#teacher!sam

I grab his hand and place his palm on my breast as we continue kissing. He moans into my mouth and begins massaging through my shirt. I wrap my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair, tugging it.

“Fuck Y/N. I’ve wanted you for so long and now I don’t even know where to start,” Dean tells me, breathlessly.

“I want you too Dean,” I reply. “I want you to show me that sex is more than mediocre and disappointing. But I have to tell you, it’s been a very long time since I had good sex…like years.”

“Oh baby, let me take care of you and make love to you like a real man,” he whispers.

He pulls up off of me and reaches out to help me up,  I grab his hand and follow him up the stairs to my room. I am  indifferent to the fact that the bed isn’t made up, there are clothes lying on the floor  or that the shades are opened and letting the evening light in. No, all I am focused on is Dean in my room, leading me to my bed where we will become one.

At the side of the bed, Dean pulls me into his arms and kisses me deeply and lovingly.  His arms go around my body and I feel his fingers grab hold of the hem of my shirt. I pull away and lift my arms so he can remove the offending garment. 

I stand in front of him, unashamed of the way my body looks, of how the stretch marks mar my skin because the way Dean Winchester is looking at me, with lust and love in his eyes, I can’t help but feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Dean pulls his own shirt up and I get to watch as his skin appears. His toned, defined muscles bulge as he maneuvers the shirt over his head and drops it beside him.  I reach out and run my hand up from his stomach to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat thumping against his chest bone. He is the sexiest creature I’ve ever seen. 

Dean looks at me, silently questioning if it’s okay to continue and I nod. He reaches around behind me and unclips my bra. I slide the straps down my shoulders and let the material drop. Dean’s eyes roll down and he groans, a faint “Motherfuck” leaving his lips. He cups my boobs in his massive hands, squeezing and kneading the flesh as my nipples harden against his palm.

“You’re so beautiful Y/N,” Dean tells me before leaning down and sucking a hard nub between his lips. My head automatically rolls back on my shoulders as I cry out in ecstasy. Dean changes sides and gives the other the same treatment.

My hands on his shoulders begin running up and down his arms and over his shoulder, down his back. He is so strong, so firm, so powerful. I am like putty is his hands.

“Dean,” I whisper and he answers with a hum against my tit. “I need you. I want you inside me.”

Dean gives one more suckle to my nipple before he lets it pop out of his mouth and stands to his full height.  He smiles as he reaches for the button on my jeans and unsnaps it then unzips them.

Our eyes never waver as he gets the pants open and slides them over my hips until gravity takes over and they fall to the floor. I do the same to him until we are both standing in front of each other in just our skivvies. 

I glance down and see the tent in his boxers and I realize that Dean is much bigger than I’ve ever had. He is longer and looks thicker and I can’t help but whimper as I think of the burn of the stretch as he enters me.

“Lay on the bed, sweetheart.”

I do as he requests and lay back with my head propped onto a pillow. I do not want to miss a second of what is about to happen. I want to watch and appreciate it all.

Dean once again wordlessly checks in to make sure I am okay before he slides his fingers into the top of my panties and pulls them down over my knees and off my feet. I can already feel myself dripping onto the comforter below me.

“Can I taste you?” Dean asks quietly. “I need to taste you.”

“Please,” I reply and he falls to his knees between mine.

Running his hands up my thighs, he pushes until I am laid out before him, nothing to be hidden. He looks at my core and gives out his own whimper as he leans in and kisses my mound. I can feel his breath on my slit and I revel in it.

Using his thumb and middle finger, Dean opens me up and blows gently on my clit. I shiver at the sensation and he chuckles. After another puff of air hits me, I close my eyes only to have them pop open wide when his tongue licks a stripe from my entrance to my clit. 

I cry out soundlessly as he begins to suck my clit between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. I feel pressure at my entrance as Dean slowly inserts a finger. He begins thrusting his digit in and out of me, slow and steady. 

About as soon as I get used to this, he adds another, pumping a little faster and a little deeper. He is two knuckles deep when I have my first orgasm of the night. My back arches off the bed as my hand fists the comforter while my pussy clenches his fingers and I feel that band snap.

“Mmmm,” Dean hums against my clit, never stopping his ministrations. He lifts his head and looks at me. I can see the evidence of my climax on his lips and chin. “You taste delicious, baby. Best pussy I’ve ever eaten.”

“Dean,” I whine as he starts scissoring his fingers inside me. “Dean, god. Dean, please. Get up here and fuck me. I need you inside me now.”

“Baby,” he says as he kisses my oversensitive clit. “I’ve got to open you up.”

“No, I want to feel it. I want to feel the burn.”

Dean stands up and pulls his boxer down and yep, I was correct in my previous thoughts. He is a lot bigger than I’ve ever had. Not only is his cock long but the girth is astonishing! I know I’m going to be walking funny for a few days. 

Oh, won’t Kasey get a kick out of that!

“Do you have condoms?” he asks, as he wraps his hand around his manhood and rubs up and down the length.

“No. I’m clean and on the pill. If you’re clean, it’s okay.”

Dean groans and rolls his eyes. “Fuck, I love you!” he exclaims and if I hadn’t been so in the moment I might would have questioned that. 

He climbs on the bed, on his knees between my legs. He runs his tip up my core, gathering my slick and bumping my clit before he lines up and begins pushing into me.

The pleasure and pain of the burn as he stretches me open is phenomenal. Dean takes it slow, only feeding a little bit at a time until he is fully seated within me. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yea,” I nod. “Just give me a minute.”

After I get used to being so full, I lift my hips, my sign to tell him it’s okay to move. He pulls out just as slowly as he pushed in, until only the tip remains. He repeats the process over and over, adding kisses and nips to my lips and shoulders as we continue moving in sync.

I feel that same band as earlier tighten and tighten and I know I’m close to having another orgasm.

“De-,” I call quietly, getting his attention. “I’m close.”

“Me too baby. Me too. Where do you want-”

“On my stomach.”

“Okay.”

Dean thrusts in hard and deep and I cry out as I clench and spasm around him. I see nothing but white as I continue to twitch and jerk.

“Fuck, Y/N! I’m going to cum,” Dean says as he pulls out and jacks himself until his cum squirts out onto my stomach, chest and tits.

I run my finger through the mess and plop it into my mouth as Dean watches. I smile as I suck his juices and go back for more.

“Damn, girl. You’re dirty,” Dean laughs as he crawls backward off the bed and grabs a towel that just so happens to be lying on the floor. I watch as he wipes himself off and then turns to me but I’ve gotten most of it gone.

“Didn’t know you were like that,” he states.

“What can I say. I like to swallow,” I laugh as he groans.

“Remind me next time to put that mouth to better use.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re right, it did,” Lucifer calmed the waves, which made his little brother beam at him proudly. “And thanks for the pie, really. That’s a nice surprise.”

“You know what they say; eat well and you’ll feel well,” Gabriel grinned as he cut the pie on the table into pieces.

“You just made that up, Gabe.”

“Still true, right, Mr. Winchester?”

Sam was surprised to suddenly be addressed, but managed to smile back at the young boy.

“Of course,” he said and took the plate Gabriel offered him. “And thank you for the invitation, that’s very nice of you.”

“It’s the least I can do, after all, you looked out for Luci.”

“Gabe, please,” Lucifer said a little embarrassed, but Gabriel continued as if he didn’t hear him.

“I know he can be a little difficult sometimes, but he’s actually very nice and kind.”

“Gabe! Would you stop belittling me? I’m sitting right next to you!”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, giving Sam an amused smile, and handed a plate with pie to his brother too. It was very hard not to laugh, as this whole situation really reminded Sam of his own teenage years and how he used to bicker with his brother.

“Anyways, thank you,” he eventually said, clearing his throat. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Gabriel smiled and took a bite from his pie. “Luci should be back on his feet soon, he’s already getting better with the crutches.”

“Yeah, next week everything will be back to normal,” Lucifer said, a cocky smile on his lips. “At least that means no PE for a while.”

“Don’t think you’ll have those hours off,” Sam reminded him, returning the suggestive glare he got. “You can use the time to catch up on your homework.”

“Great, more work,” Lucifer huffed annoyed.

“School is school, Luci,” Gabriel laughed, his pie already gone and now taking his own coffee. “You always tell me to take it serious, you should too.”

“You have to take it serious,” Lucifer rolled his eyes at his brother. “You’re fourteen! I’m eighteen, I should be working, not sitting in a classroom.”

Sam raised a brow, curious what Lucifer meant by that.

“I told you, you don’t have to!” Gabriel shook his head. “Michael earns enough so we can go to school and with my babysitting we can afford some stuff. If you ditch school, you’re wasting a good chance, Michael said that too.”

“Michael, Michael, Michael! I can’t stand this name anymore!”

“Michael is your brother, right?” Sam asked and Lucifer let out a sound of disgust, to which Gabriel smiled.

“Yeah, he’s our brother. He works in a big company and only comes home on the weekends, otherwise it’s just us. Lucifer hates him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Lucifer scoffed. “I just can’t stand his arrogant attitude.”

“Whatever,” Gabriel waved and leaned towards Sam. “Michael wants Luci to go to college next year, but he’d rather work in a bike shop in town.”

“Because it’s fun, Gabe!” Lucifer said annoyed. “I am good with my hands, why should I waste more years in school when I can earn actual money with that?”

“Well, he’s not wrong, you know,” Sam threw in and looked at Lucifer. “I saw your grades, you’re not dumb at all. Why waste the chance?”

Lucifer gave him a look of utter betrayal and crossed his arms.

“I’m not a nerd like Michael,” he huffed. “After this year I’ll never set a foot into a school building again.”

Gabriel wanted to say something, but the doorbell rang and stopped him. He jumped up, excusing himself and went to answer it. Sam took the chance to switch places and sat down next to Lucifer.

“Lucifer, seriously, why don’t you stay in school? You’re damn clever, the last year you had straight A’s in almost every class.”

“I hate school, okay?” Lucifer said frustrated and glared at Sam. “I hate sitting there and bore myself to death. Why do you think I wanna leave?”

“Do you really wanna do the bike shop thing? That’s what you like?”

“Of course! You saw the bike outside? I built it! With my own hands!” Lucifer sat up and looked towards the corridor, where Gabriel’s voice came from. “I’m good at this and I can stay in town if I do it. If I go to college... I would have to leave my brother.”

Now Sam finally understood. He smiled and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss on the surprised boy’s lips, before getting some distance between them again.

“Then stay,” he said quietly and smiled. “If this is what you want, I won’t say a word again.”

Lucifer looked at him for a long moment, a relieved look on his face. Eventually, he leaned his head against Sam’s shoulder, who in return wrapped an arm around him tightly.

“I can’t leave him alone, he needs me...”

“It’s fine, I get it, really,” Sam assured him and squeezed the blond boy’s shoulder.

The door in the corridor was shut loudly and Lucifer sat back, making sure the way they both sat on the couch was not suspicious. Sam could have gotten up of course, but he kind of wanted to stay there. It was more comfortable like this.

“Luci?” Gabriel walked in and looked up from a letter in his hands, frowning for a moment at the new seating situation. He quickly caught himself again though and walked over to his chair. “There’s a letter for you. It’s from Bobby.”

Lucifer made an attempt to jump up and grab the letter from his brother, but he had already sat down, so Lucifer just wailed his arms awkwardly until Gabriel handed him the letter. The older brother didn’t waste a second before opening it and pulling out the paper.

“Good news?” Sam asked while Lucifer went over the letter, his eyes sparkling more with each word.

“I got the job!” Lucifer suddenly screamed excited. He threw the letter on the table, grabbed Sam’s face and kissed him without a warning. Sam ripped his eyes open, completely stunned and tense until Lucifer pulled back again. “Bobby gave me the job, Gabe!”

Gabriel, however, just stared at his brother in complete shock. It took Lucifer a whole minute before he realized what he had just done and when he did, his jaw dropped and all color faded from his face.

“Oh, shit...”

“Did… did you just…” Gabriel’s eyes shifted between Lucifer and Sam, as he tried to find the right words to say something and completely dumbfounded.

“It’s not what you think, really, Gabe!” Lucifer quickly said, but he sounded like the worst liar in the world. He looked at Sam almost panicking, who had no idea what to do either.

“Okay, wait a minute,” Sam suddenly said and held up his hands. His mouth felt completely dry but he had to do something. “I think we need to clarify something here.”

“Yeah, for example why my brother just kissed his teacher,” Gabriel scoffed. “I’d like that clarified, for starters.”

“I didn’t…” Lucifer began and let out a frustrated growl. “Okay, yes! I did, but I didn’t mean to, okay?”

“Yeah…” Gabriel gave him a smirk. “I always kiss people without meaning to, too...”

“Gabe, just shut up!” Lucifer groaned and shook his head. “That’s not your business, okay? I got the damn job, I can earn money and stay in town!”

“And meanwhile screw around with your teacher?”

“Sorry, but can I say something?” Sam finally interrupted, not wanting the situation to explode even further. “Gabriel, this really isn’t how you think it is. Your brother just forgot himself for a moment. Can we just forget that happened?”

Gabriel huffed and eyed Sam closely, but eventually let out a sigh.

“You know, Luci,” he said, looking at his brother. “I thought you’d talk about such things with me.”

“About what things? There’s nothing to talk about!” Lucifer tried to defend himself, but Gabriel shook his head.

“Listen, I know you’re eighteen and you can do whatever you want, I get it.” Gabriel held up a hand to stop Lucifer from interrupting him again, looking over. “I don’t care who you’re dating or anything, but don’t lie to me, Luci… you know Michael always lied, don’t do the same, please.”

The whole tension of the situation faded at Gabriel’s words. Sam didn’t know what was happening when Lucifer suddenly looked completely hurt and pushed himself up to catch his brother, who threw himself in his arms with tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Gabe, please don’t be mad,” he said calmly and rubbed Gabriel’s back. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Gabriel mumbled something Sam couldn’t understand and Lucifer patted him one last time on the back before Gabriel let himself fall back into his chair and wiped his eyes.

“Look, I really didn’t mean to do that, okay?” Lucifer said quietly and took one of his brother’s hands. “I didn’t think about what I did…”

“Yeah, you didn’t… next time just freaking tell me, will you?”

“Next time?” Sam chuckled and raised a brow, earning a warning glare from Lucifer.

“Of course I will,” the blond said and turned back to his brother. “But, I can stay here, isn’t that great? I can work for Bobby and don’t have to leave town!”

“So, I won’t have to live just with Michael?” Gabriel asked hopefully and Lucifer smiled.

“As if I’d let you! As soon as I earned enough money we can get our own apartment and you can do whatever you want, what do you think?”

“Anything I want?” Gabriel’s eyes lightened up.

“Absolutely anything,” Lucifer assured him, finally letting go of his brother’s hand. “I know you want me to go to college, but I don’t wanna leave you here with Michael.”

“I don’t really want that either,” Gabriel laughed and shook his head. “He can be a dick. So, what about you two?”

Lucifer seemed to have expected the change of topic and nodded.

“Are you two… something?”

“I don’t know, are we?” Lucifer asked and looked up at Sam, searching for support.

“I don’t think we are at this moment,” Sam said and tried to relax a little.

“Yeah, you’re kinda in a tricky situation, aren’t you?” Gabriel asked and couldn’t hold in a grin. “I mean, you being a teacher and all that.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sam nodded and crossed his arms.

“Not much longer, though,” Lucifer added mischievously. “I’m done in a few months.”

Sam smiled, not really knowing why. This was a strange topic to talk about with a fourteen year old, but Gabriel seemed to be pretty mature for his age, despite the childish demeanor. And he had been more surprised than anything, just like Sam, so his reaction wasn’t too over the top. Sam had never thought this would be anything serious, but in this moment he actually asked himself if this could work somehow.

“Well, it’s your life as I said,” Gabriel suddenly said and shrugged. “But, I kinda like you, Mr. Winchester, and I-”

“Please, just Sam,” the older one smiled. “I think we can drop the Mr. at this point.”

“Okay, Sam then. I kinda like you and if Luci is happy, I’m not gonna complain.”

“Oh, stop talking Gabe,” Lucifer groaned and hid his face in his hands. “You’re only making things worse.”

Sam and Gabriel shared a smile, but both decided to stay silent. Lucifer really wasn’t one for chick flick moments, that was obvious, so this whole situation was kind of embarrassing for him.

Since it was getting late, Sam finished his coffee quickly and told the brothers he’d have to leave and stood up. Lucifer wasn’t too happy about that, judging the look on his face, but Sam smiled at him softly.

“I have a lot to do, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I would stay this long and you need to recover, remember?”

“Yeah, probably,” Lucifer sighed and then shook his head. “What about the homework, will you bring it over again or do I have to catch up on it in school?”

“I guess we can drop the homework for the week,” Sam laughed. “It’s not like you’d need the practice, right?”

“Seriously?” Lucifer raised a brow. “You’ll let me off the hook?”

“Just for this week,” Sam reminded him and winked. “Gabriel, it was nice meeting you.”

“It was, yeah,” Gabriel smiled and got up from his chair, singing Lucifer to stay down. “I’ll take you out if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Sam turned to Lucifer, who looked as if he wanted to say something, but for some reason couldn’t. “I’ll be waiting for your return, okay?”

“Okay,” Lucifer said with a weak smile, which widened a little when Sam leaned down and kissed his forehead. Gabriel turned around the moment he realized what he was about to do, which made Sam smile too.

“See you soon, Luce.”

Sam and Gabriel walked over to the door, but when the young boy opened it he held Sam back for a moment.

“Sam, can I ask you something?” He sounded a little embarrassed, which surprised Sam.

“Anything, Gabriel. What’s wrong?”

“Please don’t hurt Luci, okay?” Gabriel said and looked at the older one with sad eyes. “He always plays tough and mean, but he’s not like that at all and he’s been hurt too much already. It’s been awhile since I saw him like this, I don’t want to see him hurt again.”

Sam smiled the most assuring and warm smile at those words.

“I would never hurt him, Gabriel,” he said. “It’s very sweet how you care about your brother.”

“He’s my family,” Gabriel said with a little pride in his voice. “He’d do the same for me, I know that.”

“He would, yes. I can see that. I promise you, I won’t hurt your brother. Not in a million years.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel smiled a little relieved now.

“Make sure he rests, okay?”

“Of course I will. And thank you for coming over!”

“It was my pleasure. See you soon, Gabriel!”

Gabriel waved at Sam as he crossed the little lawn and got into his car, then closed the door and walked back to his brother. Lucifer still sat on the couch and gave him a weird look when he stepped in.

“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?” Lucifer asked, to which Gabriel shook his head and sat down next to him.

“Why should I be disappointed?” Gabriel was a little confused by this question.

“Come on, how could you not be?”

“Because you seem to like someone again? Luci, for the last three years you’ve been hiding in your shell, do you think I didn’t notice that?”

Lucifer blinked at his brother confused.

“You might fool people who don’t know you, maybe even Michael, but not me,” Gabriel tilted his head and smiled. “I saw the way you looked yesterday, even after breaking your ankle. You’re happy, Luci. Even now I can see the life in your eyes.”

“You sound like I’m a chick, stop it,” Lucifer scoffed and turned his head away.

“I’m not disappointed, okay? That’s what I wanna say. Sam obviously likes you and you like him, or not?”

“I guess, yeah…” Lucifer mumbled and sighed. “He’s still my teacher and like… twelve years older or so…”

“Now you sound like a chick,” Gabriel said and rolled his eyes. “Stop being childish.”

“I’ll show you childish,” Lucifer huffed and pinched his brother’s sides, causing him to screech and jump back.

“That’s it! You can make your own dinner tonight!” Gabriel over-dramatically pushed himself up and crossed the room.

“Come back here, you little punk!” Lucifer shouted, earning a giggle from the kitchen.

“Not gonna happen!” Gabriel whistled and loudly got pots out of a cupboard. “I’m gonna eat like a king tonight and you’ll get nothing, because you’re being childish!”

“My blood will be on your hands!” Lucifer fake-cried with a huge smile on his face, to which Gabriel simply began humming and ignored him.

It was a confidence he hadn’t known he possessed; or certainly, hadn’t tapped into for some time. Just a forthright determination to keep going, to dive in. Was this planned? No. Was he missing a yoga class? Yes. Did he give a shit?

Absolutely not.

Not when you were looking like a Parisian daydream in that soft grey sweater, eyes finding his across the wide expanse of tables and couples and Leo’s knowing smirk from over at the coffee bar. When your gaze met his, Sam knew a warm, sinking sensation -- like sliding into a bubble bath. And there were bubbles brimming inside as he stood, pulled out your chair.

“Coffee?” For the occasion, Leo had affected a faint French accent, appearing at Sam’s elbow with a small tray, two cups of espresso and a plate of biscotti in hand. She winked up at him, and his whole face heated.

“Merci,” he replied, sitting back down and meeting your eye again. A small, kissable smile played about your lips, and he pushed away the memory of the last time he’d thought about kissing you.

The time that you’d left.

The stink of that shared memory rose higher than the sharp scent of the coffee, tempered a little by the chocolate edges of the biscotti, and the swell of Leo’s perfume. Sam reached for his cup first, taking a sip that burned, but did his best to mask it with a small cough.

Leo levelled him with a concerned, almost motherly look, winged eyeliner jarring a bit with the tenderness there. “Anything else you need, give me a shout,” she said quietly, squeezing his shoulder. “I have some macarons coming up soon. I’ll bring them over when they’re ready -- er, I mean, pret.”

You laughed, reaching for your cup. “Thanks, Leo.”

“Anytime, Sparky.”

Sparky.

Sam’s eyes lit up as he leaned closer over the table, this new confidence infecting him with an almost gleeful amusement -- he was here, you were here, and you were laughing. Smiling. Dipping a piece of biscotti into your espresso as though that awful night hadn’t happened. “Sparky, huh?” he teased.

You japped the biscotti in his general direction. “That is a Leo-only nickname, Teach,” you said, grinning now. “And sometimes Scott. And as cute as this is, you know we have to get to the uncomfortable stuff soon, right?”

His stomach dropped.

It was kind of amazing, really, that you could switch gears like this. Smiling and laughing, but with this crackling undercurrent of intention. Determination. “Yeah,” he said, trying to keep a squeak of nervousness from his voice. “Sure.”

Licking your lips, twisting your fingers -- the biscotti and coffee lay forgotten as the minutes ticked by. Sam occupied himself with watching the flicker of the candle in the middle of the table, with the delicate notes of jazz wafting around the restaurant. No, café.

What was it like in Leo’s head, he wondered idly, sitting there in the quiet, in the waiting. To just up and change her own world like this, month by month -- comedy club, dance club, Parisian café. If he were to visit here next week with you, what would he find? A sushi restaurant? A rock-climbing gym?

She caught his eye then, twirling with her tray from one small table to another. Kissing the air and distributing pink macarons, chatting animatedly with everyone she encountered. Leo was so free, he realized. So unencumbered by the fragile anxieties that had somehow managed to trick him into thinking they were stronger.

Sam had spent most of his life waiting, biding his time in the margins for permission to ford ahead. So this time, he rushed the gate.

“I’m sorry for not checking in with you,” he blurted, visibly catching you by surprise. Your fingers stilled, diving beneath the table, and he kept going, even as your jaw dropped. “You were upset that night,” he continued, “and I should’ve checked in the next day. I should’ve made sure you got home safe.”

You blinked. “Sam --”

But he wasn’t done. Nothing was planned. He had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next, but he opened it just the same: “My mom would’ve kicked my ass, honestly, and look, I don’t know if it was me, or Bucky, or just a bunch of things, but I should’ve checked in and I didn’t, and I’m really sorry, and I like you way too much to just let this…”

Oh.

There it was. Out in the open. Sitting smug and sweet as Leo’s smile -- how had she managed to sneak up on him again? “Seems like a good time for macarons, no?” she purred, setting down a plate of four plump ones. “You guys have fun.”

Your gaze never left his face; he loved the way it felt. Loved even more the slow advance of your fingers across the table, searching out his skin, his touch. It was impossibly cheesy, and yet, your grip was home, the warmth of your palm and the dawning of your slow, beautiful smile.

“I like you, too, Teach.”

Sam breathed, all the pent-up tension slithering from his body; he fairly sagged against the table. So relieved was he, the sound of your voice -- this time emerging shakily -- almost didn’t register: “I have something to say, though.”

You winced, hand leaving his, coming back to writhe in a tangle on the table in front of you. He hated seeing you nervous, Sam decided firmly. Hated seeing you even the slightest bit upset. “I’ve got some stuff, Sam,” you admitted. “Stuff that sent me out of your apartment that night.”

A sip of coffee made your fingers tremble even more; screw that, Sam thought, his own hands shooting out to take yours. The table was small enough that he didn’t have to reach far. He gave you a gentle squeeze. “You can tell me anything,” he said softly, though nerves churned in his stomach. He had no idea what was coming next.

Lips upturned -- it was almost a smile -- you took a deep breath of your own, and took him back nearly three years.

It had started with a note, strangely enough, taped to the outside of your apartment door, right under the number plate. No name, just a smiley-face, drawn in a quick hand, purple ink; looking almost like a child’s birthday party invitation. At the time, you were heading out to a shift, backpack slung over one shoulder, a searing travel mug in one hand. Not even thinking twice about it, you’d swept the envelope from the door and hurried down to catch the bus.

Six hours later, you’d found time to open it.

Hey there, neighbour!

A smile brimming wide, you’d finally “met” the newest resident of your floor. She was quiet, fond of personalized notecards and colourful ink, and signed her name with an artistic flourish that had you intrigued. A flower bloomed from the H in her name.

Helen Cho.

On the way home from your shift, you stopped in a bodega, half asleep, to pick out a thank-you card. There’d been a moose on the front, if you recalled correctly.

Back and forth, back and forth. Never putting a face to the name, only vague clues: the hushed click of her apartment door closing in the midmorning, as you snatched a few hours of sleep on a battered futon. Once, a box of Girl Scout cookies, nudged against the edges of your welcome mat. More notes, more cards, until one day, you opened your door to see her face -- mouth curved prettily with surprise, and amusement in her eyes.

“Hey, Pen-pal.”

Pen-pals, to close neighbours, to best friends. She had been in grad school at the time, keeping the oddest hours, but friendship had found a way. Squeezing out through the time constraints, emerging in new traditions: Thursday night movies; monthly manicures; a book club for two, reading only childhood favourites.

During your backpacking trip, Helen had been your constant point of connection -- she’d check in frequently; display your postcards all over her apartment. Picked you up from the airport dusty and exhausted, with a heart full with love for Morocco, Ethiopia, and Egypt.

And she hadn’t been alone.

Seeing your captain outside of the station was always an odd experience; Steve liked to keep firmer lines and boundaries than most you’d worked with, and though he was always open to handing over the cash for a round at the bar after a particular gruelling series of shifts, and he had a good memory for birthdays and milestones, you could honestly say you had never seen him in anything but his dress blues or his station uniform.

At the airport, hand held fast in Helen’s, smile brimming under a pair of sunglasses and a ballcap, but you’d know him anywhere. He looked down at her adoringly, chatted amiably to you, and sat up front with the Uber driver to let the two of you chat about your travels in the backseat.

As a pleasant surprise, though, Steve was just sort of absorbed into the friendship. Joining in for movie nights, the occasional tidy-up at the manicurists’, and brought along his mint-condition set of Hardy Boys books for discussions. It was a third-wheel situation, but the third-wheel seemed to rotate sustainably between you and Steve. He and Helen were falling in love, deeper and deeper with every passing day, it seemed; but your friendship could endure it all.

Until that Christmas. Almost a year since they’d met. Double dates had started -- with Scott and Hope, Clint and Laura. Friends from Helen’s work, people you knew only by name. Helen began rescheduling those Thursday nights, but it was fine, completely fine. The friendship could easily ebb and flow around these big changes, and you both welcomed the opportunity to make that happen -- because this was a bond that could last.

Two spheres of your life had begun to bleed together. Helen had actually met Steve at the station; she’d come in to drop off a souvenir calendar you’d sent along for the breakroom, featuring the most gorgeous pictures of Morocco. And while you were happy for them and with the balance struck, there was...something holding you back.

A sense of reservation, maybe; a tiny, flickering fear that perhaps things were moving too quickly, that Steve, in particular, was moving too fast. The only thing you’d heard about his personal life was that he’d had a long-term relationship end poorly. Poorly enough that he’d had to take time off work.

Helen had lived in an NYU bubble for years, rarely having enough time to date, lost in her study groups, research projects, and TA responsibilities. Standing on the outside, you sometimes wondered if they careening towards a moment of reckoning. Hearts full, head over heels, a quick and heady love that consumed.

You’d seen the first crack, though they hadn’t.

An argument -- not uncommon, nothing major. Something simple, about a wedding date for one of Helen’s research friends. At this point, she’d graduated, and was well on her way to being hired for the same practice she’d once done a work placement at. The wedding was something she’d been looking forward to for months, but, just three days before, Steve had backed out. Pleading work stuff.

He’d called you into his office the next day, the unspoken truth curled there on the desk between you: there was no work stuff, no obligation. And he was silently, in so many words, hoping you would keep the secret for him.

And, sitting a few days later as Helen’s wedding date, you’d come to the realization that, in your complicit silence, you’d simply shoved a knife in that first crack and wedged it wider.

More and more cracks. A bad fire left you and Steve shaken, but he told Helen, for the both of you, that it was just another shift; a professional disappointment had Helen crying in your kitchen, unwilling to let him see her so vulnerable. Sandwiched between the better poles of the relationship, you’d eventually come to feel crushed beneath it. Joy curdled to resentment.

The months sped by in flashes of disappointment, of concealment. Both Helen and Steve used you as a go-between. As with any relationship, there were highs and lows, and you bore the brunt of each. By the time Thanksgiving had arrived, and Steve was calling you into his office to look at engagement rings online, you were torn apart with the sick weight of too many secrets.

Helen was having doubts.

Steve was, too, but had chosen to push those down and aside in favour of diving even deeper. “I waited too long with Sharon,” he confessed. “We were together for such a long time, and no commitment. I don’t want to make the same mistake here.”

Mouth dry, you’d watched him scroll through designs, tossing out phrases like princess cut and conflict-free diamonds. Meanwhile, a conversation with Helen bounced around in your head:

“Chicago, can you believe it? For Dr. Banner’s practice. He’s retiring, and he handpicked me to take over the clinic. This would be huge, so big. He’s written books, he’s helped so many people. And I could be a part of that.”

It had all come crashing down.

Anger -- frustration after months of being utilized, more sounding-board than friend or colleague -- all tangled together with fear of Helen leaving, already missing her. As Steve scrolled through pictures, quietly dreaming of marriage, of righting the wrong from the messy break-up that had nearly upended his whole life, you sat there quietly miserable.

What you wouldn’t give to be excited about this proposal; thrilled over the job offer.

The weight of all of that responsibility just settled on your shoulders, and you weren’t sure what to say. Only a pleading text and then phone call to Helen -- “Talk to him, Lennie, please. Just tell him now, don’t wait until Thanksgiving” -- and then, a collapse. Structure giving out under the weight of the flames.

On your couch, fully clothed. Sleeping until the next day, when Steve had hammered on your door, saying his parents had just arrived, Helen’s were on the way, and were you even dressed yet?

Numbly, you’d watched it all unfold. Two dinner courses; happy parents; Helen and Steve joyfully holding onto rosy secrets. Over dessert, he’d sunk down, into the plush rug beneath the dining room table, and you’d simply shovelled more pie into your mouth, hoping to choke, hoping to disappear, hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t your fault.

“Did they blame you?” Sam asked quietly, looking down at his plate. At some point during your story, he’d munched his nervous way through all of the macarons. A few pink crumbs lingered on his shirt; you itched to brush them away.

“No,” you said. “But I did. Really badly. It messed me up, Sam. I ran out of the apartment and locked the door, didn’t come out for two days. I...I didn’t say goodbye to Helen.” You blinked away a few tears, and then swallowed the past. Let it strengthen you, not tear you down. Just like the counsellor had taught you.

“I threw myself into work.” A sip of water -- Leo had quietly brought over two elegant wine glasses at some point. “But Steve and I were always walking on eggshells around each other. It was tense. So bad. And then just the weight of all of that...my best friend had the career opportunity of a lifetime, and she got caught off-guard in front of everyone. And there was just...God, it was just a big mess.”

He swallowed, abruptly wanting to hug you, but not sure if you were there yet. There was something small and shy in the way you wrapped your arms around yourself now, casting a self-conscious glance around the café.

Something dropped into place.

“So when you saw me meddling with Bucky…” he said slowly, the realization dawning then. “You...you thought I was kind of caught the same way you were?”

A sad smile. “Sort of. I never intended to get caught in the middle like that, but honestly, I could’ve jumped out any time. I’m an adult, I know my boundaries. I was just...caught up with it all. Felt important. Maybe a small part of me didn’t want to risk letting that feeling go.

“But I listened to you talking about Bucky and his friend and how you thought they were soulmates and it just kind of worried me, that you were purposefully seeking out something that had accidentally blown up in my face.” The words came out in a rush; you looked up at him, and damn it -- he stood, you followed, and he pulled you into his arms.

You felt right there.

“Want to go for a walk?” he breathed, feeling your nod rather than seeing it.

Leo waved him away from the coffee bar, saying something that might have been French, might have been Greek, but Sam guessed she meant the coffee and treats had been on the house. “You okay, Sparky?” she asked, gaze sliding over your face anxiously.

You gave Sam the smile first: “Yeah, I am,” you said.

Sam felt it burble and bubble up inside him, the joy. The relief.

The clarity.

It was a cold walk, through dark New York streets, but Sam’s hand was warm and broad around yours. The truth had come out, for the first time in a long time, and you were relieved -- surprisingly. Sam didn’t hate you. In fact, you gathered, from the way his lips brushed your cheek at the bus stop -- maybe he even liked you a bit more.

“Listen, I want to talk more,” you said softly, squeezing his hand, looking deeper into those gorgeous brown eyes. “But I do have some business to attend to first.”

“Oh?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Talk to me, honey.”

Honey.

You laughed. “Calm down, Teach. No, it’s just...I’ve got those First Aid training sessions to plan. I was hoping for some pointers on how to keep the students engaged. If that’s not too much trouble.”

A pleasant heat kindled in Sam’s belly at the thought -- it was half-pride, half-excitement. You’d come to him for help, trusted him to help you. “And, oh God, I hadn’t thought of this, but I really don’t want you think I only told you the truth because I wanted tips, I really do like you, Sam, I just need --”

What you needed, Sam didn’t hear. All he registered was the velvet press of your lips against his, the curve of your jaw in the cradle of his hand. The tiniest whimper erupting from the back of your throat.

Kissing you was everything. It was home at the end of a long road; the sweetest surprise. He lingered; you chased him. Snow falling softly around the two of you, arms winding closer, a few wolf-whistles from bystanders, but all Sam felt was this.

This wonderful, homecoming-moment, made just for him and for you.

You’d borne witness to his heartbreak, his rage. To the slow fizzling of good feelings and joy. And you’d come out the other side with a limp to your gait and a sore spot in your history, a place you didn’t venture too often. Watching it all unfold, being blamed…

It was almost too much.

“So,” Steve said, in his Captain’s voice, folding his hands atop his desk, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Ah.

For Steve, propositions were rarely equitable with suggestions.

“First aid course for civilians,” he explained. “We’ve got a bit of a surplus, not enough to do anything major, and the optics are good.”

“Are we talking babysitter first aid, something more involved?”

“Basic certification, minimum 16,” he replied, looking down at his calendar now. “I’m thinking Saturday afternoons, to encourage teenagers to come by. They can do it for some school credit, I think. I’ve got Sharon fielding emails from a couple of boards.”

You nodded, almost connecting the dots, but not quite. “And you want me to…”

“Lead the sessions. There’ll be four of them. Saturdays starting next week. Noon to three. We’ll hold it in the community room, I think that should be big enough.”

There was no hint of a suggestion in his tone, or his expression, which remained hard, cool.

You could say no. Of course you could. He’d said nothing of overtime, or pay. And you weren’t some newbie, a rookie too intimidated by big, bad Captain Rogers to simply agree to anything he’d suggested, and pile your plate higher and higher. Days off were precious things, time for rest and recuperation. Time to be yourself -- or at least, begin crawling back to whoever that had been.

But there was some appeal to this. First aid courses were important, especially for young people.

And it wasn’t as though you had much to fill your days’ off with, anyway. Sleeping, sure. Bit of social media scrolling. But now that Cassie had started playing ringette, Scott’s free time was spent cheering her on at the rink (he brought personalized posters even to practices); and Clint and Laura were doing renovations again.

Sometimes you thought about reaching out to her on your days off. Sending a text to meet back at your usual table at Leo’s, or an invitation to grab a sundae at that ice cream place she loved. And then maybe make a joke about how the only way the two of you knew how to connect was over food.

Yeah, something like that.

When had friendship gotten so complicated?

When had life?

Distantly, you heard yourself agreeing to Steve’s plan, agreeing to watch out for his explanatory email. Promising to call Sharon for more information. When he stood, and extended an awkward reach over the desk, you shook his hand professionally, civilly. As though you hadn’t once felt him soak your shirt through with his tears; or listened to the echo of his heartbreak all through his lonely apartment.

His vulnerability sat in the palm of your hand, as you met his gaze over the desk. Steve’s lips parted, as though he had something else to say -- I’m sorry, I miss her, you didn’t deserve that -- but the only thing that came out was a stiff, “Dismissed.”

Dismissed.

He was so good at that.

Weeks had passed since the disastrous pizza date, and Sam found himself, once again, blearily wide awake and dreaming at four o’clock in the morning. He’d had yet to contact you, or even to properly explain to Bucky why you had left so early.

He kept stroking back over the sequence of events, fixating on the ragged note of pain in your voice as you’d pointed out so many of his flaws. One or two of them, really. Still, it stung.

It all stung.

The empty space of you in his life; the silent text thread on his phone; Bucky’s baleful, probing looks as he came in from a shift at the gym or disappeared into his bedroom for a Skype meeting. He was planning on leaving for a conference in a few days, but Sam had yet to actually catch the location.

At school, he was on. As always. He never wanted the kids to suspect there was something wrong; Sam knew well enough that he was, for many of them, the only stable adult in their world. He couldn’t relinquish that simply because a girl he’d met three times had walked out on him.

The blankets pooled around his waist as he sat up in bed; outside his window, the city slept in a deep, wintery darkness, punctuated here and there by street lights, passing cars, and the distant, bright thicket of skyscrapers. Sam wrapped his arms around his legs, and thought of you here.

You here in his desk chair, rifling through that stack of lesson plans. Peering closer at that picture of him and his parents, on the beach in North Carolina for his cousin’s wedding. “You have your mom’s eyes,” you’d whisper, standing in the dark. Cradling his jaw in your hand. “And your dad’s ears.”

“And what belongs to me?” Sam would ask.

A smile as slow and sweet as honey; a touch, fingers braided together, the surprising callouses of your palm. Sam would imagine you with those thick gloves, rope and hoses sliding through the same easy grip that held him so gently. “This,” you’d say, placing one of his hands over his heart; the other over yours.

Sam had been in love before. Terribly, deeply, achingly. In love with women, with moments, with memories. But this felt different. It wasn’t a careful, cautious series of exchanged glances across a high school cafeteria; nor a lecture hall at college. It wasn’t networking with friends to get her number, or dutifully filling out an online dating profile with Bucky and his latest lover glancing over his shoulder, offering advice.

This was a surprise.

And the thrill of that went against everything in his methodical nature.

He should text you. Call you. Email. Show up at the station with a bouquet of flowers and apologize for losing himself in everyone’s life but his.

But wouldn’t that be exactly what you’d been protesting against? Meddling in your life?

“Ugh.” The noise of it gnawed gummily at his tired brain. All he wanted was a solution. A neat and easy fix. To know the right thing to say and be able to just say it.

He clicked on his desk lamp and searched through the drawers before locating his Italian notebook. Might as well squeeze in a bit of practice, if he was going to be losing sleep.

An hour passed in quiet verb conjugation and new vocabulary lists. He sipped at a bitter cup of coffee in pale, fluttering dawn, and, suddenly curious, began flipping through the pages. At least three quarters of the book was full; traced in his precise, fervent hand. Pen pushed nearly all the way through. And for what?

Sam had downloaded the app on a whim months ago. Simply because he was tired of those loose few minutes that always seemed to pepper through his day: not enough time for a workout, for a big task, but still empty. Needing something. Anything.

There was a small, raw part of Sam that feared absence, emptiness. And so he outran it, dodged it, every single time. Cramming his time with anything and everything.

Why?

Why, when the best minutes of his past few weeks had centred around the most unpredictable of moments? Celebrating the birth of Lindsey’s baby brother with a class dance party? Sure, it had eaten into his math lesson, derailed the energy level for the entire afternoon, but even now, as he yawned through an epiphany, Sam couldn’t forget the look of utter joy on his students’ faces as they’d wiggled around the room. And his evening with you.

You.

The brightest spot; the best moment. And he hadn’t seen you coming.

In the kitchen, he flicked on the coffeemaker and poured himself a glass of water. Outside, the city stirred, sunshine pooling in the most surprising of places around the apartment. He and Bucky had chosen it for the windows, he remembered suddenly. A vivid recollection of standing in the living room, bare of furniture, hands twitching at his sides and debt up to his ears, finding comfort in the little patches of light the realtor was pointing out.

Sam studied one such patch right now, as it lingered on the small windowsill, flecked with old, peeling paint, above the sink. Maybe a plant would work well there, he thought. Granted, the view outside left much to be desired, simply facing the fire escape of the building next door, but a plant. Yeah. A succulent. He made a mental note to talk to Natasha about that. Her classroom was full of them.

His phone buzzed. A reminder to finish his Italian lesson. To start his morning yoga. To make his bed, to get a load of laundry ready, to take out the garbage, and to wake up --

“Bucky.”

It was rare for him to be awake this early, rarer still for him to be neatly dressed. A crisp blue button-down, tugged down securely over his scars; new jeans. A leather overnight bag was slung over one shoulder, and a sleepy smile emerged from under dark, damp partings of hair. “Morning, sunshine,” he said, mustering only a shadow of his usual snark. “I’m heading out. Early flight.”

“Want a ride?”

“Yeah, but I asked my good buddy Uber,” he joked, reaching for an apple from the bowl on the breakfast bar. “It’s all good, man. See you in a couple days, yeah?”

Guilt lurched in Sam’s stomach; he hadn’t been as supportive as he could have been in anticipation of this trip. Things would be different this time; in the past, work trips with his business partner had been cause for excitement: movie nights in modest hotels; silly Snaps sent back to Sam; both of them returning to New York all fired up with new ideas for the gym.

A mournful kind of instinct warned Sam not to expect any of that this time.

He was a nice guy. A sales rep for a protein bar company that had stopped by to organize a display of new flavours at the gym. Bucky had met him a couple of times before, but to his surprise, Eli and Gorgeous had quickly hit it off.

She’d gone on out on a date with him the night you’d left.

There were shadows under his eyes, a quietness drag to his humour. Jokes came out clumsy and rarely. Gorgeous hadn’t been around. Most nights saw Bucky holed up in his bedroom, the blue light of his laptop seeping under the door and into the hall, wrapped in long-sleeved layers.

That was always a bad sign.

Sam pushed around the edge of the countertop and grabbed him into a bear hug. “Stay safe, yeah?” he said quietly, clapping Bucky on the back. “And have a good time.”

Was it just his imagination, or did Bucky squeeze a little tighter? Stay a little longer?

When he pulled away, a small smile played about his lips. A ghost of his usual cheeky grin, but Sam would take it.

Sam would take it, and would trust him to move forward. As hard as it was to watch Bucky leave the apartment, knowing he was stepping into stress, and possible heartbreak, Sam had to trust him. Had to take away this sense of control, of being needed.

Bucky could handle his shit.

And Sam could handle his.

The door closed, and Sam’s thumbs began flying over the screen of his phone, typing out an email that he hoped wasn’t arriving too late.

Clint had taught first aid for years, but his collection of training manuals were woefully out of date, and he himself wasn’t proving to be the best source of information when it came to instructional tips and tricks. You pulled an orange post-it note from the dustier of the three books; his familiar scrawl said something about eye contact.

Really helpful.

With a sigh, tapping a pen impatiently against the break room table, you turned back to the suggested schedule for the training course, as well as the list of students already signed up. Their ages were listed next to their names; an astonishing amount of them under the age of twenty. You’d need to figure out a way to keep them engaged, as well as teaching all of the material required for certification.

“Kill me,” you muttered under your breath.

“You know, I have been thinking about a second career.” Scott set a Starbucks cup in front of you, squeezing your shoulder briefly before he sat down with his own -- piled high with whipped cream and reeking of peppermint. “What’s up, Sparky?”

A weary gesture towards the stack of papers and coil-bound books. “Regret,” you explained. “Bitter regret.”

“Pretty sure that was the name of that French perfume I bought Hope for Christmas last year,” he said, flipping through a glossy but dated pamphlet. “Can I help?”

“This is gonna be so boring, Scott,” you whined, reaching for the coffee. “How am I going to be able to keep people -- I mean, look at the number of teenagers signed up. They’re going to mutiny out of sheer boredom.”

He’d gotten cinnamon in it, just the way you like; it went down warm and a little comforting, but not nearly enough to quell the faint pricklings of panic. It wasn’t like you to back down from a challenge, especially one as manageable as this, but the pressure of performing to the Captain’s expectations, as well as just…

“There’s gotta be a way to make it interesting,” Scott said, flicking through one of the thicker books now. “You know the info inside and out, just have to figure out a delivery method, that’s all. Hey” -- and here his expression brightened, smile curling across his face -- “how about that teacher? I’m sure he’d be eager to help.”

You smacked his arm at the wiggling of his brows, pushing away the logic of yes, just asking the nearest teacher for some teaching tips. But since the night you’d left his apartment in a flurry of melodrama, you’d had yet to reach out to Sam.

It was a combination of embarrassment and fear haunting you, in those moments when you picked up your phone, scrolled to his name. One quick text, an email, a call -- maybe a request to meet up at Leo’s, or a coffee shop.

The comforting prospect of seeing him was marred only by a sense of guilt, for speaking so sharply and going radio-silent. Whatever had reared its head during that last conversation was rooted, you knew, in Helen and Steve and the mess of that day. You’d seen him meddling in Bucky’s life, making the same mistake you had, and then that poor man, folding in on himself, delicate as origami but not nearly as beautiful in that pose, heartbreak scrawled right there in his faltering expression.

You’d seen it on Steve’s face, too. Helen’s.

“Hey, Sparky.” Scott’s voice came low and warm, sweet as the faint whipped cream mustache above his upper lip. “You good? Where’d you go?”

Back to that apartment, back to the slick slide of an awful miscalculation, trickling through your fingertips, away and away. But Scott, looking at you with mild concern and an ocean of friendship in his eyes, just waited. Ever patient, caring for you even in the strange moments.

Two messages needed to be sent, you realized. But for one, a handwritten request might be better.

You fired off a text, and, taking another sip of coffee, drew a blank piece of paper towards you, and began to write; Scott holding that same sweet, silent vigil.

Hey, Sam --

He fairly jumped at the words onscreen. In the quiet of the classroom, the buzz of his phone had seemed almost deafening, and the consequences of the message even more so.

I know it’s lame to ask this after rushing out the other night…

There’s stuff I’d like to talk about…

If you’re willing and able (I know you’re busy)...

Leo’s. You wanted to meet at Leo’s, in the warm cup of a Wednesday afternoon, just after school, for coffee (did Leo even serve coffee, Sam wondered), and some help with first aid training.

A wide grin spilt over his face, sunny enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if it lit up the whole room. Sam stood, pushing aside the papers on his desk, the class novel, and resisted the urge to actually skip down the hallway to get the kids from the playground -- he’d have to at least wait before typing out a short, sweet response.

He hoped you smiled, too.

Dear Helen,

This letter probably feels a bit too-little, too-late, given how long it’s been and how much has happened since that night. I wanted to reach out and let you know I was still thinking of you, that I still have questions and apologies to make. I know he does, too, but he can write his own letter.

I miss you. Let me just start with that. I wish you were here, not a million miles away -- or however far away Chicago actually is. You’d know the answer to that, I’m sure. Or at least be willing to take the time to look it up.

I miss you so much. Do you remember that time I went away for that backpacking trip? And you said that it was like hitting a bruise in the same place, every single day? Because I wasn’t there at breakfast, or to remind you to bring out the trash, or beat you at Wheel of Fortune? Every day that I was gone, you said, was like revisiting the hurt.

At least you had Steve.

I’ve got people too, you know. Scott, and Clint. Hope and Laura. Leo. This new guy I met. He’s like walking, talking poetry, Lennie, you’ve got no idea. His voice comes out like wine, I swear. He’s a teacher, and he’s sitting there talking about reading levels and parent-teacher conferences and I’m just getting drunk on him.

Well, I was. Messed that up, too. Isn’t that the way? Dive in, heart first, and that’s the first part to drown.

What I’m trying to say, amidst all this rambling, is that I miss you.  I want to talk. I think we can put some things back together, and even if we can’t, I think we owe it to all that time to just try.

My number is the same. I understand if you’d rather not. If you’ve got some swanky new life in Chicago and don’t want to get burned by us again, feel free to say so, to ignore, to keep silent. Whatever works. No hard feelings, I promise. It was just important to let you know...you’re missed. You’re missed, and you’re certainly not forgotten.

No. Don’t go there.

Whenever you talked to yourself like this, though, it was Helen’s voice. Crisp, clear. No-nonsense, that was her.

Scrolling through your phone, daily, to see her name and number still there. A string of text messages ranging from the mundane -- Why is almond milk so expensive? Helpppp -- to the more memorable:

It’s like I don’t know him anymore.

Claws in your throat, the memory was. You swallowed around it as best you could manage, then pushed away from the kitchen table. Stacks of takeout boxes, a salad bowl you’d yet to put away from last night. Laundry poured over the edge of the couch, but there was a migraine beckoning from some deep, dark corner, and all you could think about was ash in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, a warm, dry hand gripping yours ‘til he was white-knuckled.

Where did she go?

So many questions.

And you just didn’t want to answer.

Sleep was soft, and a bit like drowning.

The apartment door swung open with a violent shriek, Bucky slamming it behind him with a wild look in his eyes. “Holy shit,” he panted, back against the door, hair mussed and tangled; neck streaked with whatever glossy pink lipstick Sandra had been wearing. “That girl...I’m...Sammy, I’m exhausted.”

Sam spat out a mouthful of Cheerios into the sink, narrowly missing his phone and his Italian notebook, propped up on the countertop to take advantage of a spare few minutes. He had a yoga session after dinner, and was in dire need of a grocery trip -- his night out at Leo’s had messed with his routine. Hence the Cheerios for dinner.

“Keep your business to yourself, please,” Sam grumbled, reaching for a cloth. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want to hear about your escapades.”

Bucky blanched. “Whoa, dude, no,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair and grabbing in the fridge for his water bottle. “Not that. No escapades. I haven’t had escapades in like, four days.”

“That long?” Sam asked, feigning concern. “Is it about to fall off?”

“‘Jealous’ isn’t a good look on you, Wilson.”

“Yeah, well, everything else is.”

“Damn,” Bucky grinned, clapping him on the back. “There’s my bestie. Where’ve you been? Buried under fraction quizzes?”

Where had he been? Laughing with Bucky, teasing him about his newest girl, who, apparently, liked to do everything. Bucky’s dates with her so far had been active -- axe throwing, a hike, a spin class. “Like, I work out for a living,” he said glumly, nearly twenty minutes later, by now poking his spoon into a half-eaten carton of ice cream. “It’s fun and all, and she’s happy, but I don’t know, we’re just not clicking.”

Sam’s watch beeped insistently, reminding him he was going to be late for his class, but strangely, he found he didn’t care. One of his oldest and best friends needed him right now, and the desire to be present was so strong, washing over him with a surge of energy.

He missed this.

Missed being this guy, this friend. Missed looking at this idiot, clearly in love with his business partner, mournfully eating his way through the unhealthiest shelves in the kitchen, all the while skirting the most obvious and important detail of his life. He’d be nice to Sandra, as he had been to all the others. Bucky always was. A kind, dutiful hookup.

“Listen, man,” Sam said quietly, drumming his fingers on the counter -- he was going to be late, he was going to miss the yoga class. No one would miss him; it was drop-in, technically. It was fine, it was okay, he’d gone for a jog that morning -- “she’s nice. She’s pretty, and really funny.”

He listed her virtues as honestly as he could, watching the weight shift from Bucky’s shoulders as he did so. “She’s cool,” Bucky added. “Really cool, she’s got so many interests.”

A wan smile was all Sam could muster; he’d been here before. For other women, for longer relationships; been there to help Bucky gently poke at the faultlines of the relationship, do it as delicately as possible. Blame it on work schedules, on conflicting goals; on divergent hobbies, even. Always, always, always avoiding the obvious.

But Sam could do this tonight. Be this guy for him. This friend. Anxiety had poured him into another mold for a while, and probably would always try to pull him back, will him to stomp down the hall to his bedroom, shut the door on anything that wasn’t work, wasn’t the fervent need to just be perfect. And maybe he was messing up here. Maybe coddling Bucky -- a thirty year old man -- in this moment wasn’t the best thing to do right now, but if it was a mistake, it was one made in love, and it was one they could fix in the morning.

“She deserves someone better.” Bucky scraped at the last bits of chocolate ice cream in the carton, relief smudging his features into something near to a smile, but not quite there. “She deserves someone who can keep up with her.”

“Just because she might be better off with someone else doesn’t mean you’re not enough, Buck,” Sam said softly. “You’re a good guy, you know.”

Blue eyes blinked up at him; loneliness was carved there. For a man who spent so much of his time in the company of others, Bucky was lonely. Sam had felt it out there on the lake, and again now.

Sam was lonely, too.

He thought of his students, his colleagues. Mia, the yoga instructor with the French braid and braces; John, his favourite barista, a sleeve full of tattoos and twin girls at home; and you.

You.

This glorious, gilded surprise of a woman, who had stepped into his life so abruptly, turned around and there you were. And again at Leo’s -- the moment he’d pushed away from settling, taken a break just to breathe, and there you were. Spilling an appletini all over Bucky’s shirt; taking his breath away again and again in that strange, eclectic club.

It was everything a perfectionist like Sam railed against: random, sporadic, unpredictable. Messy. Imperfect.

And you there, in the middle of it all, making it perfect. Or, if not perfect, inevitable.

Meant to be.

A glass of wine lent a kiss of courage; a clean apartment seemed to freshen your mind, and it was on the heels of these two things that you began typing out a message to Sam. Text seemed...easier...for the time being, since you couldn’t quite recall the particulars of your conversation at Leo’s, only the vague but comforting notion of rightness.

Sam was right. Being with him was right.

Hey, you wrote, nerves fluttering softly. Hope you’re having a good week! Just checking in. I really enjoyed chatting with you the other night.

You pressed send before you could throw up in mortification.

Chatting with you.

Checking in.

“Shit,” you murmured, surprised when his reply popped up only a split second later.

It was...him.

Wry, complaining lightly but not intensely of living with his roommate, apparently going through some romantic trials. An emoji surprised you. A follow-up -- how was your week?

Getting there.

It was honest. Not scrubbed shiny, of course, but honest. And there was something about Sam that prompted that. Nurtured it. Coaxed it out and let it flourish.

We’re just about to order pizza. Do you want to join?

A heartbeat; another. Heat flooded your belly, turned your limbs loose and easy on the couch. This was...unexpected. But not unwelcome. Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed more appealing than the prospect of pizza with Sam, and this mysterious, melodramatic roommate. An adventure you wanted to be a part of.

I’ll be right there, you replied, tossing your phone down as his address chimed through. Well, not right there; he was blocks away. But that was fine, that was good. An outfit came together quickly -- it was far easier to dress for a comfortable night in than an outing.

Helen’s voice tickled a memory as you chose a pair of leggings and a suitable top. Dressing you up for a gala, an awards ceremony, always looking elegant and gorgeous herself; a smooth, dark chignon and the most devastating gowns. Twirling around her bedroom or yours, little girls playing dress-up. Laughter spilling, bubbling, frothing from the edges of the room until he’d come in, stern smile melted away.

Sweetheart, he called her. And you’d been half in love with their love.

It was nearly an hour later that you finally reached Sam’s building. Eleventh floor. A wry welcome mat stretched in front of the door. An elderly woman assessed you from two places over, a yipping dog impatiently wiggling at her feet. “Which one?” she asked.

You shot her a nervous smile, wishing you’d thought to knock on the door before engaging. “Um, I...um, pardon?”

“The sweet one, he’s quiet. But the other one...the Barnes boy, he’s got a revolving door of them. His mother worries,” the woman said, voice pinched. She pushed a pair of sunglasses -- why, you weren’t sure, it was past seven p.m. -- onto her nose and then tugged gently on her dog’s leash. “She wants grandchildren, you know. But if you’re here for the sweet one, promise to get him to have some fun, won’t you? He needs it. Come on, Daisy.”

The sweet one.

You thought of warm brown eyes; a cheeky smile. Smooth, neat beard; that lemon-yellow shirt.

Yeah, the sweet one.

But it was the Barnes boy who opened the door: a shock of dark hair and bright blue eyes, a shit-eating grin curving across his lips as he looked you up and down. You bristled at that, but there didn’t seem to be anything licentious about his gaze. More...amusement?

“So you’re real,” he said, crossing his arms over a fairly broad chest. “And you brought soda.”

Drawing yourself up to full height, you mirrored his long, appraising look. Head to toe. An athleisure addict if you’d ever seen one; he wore a tight, black, long-sleeved shirt that emphasized his chest, bearing the name of a gym you remembered had sent you a coupon mailer a few months ago.

He winked.

“Real,” you confirmed, sticking out your free hand to shake his and offer your name. “You must be the melodramatic roommate.”

The grin slid from his face. “Wilson, you son of a bitch,” he said sharply, turning on his heel and stomping further into the apartment. “You said my feelings were valid!”

Gingerly, you followed, kicking off your shoes into a pile by the door, stepping through a narrow hallway into a surprisingly open apartment main room. Kitchen and living room blended fluidly; and everything was, just as you’d anticipated, neat.

Cool blues and greys; tasteful, minimalist art. Save for a pile of workout clothes and a thick red duffel bag next to the couch, it was neat as a pin. And yet, homey, too. The Barnes boy carried on yelling down another, shorter hallway, while you stood awkwardly next to a breakfast bar, the cans in your hand seeming to grow heavier with each passing minute. On the counter next to you, a grease-spotted pizza box wafted a heavenly, tempting scent.

And so did he.

Sam stepped into view, wearing charcoal joggers and a white sweatshirt you could happily have snuggled right up in; the thought struck you warm and sweet. Arresting in its tenderness.

He smelled of Irish Spring again, and something comfortable. Here he was, in his space, in sock feet and a shy smile, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as the Barnes boy continued to prattle on, listing off a litany of complaints. “And you know what, I could call Sandra right now and we could --”

“Don’t,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the gleam of light on Sam’s thick-framed glasses. “Don’t call Sandra.”

Sam gave you a slow, honeyed smile. “So I see you’ve met and instinctively understand Bucky,” he said quietly, reaching for a stack of plates. “She’s right, by the way. You’re not calling Sandra.”

A small groan of protest, followed by the squeak of the couch cushions as Bucky flopped down. You bit back a grin, not entirely sure if this was a joke, exaggerated heartbreak; or something genuine. A glint in Sam’s eye, though, hinted at a bit of both. A healthy amount of both.

“I’m glad you could...I mean, I know I should’ve…” Sam bit his bottom lip, looking every inch the shy boy on a first date. Your heart squeezed at the thought. “I’m glad you were off tonight,” he finished with a weak smile, passing a plate. “I know you’re busy, so it...I just…”

“What kind did you get?” Bucky rubbed his hands together, enough for you to see some -- were those scars? Snaking underneath the wrist of his left sleeve. He followed your gaze, and then promptly tugged it down further.

Embarrassment prickled, though his face was impassive. Friendly, you supposed.

“Greek and cheese.” Sam rummaged in a drawer for the pizza cutter, flipping open the lid to reveal a half and half monstrosity that smelled divine. He was precise in his slicing, quiet in his invitation to come sit down in the living room.

Bucky queued up a true crime show on Netflix, but of greater interest was the flex of Sam’s arms as he pulled off the white hoodie, folded it neatly on the arm of the couch. The gentle angle of his smile as he caught your eye. A series of framed childish artworks marching above the television.

For a few minutes, the three of you simply ate in silence, Bucky avidly listening as the narrator explained the mysterious circumstances of this 1960s kidnapping. As strange as it was to be here, in his place, with a man you’d only met twice -- oh, no. Was it stupid?

You’d texted the address to Scott before leaving your own apartment, and he’d promised to check in a few times throughout the evening. He knew where you were, knew you planned on being home by ten o’clock at the latest. And Sam was kind. Maybe a little charmingly awkward.

Helen probably would’ve come with you.

“Um, how was your day?” you asked softly, plucking at a stray olive on your plate.

Sam’s eyes widened; was it a hard question? “It was good,” he said. “Monthly staff meeting, and, uh, my kids are getting ready for a winter concert.”

My kids.

His whole voice and bearing softened as he spoke about his job and his students; it was something you’d observed that night at Leo’s, too. Sam leaned naturally into the cup of this identity, soaked up the pride and the enthusiasm inherent and needed. And as fascinating as you found “teacher Sam,” you yearned to get to know him a little deeper, too.

He loved his students, loved his career. From those two points alone, it was easy to surmise his broader character, and yet…

Sam held something back.

“How was your day?” he asked suddenly, breaking off an explanation of something Lindsey, a student you could recall only hazily, had said today.

Not good.

Not good for most of the day, really. But better now. Much better.

Bucky’s phone began ringing before you could respond, though. Through a mouthful of Greek pizza, he responded:

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said quickly, grabbing for the remote to pause his show. “Yeah, I’m here. What do you need?”

You raised an eyebrow in Sam’s direction, mouthing Sandra?

Sam just shook his head, a smile playing about his lips as Bucky continued. “I put it in the back room. Yep. No, that email’s queued to go tomorrow. The tweet, too. Okay. Yeah, honey, I took care of it.”

His voice had changed. Coated in sugar, in feather-soft affection. Sam tilted his head, studying Bucky as he wrapped up the phone call, breaking out into a wide, welcome smile. “Oh, really? Nice. Okay, yeah, you too. Have a good night. Mmhmm. Yep. Okay, ‘bye.”

Bucky held his phone for a minute longer, staring at the black screen with soft regret. “You good, buddy?” Sam asked, nudging another slice of pizza in his direction.

Shoulders sinking, Bucky pushed away from the couch, leaving the pizza and his can of soda on the coffee table. “She’s got a date,” he said in a hoarse voice, swallowing thickly. “Nice meeting you.”

And he left. Shuffled down the second hallway; door closing on sudden sadness with an echoing click.

You smelled of some floral soap or shampoo, maybe perfume; drinking pink cream soda, and all Sam could think about was how it might taste on your lips. This evening had been full of distraction -- pretty distraction -- but with Bucky’s abrupt retreat, Sam found himself tugged in another direction.

Punching in a few buttons, Sam turned off the TV, realizing that little could be done now to salvage the cozy evening. “So,” he sighed, turning to you, a calm, expectant expression on your face. “That...I mean…”

“Not Sandra,” you confirmed, wiping at your mouth with a napkin. “But someone...important?”

“Very.”

“And she’s got a date? He’s not happy about it?”

Ah.

There was the complexity. Because Sam knew Bucky well enough to know that he was happy for the woman added to his contacts as Gorgeous. The woman he had built a business with; his best friend besides Sam. And yet, they remained just friends. Only business partners. Running the gym together, spending nearly every day together. But never slipping beyond that.

Sam fell in love with the furrow in your brow; the intentional way you pushed away the plate and wiggled closer on the couch. Close enough that your thigh brushed his. A hitch in his breath had your lips curving into a smile he wanted to kiss.

He was bewildered with the pace of this -- he’d only met you twice. Three times, now. And yet even then, in his classroom, you’d seemed to occupy some new space in his life -- an absence he hadn’t yet recognized. “He’s in love with her,” you said slowly, sweetly.

Sam nodded.

The greatest heartbreak of his life so far had been watching those two fools avoid the inevitable, he told you. Years had passed. Years in which Bucky had pushed away meaningful connection. “I’m not shitting on hook-ups, or Tinder, or dating around,” he rushed to clarify, twisting so he was facing you, “don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging. But I think the success of that kind of depends on the individuals, it’s going to vary from situation to situation. Depends on expectations, too. But Bucky has met some really nice people there; had some good relationships.” 

You agreed, explaining that your friend Scott had met his current girlfriend through online dating; while Clint and Laura had been high school sweethearts. “And Steve --”

Oh, you swallowed that name. An apologetic smile had Sam feeling uneasy, but he trudged through it. “Everybody’s different,” he continued. “But Bucky? His soulmate has been right there beside him for years and neither of them are willing to take the plunge.”

“How do you know?”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in your tone. “What’s that?”

Picking at the hem of the throw draped on the back of the couch, you averted your eyes, looking anywhere but at him. “How do you know they’re soulmates?” you asked in a low voice.

“Well, it’s obvious. They’re perfect for each other.”

“Lots of people have built businesses together, work together. Have friends in common. And they’re not meant to be together romantically.”

Sam bristled, unsure of where this was going; realizing with a twist of longing that your thigh had moved away. “Look, I’m just saying, it’s not a good idea to go meddling in your friends’ love lives,” you said stiffly. “Bucky’s an adult. If he wants to sleep around and push away his real feelings, that’s his business, not yours.”

“But --”

“It’s not a good idea,” you repeated. “Sam, it’s just not. It’s great that you love him so much and want the best for him, but shoving Bucky into the life you’ve decided he needs to lead, that’s only distancing you from your own. And you’re going to end up losing that friendship.”

You stood, and Sam watched the flowing lines of your shirt, wished he could touch them, pull you back, grab your hand and melt along the curves and edges, quell this frustration, wherever it had come from. But you’d made a decision, and he was helpless in the face of it. “Just...just live your own life for a little while,” you muttered. “Let him do his stupid thing, and you do yours. Otherwise, you’re both going to end up hurt. Thanks for the pizza.”

Gingerly, you pressed at your temples; the headache tapping there seemed to be sharper than normal. No human time, that’s what Scott would say. No Netflix and chill; no laundry; no morning runs, weekly yoga sessions; no scented candles or mopped floors.

No free time.

But it was there. The memory of it. Vivid and trembling, all the surface tension building and building a delicate skin of resolve, fragile underneath.

Ash in your mouth, but how could that be? When the layers of safety equipment were carefully designed to prevent that very thing. Still, you woke with it, heavy and thick and --

A beep from your phone broke the uneasy contemplation, but not the tension. That lingered, curling somewhere in your stomach, always biding its time.

Hey.

In true Scott fashion, the message was brief, to the point.

Meet at Leo’s?

The urge to decline had your thumbs flying over the screen, a lengthy, apologetic non-apology taking shape -- but then you pictured his face. His eager smile. “How’d the presentation go?” Scott had asked, waiting for you in the parking lot with a cup of coffee and four powdered doughnuts.

You’d smiled out a lie and swallowed the truth with the coffee, tasting neither. But it had sat there, curdling, boiling over into anxiety one evening. Anxiety that had sent you dialling an old number, reaching for something tangible, something strong and warm and remembered.

She hadn’t picked up.

Maybe it wasn’t her number anymore.

HEY!?!Mq!

Another message from Scott popped up, this one far more insistent; maybe he’d already had a few drinks.

Your smile was wobbly, weak, and unfamiliar as you typed out a response, already thinking about the sheer labour of a shower, a meal.

Human time.

Giggles erupted from under the blue velvet blanket draped over the couch, and Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes for the eighth time in an hour. Sandra was nice, friendly -- all smiles and full of funny anecdotes from her job as a security guard at a bank, but there was something about the pitch of her laughter right now, something about the glazed-over look in Bucky’s eyes as he sat there, ostensibly comfortable and enjoying a quiet date night…

Something about all of it just wasn’t sitting right.

He tried to conceal the irritation in his sigh as he mumbled something about grading, and headed into his bedroom. Sandra barely seemed to notice, preoccupied now with pointing out a familiar actor on screen.

In the quiet of his room -- neat as a pin, almost spartan bedding, furniture; even his books were colour-coded -- Sam took a deep, drinking breath, and tried to calm down. Anxiety had been lingering lately at the fringes of nearly every moment, every action, and every choice. Even this morning, standing in line at one of the big chain coffee shops, he’d found himself preoccupied with the idea of supporting small businesses, and abruptly plagued by a wash of guilt that he wasn’t doing his part. When the cheerful barista finally asked him for his order, Sam had choked, ordering a bottle of water and fleeing after leaving a hefty tip.

Bucky, predictably, had not been kind about it. Tough love was the name of his game, and he just couldn’t understand why Sam had wrapped himself up so tightly in his career. “You’re like a mummy, dude,” he’d said, drunk one night after a meeting with his girl had gone late. A strictly professional, platonic meeting; followed by an hour of Tinder scrolling, nursing a beer.

“A mummy?” Sam had blinked, knife paused in midair as he chopped up carrots for his lunch the next day.

“Wrapped up and locked away in this job, man,” he hiccuped. “Everything is about work, about being the best teacher. The best person. There’s no room for mistakes.”

The memory stroked back, unfurled under his skin with prickling barbs. Bucky hadn’t been the first to point that out; his mother had, too, a long time ago, when he was cramming in college and packing his calendar with as many extracurriculars as he could. Sam had always been an overachiever, something his father had been proud of; but the simple fact was, he could no longer unravel the thickly-tangled knot of who he was, and who he was.

Stupid.

Groaning, he collapsed back onto his bed, rumpling the duvet and breathing deep the scent of mountain fresh dryer sheets. Even this room wasn’t a reprieve, he thought wearily -- the bookcase stacked with educational manuals and picture books; his lesson planning binder sitting plump and smug on the desk. A calendar hung on the wall above his desk, the first thing he saw most mornings, reminding him of report card deadlines, parent meetings, bill payments due, and the utter lack of a personal life in the days between.

The utter lack of him.

Did it matter, Sam wondered, starfishing out on the bed? Did it actually matter if he never dated, never went on vacation? If the only things he read were books to make him a better teacher, a better neighbour, a better son? Where had he stolen the idea that perfection was plausible, something to be desired?

When had he let himself get like this?

Studying Italian to fill in the last few vacant moments of his day; five minute tasks to keep him from slowing down at all. Jogging and running and a playlist full of yoga sessions. Cleaning and organizing and budgeting as though they were all Olympic sports.

He was the first one to arrive at school, and the last one to leave.

That visit to the Barnes’ cabin had left him ragged and worried for days afterwards, and that presentation --

“No,” he said firmly, to the quiet of his bedroom. The muffled sounds of the movie winding down out in the living room told him Sandra and Bucky were likely going to move things down the hall soon, and if he didn’t want to have to turn an Italian podcast up to full blast to block out her ensuing giggles, he’d better find something else to do.

Problem was -- he didn’t have a clue.

Your shoes stuck to the floor, letting loose the most unpleasant squelching sound as you walked over to the table where Scott, Hope, and Clint had gathered, waving you over with drinks already in hand. “I ordered you an appletini,” Clint said with a wink, patting the peeling leather beside him. “Leo’s trying something new.”

“Leo’s always trying something new,” you grumbled, reaching for a battered drinks menu. Two months ago, this place had been a comedy club; a few months before that, a family-friendly diner, ‘40s style.

Now?

Now a wobbly strobe light swooped sporadically over the dance floor -- sticky with spilled drinks and possibly worse -- while a band played half-hearted prog rock covers on the low stage. Leo herself -- clad in bubblegum spandex tonight -- flitted from booth to booth, offering free drinks and trying to book more performers. “Hey, Sparky,” she said, grabbing at your arm with acid green talons and a snapping smile. “What do you think of the new look?”

When you’d first met her, Leo had been boasting auburn victory rolls and an outfit she swore had come direct from Christina Aguilera’s Candyman music video; transformation was the name of Leo’s game and there was something admirable in that, you thought, overcome by a rush of warm emotion as she steered you towards the bar.

“Lookin’ good,” you smiled, tugging her into a hug that was far too affectionate for the sober version of you. Something she immediately picked up on.

“Sparky?” she asked, pinching your chin carefully between two fingers. Her eyes narrowed as she examined you, that vaguely maternal glint simmering underneath approximately four pounds of neon eyeshadow. “Talk to me.”

There was nothing to say.

Nothing you could put into words that she would understand, because this feeling? It floated. It changed. Some days you could get up and go, do your full shift with a smile on your face and enjoy coffee breaks with Scott. Other days, everything seemed so heavy. Too much to carry.

“I’m good,” you said, willing a grin to crawl out, but it brushed too close to manic to reassure her. Leo contented herself with a gentle pat to your cheek, and slid the appletini across the bar, thanking Stella, the newest hire, in one swift movement.

“When you’re ready to tell the truth,” Leo murmured, leaning closer in a cloud of French perfume, “you know where to find me.”

She melted into the throbbing, surging crowd; a beacon in pink, drifting away.

Leaving you there with this ridiculous red drink you had zero interest in trying. You held it gingerly, scanning the dancefloor to find an easy route to navigate your way back to the booth -- but two steps in, and you slammed into something warm, hard, and smelling strongly of Irish Spring.

Sam blinked, scarcely registering the cool rush of liquid as it seeped into his shirt, so focused was he on the colour of your eyes, gleaming there under the manically-rotating lights of the...whatever this place was.

You fumbled with an apology, unzipping your hoodie to swipe fruitlessly at the stain on his chest; he bit back pleasured, touch-starved shivers at the gesture. His brain short-circuited at the scent of you, at the gentle brush of your skin; the way your front teeth sank into your bottom lip.

A month had passed since you’d stood at the front of his classroom, since he’d tried hard to avert his gaze from the quick, sure press of your legs; the breadth of your nervous smile. By the time you were deftly shimmying into the uniform, Sam had tried to engross himself in checking emails on his computer -- technically, the rudest he’d ever been to a class presenter, but his heart had been hammering so thoroughly in his chest, he’d been afraid to stand too close.

He pushed his glasses further up his nose, abruptly awkward and unsure of where to put his hands. It seemed a little strange to be just standing there as you continued to dab at his shirt. “Hey, um, it’s okay,” he muttered, gently touching your wrist. “No big deal.”

You were softer here. Not that you weren’t at the school, dressed in that crisp blouse and then later, the thick and fascinating bulk of your uniform -- but here, in a hoodie, in jeans and sneakers and wearing now a tentative smile, Sam’s stomach flipped and interest kindled bright and ready.

He wanted to get to know you.

You were new.

Bucky had told him to find new experiences, right?

“Mr Wilson,” you said, taking a step back. “I’m really sorry. Can I...can I pay for that to be dry-cleaned? Or just a new one?”

He grinned. “No worries, it’s my roommate’s. He’s got a bit of a hazard budget for his dating wardrobe.”

A surprised laugh caught him off-guard. Had he heard it yet? He found he liked the way it settled on him, tactile as an embrace. Briefly, he wondered how your arms might feel.

Fortunately, the drink hadn’t touched his leather jacket; Sam simply zipped it up over the stain once he was sure you’d soaked up most of the moisture, not missing the way your eyes traced his every movement. His curiosity piqued, but sputtered loose and low again as you glanced over your shoulder, zeroing in on a packed booth. A good-looking man with a megawatt smile waved you over.

Sam missed you already.

“Um, it was nice seeing you,” he said, pushing away the wistful air creeping into his voice. “You, uh...have a fun night.”

Distracted, you turned back, hand brushing his sleeve.

Sam bit his own lip.

The smile you gave him now was dazzling. Eager and confident, perhaps, which surprised him. “Are you...are you here on your own?” you asked, hopeful.

Hopeful.

“Um, yeah.”

“Oh.”

No follow-up? Sam chewed on his lip, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d done this, and never on a dance floor with most of an appletini staining his shirt; never with a short, aggressively-blonde woman in hot pink spandex giving him the stink eye from over the bar.

“D’you want to --”

“Could I --”

Spoken in the same breath; mirrored smiles. Sam nodded, chuckling, as he followed you over to the booth -- willing himself to keep his eyes up, and focused.

“So, last time I was here, this was a comedy club.”

Scott burst out into a peal of tipsy laughter, shoving his screwdriver off to the side at a concerned glance from Hope. “It was,” he snorted, glancing at you. “It was for about, what, a month and a half?” You nodded, sipping from your wine and trying to avoid staring at the way Sam’s leather jacket strained against the ample curve of his bicep.

“And now it’s a” -- Sam looked over his shoulder; the band had inexplicably moved into a Leonard Cohen cover; couples were swaying sleepily out on the floor -- “a club?”

“Sort of,” you offered. “See, Leo, the owner, she’s got a bit of a wild sense of creativity. She goes through phases, and her husband works on the city council, so he’s always getting her new licenses and that sort of thing. They’re pretty rich, too. That helps.”

“Rumour has it he’s in the Mob,” Clint said, attempting to tap the side of nose in a conspiratorial gesture, but missing the mark entirely. One too many White Russians. Hope handed him a napkin, with a rather dismayed expression.

You shook your head. “He’s got money, sure. But it’s from a line of children’s books he started publishing about forty years ago. Writes under a pen name and everything. That’s how he met Leo. She was a children’s librarian then. Or...maybe she worked at a circus. I can’t remember.”  

Sam tipped the bottle of beer up to his lips again, finding once more, that he just simply enjoyed listening to you speak. Something about the way your voice enveloped him, drew him in. You were far more at ease here among your friends and colleagues than you had been at the school.

The way your hands moved to emphasize a point; the curve of your mouth; the shape you gave to witty anecdotes and a playful laugh as Clint -- covered in tattoos, but mercifully married -- explained to Sam that your station nickname was Sparky: every point, every moment had Sam tipping over into...something.

And you --

You sat there, talking with more enthusiasm than you’d displayed for weeks now, comfortable here in this nest of familiarity, courage lent from the wine, from the gap in Sam’s smile, from the rich warmth of his eyes. He leaned forward on the table, watching your mouth, studying you with a delicate fascination that had heat spiralling in delicious eddies through your veins.

To be watched; to be listened to:  just to matter.

A sensation and experience you held onto for another two hours, even after Clint had stumbled home, Laura waiting outside in the minivan with a sleeping newborn; Hope and Scott going home to relieve the babysitter. As they stepped back towards these different lives, you and Sam leaned into something new, something warm.

Something wanted.

That night, wine threading tender, smudged joy through your mind, you didn’t dream about her.