm, I think I'm being followed or watched." 

"By who?"

"I don't know, I don't know Bucky" you look up at him and see how seriously he takes what you said.

"What makes you think you are being followed or watched?"

"For the last couple of weeks I've been getting bouquets with weird messages that really freak me out. And last night, I got another one, but this time the bouquet came to my house, so it was outside my door. "

Not being able to sit still any longer you get up and walk back and forth telling him more.

"I mean, all this time I thought maybe it was someone from work or a customer. But like that. That was really weird. But you know what the worst part was. This time there was not only a message inside, but also photos of me from last week. It was so creepy and gross, I threw both right in the trash and went to sleep, but this morning I was woken up by the doorbell and there was no one but a box of chocolates at my door. This one also had an envelope with another photo from tonight. Do you know what this means, Bucky," you say, swinging your arms wildly.

"This guy was in my apartment when I was asleep and it was probably also the person who gave me that creepy look when I was walking to the car earlier."

"That explains why you were so upset earlier, Love "

Bucky grabs your arms and pulls you onto his lap, then his arms embrace your body and your head is pressed against his chest.

"How about you stay here tonight, then I can take care of you and tomorrow we'll worry about making a report to the police."

"You believe me," with big incredible eyes you look at him.

"Of course, Love"

"The trash pickup hasn't come yet, maybe we can still take the envelopes and the bouquet of flowers and the chocolates to the police station and that way they can find him faster."

Then he gets up with you in his arms and goes into the bedroom. He puts you down on the bed. Then he searches through his closet and gives you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. 

"Here, change and I'll go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When you're done, come into the bathroom and you can brush your teeth too, with a new toothbrush, okay?"

"Okay."

Then Bucky's figure disappears into the bathroom.

You quickly change and then go into the bathroom to see that Bucky has just finished. He points to the packed toothbrush and then walks past you into the room. 

You brush your teeth and as you see your reflection in the mirror, you realize how much this whole thing has taken a toll on you in the first place. Messed up hair, dilated tired eyes. 

When you're done, you go back to Bucky and see that he has changed as well.

"Love, come here" as he lifts the covers for you.

"Is it actually okay for you, love, that we sleep here together?" 

"Yes, it's safer, isn't it?"

"It is, Love. I'll protect you."

You lie down in bed with him. Your head rests on his chest and you can hear his steady heartbeat. 

You notice how your heartbeat adjusts to his. Then his fingers stroke through your hair and soon you fall asleep.

_______________________________________

You wake up the next morning to the sound of dishes clattering loudly from the kitchen. 

You get up and walk over to the kitchen.

Bucky is at the stove and from the looks of it, he's cooking pancakes.

"Y/n, you're awake. That's good sit down, I'm almost done."

You sit down at the counter as told and a few minutes later you have a plate with some Pancakes in front of you.

"You eat up this time, Love."

You nod and take a first bite. The Pancake is perfect. You happily eat the Pancakes and Bucky watches you happily and eats his Pancakes.

Then you get ready, together you head over to your apartment.

Once there, Bucky goes straight to the garbage cans and looks for the stuff. You follow him and show him where you threw them in. Indeed, they are still there. 

Bucky takes them out and puts them in a bag. Then you go up to your apartment. You look for your key in your pocket and find it just before you come to a stop at your door. 

You're about to unlock the door when you notice it's slightly apart.

"Bucky?" you say tensely, swallowing once noisily.

"Yes."

"I locked the door yesterday, but now it's a little bit open."

Bucky reaches for your arms and strokes them reassuringly.

"I'll go in and check, you stay here."

"But what if someone is there?"

"Love, have you forgotten I'm a Soldier?"

"Of course not."

"Hey, look at me, nothing is going to happen in there, okay!"

"Okay!" You watch as Bucky's figure disappears into your apartment.

______________________________________

Bucky has been missing in your apartment for quite a long time, in your opinion. Just as you're about to check, you see a shadow pass by out of the corner of your eye. Quickly you turn there. But you don't see anything. 

So you want to turn back to the apartment, when suddenly you feel an arm around your waist, dragging you backwards into a very small room. You tried to scream, fear coursing through your veins, but a hand was placed over your mouth before you had the chance. 

So you kick around, but the person holding you press you against the wall.

"Is he your lover? Don't you know you belong to me? Hmm?"

Tears form in your eyes.

"Shhh, don't shout."

 "You don't want to be in trouble, do you?" His mouth is right next to your ear and he breathes into your ear. 

Then all of a sudden he presses himself even closer to you and you hear him sniffing you. Your body, on the other hand, starts to shake with fear. You don't manage to free yourself, he is stronger than you.

"You smell good, better than I imagined" he breathes into your ear. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up in disgust. How disgusting.

Then all of a sudden he is pulled away from you. Quickly you turn around and want to take a few steps to the side, when your legs give way, you slide along the wall to the floor. Now you can no longer hold your tears and let them run. 

Through your blurred vision you can see Bucky hitting the man as the man pulls out a knife but Bucky is prepared and immediately disarms the man. 

You let out a whimper. Which draws Bucky's attention to you. He immediately lets go of the man, who falls to the ground unconscious. 

Bucky approaches you, fearfully you press yourself further against the wall. Seeing this, he raises his hands reassuringly.

"It's okay, Love. It's Bucky." He kneels down to your eye level and suddenly with a jerk, Bucky gently pulls you into his arms. Immediately his lovely leather covered scent hits your nose and you press yourself even closer to him. 

Bucky gently lifts you up and out of the room past the man. Before he locks the room where the man lies inside. Then he calls the Police. 

Meanwhile, he takes care of you and tries to calm you down. After a while you stop crying, but your grip on Bucky doesn't loosen a bit.

When the Police arrive, Bucky explains what happened and shows him the man lying in the room. Then he shows them your apartment, which has been completely destroyed by the man. The Policeman also take the bag with the envelope and they secure it. The police take your and Bucky's personal data and ask if you want to file a complaint. You nod and the Police officer's take down the complaint.

Then one of the Police officer's addresses you.

"You shouldn't stay in the apartment today, your apartment is now a crime scene." "Do you have someone to stay with for a few days?"

"Yes, She's staying with me," Bucky answers for you. The Policeman looks at you once and you nod.

Together you and Bucky go to your Car, he takes the Car keys from you and leads you over to the passenger side. Then he pushes you into the seat and buckles you in. Before he quickly runs over and then drives to his apartment. 

Once at his place, Bucky makes sure you take a quick shower and then orders food for both of you.

When you are done with your shower and come into the living room in Bucky's clothes, he is already waiting for you with the film from yesterday. 

You sit down with him and together you watch the movie. When the doorbell rings, you flinch.

Concerned, Bucky looks over at you.

"It's just the food delivery guy, I'll be right back." you nod and Bucky pays for the food and comes back. He presses your favorite food into your hand and you have to smile.

"Thanks, Bucky"

"Anytime, Love"

_______________________________________

A week later you have confirmation from the police that the guy who attacked you at your apartment was also the one who sent you the bouquets to work. This was captured by surveillance cameras and also in the store where he bought the bouquets. The man was charged and ended up in jail. 

You, on the other hand, quit your apartment because you no longer felt safe there and moved in with Bucky after much convincing. He has enough space because he has a guest room and has arranged it with you, but most of the time you sleep with Bucky in bed and if you do not sleep with him but in your own. You wake up in the morning with him in your bed. You feel comfortable again and you are no longer afraid that you are being watched. Bucky also helped you a lot.

An hour before the mentioned time you are almost ready with your outfit, only your shoes are missing, you have decided to put on your sneakers to your simple but still classic Outfit. You put on a very warm Sweater so that you don't have to take a jacket with you and a shirt underneath, in case it gets too warm, you can still take off the sweater.

A few minutes before seven you hear a motorcycle stop in front of your house and when you look at the clock again, your watch reaches seven and the doorbell rings. Right on time. You quickly run to the door, grab your small bag and put on your sneakers. Then you open the door and a bouquet of flowers appears. Purple roses.

They are beautiful. 

"Bucky?" With a grin, Bucky comes out from behind the bouquet.

Your eyes travel over his figure. He's wearing his leather jacket from yesterday, which, by the way, looks great on him. Dark gray jeans and a dark blue colored hoodie highlight his eyes even more. All things considered, he looks just as handsome as he did yesterday, just a little more fixed up today.

"Hi Y/n, these are for you, I hope you're not allergic to them and you like them?"

"Thanks Bucky, they're beautiful and I'm not allergic to the flowers, I'll put them in a vase, wait for a few seconds alright?"

"Of course, I'll wait here."

You take the flowers and quickly run into the kitchen with them and fill up a vase with some water before putting the flowers in. Then you remember what the flowers mean, the message the purple rose is sending is "love at first sight" does that mean he likes you, really likes you. Your heart stops for a moment at the thoughts and starts racing with joy and a big grin graces your face, which you can't suppress.

Then you run quickly to the front door again. When you get there, you already see that Bucky is waiting for you on his motorcycle. This time he has an extra helmet for you. You like that very much. In case of an accident, his head is protected as well. You lock your front door and put your key in your purse as you walk up to Bucky.

He hands you the second helmet and puts on his. Then he looks to see if you need help putting yours on and helps you close it, checking to make sure it fits properly. 

"And are you excited, y/n"

"Yes, I am. How about you, Bucky?"

"Me too, pretty lady." 

At this you have to chuckle for a moment. 

Bucky smirks and sits down on the bike, then taps his thigh and you sit behind him.

After that you hold on to him again as he starts the engine and the two of you drive off.

You don't drive too long, then Bucky stops at a cozy little restaurant. Bucky turns off the engine. Then you get off and take your helmet off, Bucky does the same, then Bucky stuffs the helmets away.

As you take a better look at the Restaurant from outside, you notice Bucky reaching for your hand. Surprised at the gesture, you look first at your joined hands, then at him. 

"Is...is that okay?" Comes softly from him.

"Uh, yeah, it's fine." Your cheeks turn pink and your heart does a little skip with joy.

You see your answer bring a satisfied grin to his face and he tightens his grip on your hand a little, then pulls you to the front door of the restaurant. 

As he opens it for you, you hear a soft melody coming from inside. Buck follows you inside and leads you to a corner table by the window. Then an elderly lady approaches you both.

"Bucky, my dear, it's good to have you back." She pulls Bucky into her arms, he has a gentle smile on his face and hugs her back. You like the sight very much. 

When her gaze lingers on you, she lets go of Bucky again.

"Who is that pretty lady you brought, did you finally find a proper wife or is she your girlfriend? Then you could have introduced me to the pretty thing earlier" 

" This is y/n and she's not my girlfriend, not yet, so I would like to call her a girlfriend already, but we're just on a date to get to know each other and stuff? " Bucky gets confused while talking and becomes nervous, looking over at you uncertainly. You decide to help him out. 

"Hi nice to meet you, I'm y/n, maybe soon Bucky's girlfriend too if he's really serious." You smile kindly at the lady and hold out your hand to her, but before you can react she pulls you into her arms.

"I would love that, I'm Susie, nice to meet you, so what will it be for you, should I get the menu or do you already know, Bucky?"

"I already know, 2 times number 17 and once 44 and 97 for dessert and 2 cokes."

"Good choice my dear"

You and Bucky have an exciting conversation until the food comes. You ask him how he lives and he tells you about his crew and that he makes pretty good money as a mechatronics engineer with his own garage. You tell him what you do for a living and that your parents live in another city and that you moved here for your education and now stay here for work. 

Bucky ordered your favorite dish as the main meal, which totally surprises you and it turns out to be his favorite dish as well. For dessert we have a chocolate cake and a white chocolate cupcake. Both look stunningly delicious. You are delighted. 

You two enjoy it, you are drinking from your coke when Susie comes back and takes the big plates away from you both because they are empty, now you only have the two small plates with the cakes with 2 forks each so four.

"Y/n , I didn't know exactly which of the two cakes you would like better, that's why I took both because I think these are the best ones Susie makes and you should definitely have tasted them."

You have to chuckle for a second and think about which one to try to eat first.

"I can't decide Bucky, they both look so yummy." You pout.

"Then try them both, love," surprised, you look at him and see that he has gone red in the face because of what slipped out.

You have to suppress a giggle as he looks so cute. 

"You'll have to eat from both of them too then, Bucky". 

He nods at you and takes the first bite of the chocolate cake with his fork, you of the other. 

As you chew the piece in your mouth you can hardly believe your taste buds. It tastes so good. You immediately try the chocolate cake as well and it tastes just as delicious. 

When you've both finished eating, Bucky smiles at you. 

"Those two cakes are almost like a sin, but I'm glad I got to share them with you." 

"Oh, yeah, they're fantastic!" you agree.

You see that Bucky grabs his serviette and then he reaches for your face, he holds it gently and removes the chocolate sauce that has gotten lost on your cheek. 

"Oh, thank you"

"You're welcome" you notice the heat rising in your cheeks, but Bucky is still looking into your eyes with fascination and you can't manage to tear your eyes away from his, they hold you trapped.

"You're so beautiful, y/n," Bucky whispers, as if the moment would vanish if he said it louder.

Realizing he's still holding you, Bucky quickly lets go of you, nearly knocking over his glass in the process. You both have to laugh amused but happy. 

Then you talk some more and he also tells you what his full name is. You like his full name very much and you actually tease him a bit with it, which he likes, but doesn't admit.

When Bucky has to go to the bathroom for a minute, Susie comes out from behind the counter and comes up to you and speaks to you lovingly.

"You know, you're special to Bucky, even though this is a bit quick and this is very short notice with the two of you, I can tell you that Bucky is definitely serious about you. Bucky's eyes lit up when he looked at you just now and also when he talked about you this morning, he really likes you a lot, I've never seen that look on him before, but I know it from my husband and I can tell you that look is just dripping with affection and love. Bucky is serious, even though he may have made his life a bit dangerous with his biker crew, he wants to protect you and above all love you unconditionally if you allow him to." 

"Are you sure about that?" 

"Yes, very much actually, I've known Bucky since he was little and you mean the world to him since he met you yesterday, he's never been as happy as he is with you now the two of you were here and when he told me about you. "

"Wow."

Before she can say anything else, Bucky comes back from the bathroom.

Susie disappears behind her counter again and Bucky signals her after he sits down that we want the bill. 

"So what were you two talking about?"

"Ah, nothing much, she just told me she's known you since you were little and you used to be cute as a button." You giggle at the thought of a little boy eating Susie's chocolate cakes, but you don't tell him the rest of the conversation between you and Susie.

As it is getting late, you say goodbye to Susie after paying the bill. Then you both walk over to Bucky's motorcycle.

"Y/n, do you have to get up early tomorrow?"

"No, why?"

"I'd have another surprise, but we had to drive there, would that be okay with you, or would you prefer me to drive you home?"

" I...I'd like to see the surprise, Buck" 

"Good, that is good"

He hands you your helmet and he takes his and you both put it on. Then Bucky checks to make sure you have it on right and gets on the motorcycle. You get on the back. Then the two of you ride off. 

During the ride Bucky sometimes lets one of his hands wander to yours on his belly and you intertwine your hands. What brings the butterflies in your stomach again and again to fly around.

After you have been driving for a while you arrive at a mountain. Next to it flows a small river. You park at the foot of the mountain and together you start walking up. Bucky grabs your hand as you walk up the mountain and together you walk hand in hand up the mountain. 

At the top, you sit down on a bench. Then you let your eyes wander. From the mountain you can see down on the city and its lights sparkle at you both. A stunning sight. As you let your gaze wander against the sky, you see that the stars are shining extra bright today. 

"Beautiful aren't they?" you breathe into the evening air.

"Yes, indeed, beautiful." Looking over at Bucky, you see that he meant you, not the stars, as he was watching you.

Slightly, you smile. You've never smiled so much in your life.

_________________________________________________________________________

As you watch the lights for a while you notice a cold wind coming up and goosebumps form on your skin. Now you curse that you didn't take a jacket with you.

Before you can say anything to Bucky or turn to him, you feel him put something around your shoulders. When you look up you see that it is his jacket and he himself has moved closer to you.

"We wouldn't want you to freeze to death with such a beautiful sight."  He breathes softly into your ear and pulls his jacket a little tighter around your body before he sits close enough to you that you can feel his body heat. Immediately, you feel warmer already.

You smile and close your eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city streets. The wind was blowing lightly in your face and moving one of your hair strands.  Bucky felt the need to touch them, knowing they would be soft on his fingers.

You caught him staring at you, a blush creeping up on your cheeks, but he didn't take his eyes off you and this time he stared into your eyes.

 "You look beautiful when you blush," Bucky admitted.

 "Thank you."

_________________________________________________________________________

After midnight Bucky decides to drive you home as it is getting colder and colder and also in the city, the lights are going out more and more.

In front of your house Bucky stops. You get off, take off your helmet and give it back. Then quickly without Bucky noticing what you do you quickly smell his jacket again and get Bucky soft and yet rustic leather scent in the nose. You take off the jacket and give it back to Bucky. He doesn't want to put it on but you force him to take it back because it's his jacket and you are in front of your house. Then Bucky escorts you to the front door.

 "I really enjoyed our date, Y/N," he admitted. 

 "I'd like to ask you out again.  Of course, only if you really want to."

You nodded your head in agreement.  "Yes, that sounds like a very good idea."

You knew you couldn't let him walk out of your life. He had fascinated you in so many ways tonight that the thought of never seeing him again seemed impossible in your mind. You just wanted to keep him until the very ending.  This date shouldn't be the only one you guys have. You wanted more.  And you were willing to do anything to spend more time with him.

Bucky pulled his hand out of yours to push a strand of hair behind your ear.  That single light touch was enough to make you feel your heart beating wildly in your chest.

Then Bucky takes another step closer to you and rests his forehead against yours. The two of you can smell each other because of it. You two are so close that you can feel each other's breath slide over each other's skin.

"Thank you for giving me a chance for this date."

"You're welcome, it was a great night, Bucky." 

"You really should go in now, y/n"

"I should, I really should," you whisper, not really wanting to tear yourself away from him.

"Good night, y/n"

"Good night Buck, get home safe."