#thewintermuse

The snack cabinet was perpetually half-empty in the way that proved Bucky tried to stock it and Sam took that as a personal challenge. And there was always some low-level hum of life: the radiator clanking, the faint buzz of street noise through the window, the occasional creak of the floorboards when someone shifted their weight.

The kind of easy, lived-in chaos that made your shoulders drop the second you stepped inside, like you could unclench without anyone noticing.

Tonight was no different.

Sam had claimed the “good” spot on the couch like he paid rent (he did not), sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like it was sacred. Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, posture stupidly perfect even while he ate pizza like an art form. There was an open notebook beside him that he’d pretended to take notes in for exactly five minutes before giving up and just existing pleasantly in the room.

And Bucky was in the kitchen. Well, not fully in the kitchen, more like hovering at the boundary between the living room and the counter, as if he couldn’t decide whether to participate or retreat. He’d made himself busy with something that didn’t require much effort: rinsing a glass that was already clean, rearranging the stack of paper plates, checking the oven even though nothing was in it.

The performance was obvious. So was the way he kept half an eye on you anyway.

You hovered near the counter too, picking at a bag of kettle chips like it was a delicate hobby. One chip at a time. Slow crunch. Salt on your fingers. A ridiculous amount of focus for someone who was absolutely not thinking about chips.

Bucky glanced over quickly, like a reflex, and his gaze landed on your hands, then your face. His expression didn’t change much… but it did soften at the edges, in that way it always did when you were around, like his body remembered you before his brain could get in the way.

You pretended not to notice. Because noticing made things feel… loaded.

“You know,” Sam said suddenly, craning his neck dramatically as if addressing an invisible audience, “I could do my homework tonight.”

You blinked, deadpan. “That’s a strange way to spell ‘ignore it until the deadline and panic-text me at 2 a.m.’”

Steve laughed into his soda, the sound bright and helpless. Sam pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Et tu, Brute?”

“You say that like I haven’t watched you ‘suddenly remember’ an entire semester’s worth of work in one night,” you shot back.

Sam wagged a finger. “First of all, I prefer the term academically spontaneous.”

Steve snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing,” Sam insisted. “It’s just not a thing that gets you scholarships.”

From the kitchen, Bucky huffed, quiet and low, but there was a curve to it, something soft that always slipped into his reactions when you were there, like he couldn’t help it. “She’s not wrong.”

Sam whipped his head around. “Wow. Betrayal from within the house.”

Bucky didn’t look up from the cabinet he was pretending to organize. “Do your homework.”

“You’re all conspiring against me,” Sam said, pointing at each of you like you were a jury.

You smiled, reaching into the bag for another chip. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s an intervention.”

Sam gasped. “I don’t need an intervention.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you again and this time it lingered a fraction longer, like he was tracking the way you smiled, the way you fit into this space like you belonged here. Like you always had.

Your eyes drifted to him without permission, pulled by something magnetic and irritating and familiar.

He was leaning against the counter with that permanently unimpressed expression he wore like armor, one hip hooked against the edge, arms loosely crossed. A dark henley stretched across his shoulders and chest like it had been designed solely to ruin your ability to think, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, skin warm-toned under the lamp light, and his hair was messier than usual in a way that looked accidental but… wasn’t helping. 

His gaze met yours for half a second too long.

And the room didn’t go silent, Sam was still talking, Steve was still laughing… but your brain did. Just a brief blank, like your thoughts hit a wall.

You felt your heart stumble in your chest, just a little stutter. Like a skipped stair step. Like that moment right before you trip, when your body goes oh— and tries to correct itself.

It was stupid. It was so stupid how normal it all was, how easy it was to pretend this was just another night. Just another round of Sam being loud and Steve being kind and Bucky pretending he didn’t care while constantly making sure everyone had what they needed.

And still, your body acted surprised every time Bucky looked at you like that. Like you were something steady. Something safe. Something he didn’t have to brace himself around.

It made your throat tighten in a way you hated. So you did what you always did when emotions got too close: you shoved them back down, forced your attention onto Sam, and willed your face into neutrality before you did something embarrassing like smile too much, or soften too obviously, or let him see that his attention hit you like a touch.

Sam was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a chip like it was a microphone. “—and then the professor looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you contributing to this discussion?’”

Steve made a sympathetic noise. “What did you say?”

Sam spread his hands. “I said, ‘Vibes.’”

You snorted. “You did not.”

“I did,” Sam insisted. “And she said, ‘That is not a measurable academic contribution.’”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong.”

“Anyway,” Sam said, pointing at you like the moral of the story was your fault, “this is why I need you to bring the flashcards. Because if I’m left to my own devices, I will perish.”

“You brought the flashcards?” Steve asked hopefully, like there was a real chance you’d show up unprepared and the world would end.

You held up your tote bag with exaggerated dignity. “I’m not an animal.”

Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen without him even looking up. “Debatable.”

You turned slowly, deadpan, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make it a threat. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, calm as a scalpel, “I will personally label every cabinet in this apartment in Comic Sans.”

Sam made a choking sound that was half laughter, half horror. Steve gasped like you’d just threatened a war crime.

Bucky’s mouth twitched barely, like he was trying to smother it before it became a smile. He straightened a fraction against the counter, eyes narrowing like he was measuring you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… amused in that reluctant way he got when you cornered him.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice low, like he was calling your bluff.

You raised your brows. “Try me.”

His eyes stayed on yours, steady and challenging, but there was something warm underneath it now, something that made the air between you feel charged in a way it shouldn’t. “You’re evil,” he muttered, like it pained him to admit it.

You tipped your chin up. “You love it.” The words slipped out too easy, too familiar. Too true in a way that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip, like your body heard it and went Oh. That. That’s a thing.

For half a second, you regretted it. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. Because Bucky’s expression shifted in the smallest way, like he’d been caught off guard by how soft it sounded coming from you. Like he’d been prepared for sarcasm, for banter, for a fight.

Sam noticed immediately, because Sam noticed everything. He grinned like a shark. “Aww.”

You pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loud.”

You bit down on the chip and tried to ignore the way Bucky’s ears had gone a faint pink. Which was… ridiculous. Bucky Barnes did not blush. Bucky Barnes stared down frat guys at parties until they apologized for existing.

And yet… here he was, subtly flustered because you teased him the way you’d been teasing him since freshman year, back when you’d met him in Intro to Psych and he’d looked like someone had dragged him into the building against his will.

The lecture hall had been too warm, packed with bodies and backpack straps and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee. The professor had been cheerful in a way that felt illegal for an 8 a.m., clicking through a slide titled “Welcome to PSYCH 101!” like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.

And then there was Bucky. Three rows down, hunched in his seat like he wanted to shrink out of existence. Hoodie up. Jaw clenched. The kind of posture that screamed do not talk to me.

Which, obviously, had been a challenge.

You’d chosen the seat next to him like it was fate instead of impulse. Dropped your tote down. Pulled out a notebook. And when he’d flicked his eyes to you with that flat, unimpressed stare, you’d smiled like you were meeting a stray cat.

“Hi,” you’d said, bright and fearless, offering up your name. “You look like you hate it here.”

He’d blinked slowly, like he wasn’t used to someone pointing out the obvious. “I do,” he’d replied.

“That’s okay,” you’d said, utterly delighted. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”

He’d stared at you for a beat too long, like he couldn’t decide if you were annoying or dangerous. And then, begrudgingly: “Fine.”

That had been it. That had been the beginning. Not some grand meet-cute. Just you deciding, without consulting him, that you were going to be friends.

And somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten under his skin the way you always did. You’d teased him when he refused to participate in discussion. You’d slide your notes toward him when he’d missed a class. You’d offered him a piece of gum one day and watched him look at it like it was a trap.

He’d been prickly. Guarded. Uninterested in everyone. And still, somewhere along the way, he’d let you stay, let you become a constant.

Now, three years later, it was easy. So easy it should’ve been suspicious.

You could walk into his apartment without knocking. You could steal his hoodie off the back of his chair and he’d grumble but not stop you. You could talk over him, interrupt him, poke at his patience like it was a button you’d installed, and he would roll his eyes like he hated it while quietly making sure you had a plate, a drink, a place to sit.

It was easy. And the ease of it terrified you a little, because it felt like something you weren’t supposed to get for free.

The night kept rolling, a blur of half-studying and mostly roasting each other.

Sam was the loudest variable, as usual. He’d contributed absolutely nothing to the study effort but 80% of the noise, narrating the evening like it was a documentary no one asked for.

Steve had tried, earnestly, to implement structure—“Okay, twenty minutes of focus, five minutes break”—as if any of you were wired for that kind of discipline.

And Bucky continued to hover in the kitchen entrance, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to feel like he had an exit. He was present in that steady way that made the room feel anchored, even when Sam’s brain was ping-ponging around like a loose marble.

At some point the sky outside the windows shifted from dusky blue to full dark. You checked the time and groaned. “Okay,” you announced, cheerful but tired. “I should go. I have an eight a.m. lab and I’d like to arrive with my soul intact.”

Sam groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re leaving? But we were just getting to the part where we all admit we can’t read.”

“You’ve admitted that,” Steve said. “Like, ten times.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t processed it emotionally,” Sam argued.

Steve was already rubbing at his eyes, fatigue setting in like a slow tide. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice warm. “Get some sleep.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, fingers curling around the strap like it anchored you. “Text me if you need anything.”

Sam lifted a hand immediately. “Need you to stay and explain what ‘citations’ means.” You flipped him off with love, a gesture so familiar it felt like home.

Then, because your body did it before your brain could stop it, you looked back at Bucky. He was still standing at the kitchen entrance like he’d been doing all night, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

He took a step forward before he spoke, as if his body had decided for him. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, quick. Like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all night.

Your heart did that stupid thing again, thudding too hard, too fast, like it didn’t know how to be normal about him.“It’s…” you started, forcing a laugh that sounded steadier than you felt. “It’s ten steps to my car.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, not really. They stayed serious, grounded, like this was not a debate.

“Still,” he said. One word. No argument. Just Bucky being Bucky, like it was a rule carved into him: you don’t walk alone at night.

The door to Bucky’s apartment clicked closed behind you a few steps later and the warmth you’d been swimming in fell away as you stepped into cooler air that smelled faintly of old carpet and laundry detergent.

Bucky fell in beside you without making it a thing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to make the cramped corridor feel smaller, like he took up space even when he was trying not to. 

He walked at your pace the way he always did, matching you without looking like he was doing it. Every few steps his gaze flicked forward, then to the side, checking corners out of habit, old instincts in a place that didn’t deserve them.

It should’ve felt ridiculous, letting him escort you ten steps to your car like you were made of glass. But it never did.

Because with Bucky, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like… care. Quiet and steady. Like a hand at the small of your back when you stepped off a curb or an umbrella offered without commentary.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap as you walked, the fabric rough against your palm. “Thanks for tonight,” you said, because you always said it, even if the night had been chaotic and loud and half-useless academically.

Bucky gave a small nod like it was nothing. “Mm,” he murmured, noncommittal, like gratitude made him uncomfortable.

You tried not to smile too hard.

The front entrance came into view, glass doors, the small lobby beyond it lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. The building’s posted notices on the wall. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and study groups and someone offering tarot readings for $10.

Your steps slowed without you meaning them to.

Bucky opened the lobby door and held it, letting you pass first. The air changed as you stepped into the brighter light: colder, cleaner, less forgiving.

He followed you through, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thump. His boots sounded heavier on the tile.

You stopped just before the final doors to outside.

Bucky stopped too, turning slightly, angling his body between you and the glass as if it mattered. As if it was his job.

It wasn’t. That was the problem.

“Drive safe,” he said, voice low.

“I always do,” you answered automatically.

He didn’t respond right away.

His gaze flicked down your face in a way that made your stomach tilt. Not scanning like he scanned the hallway. Not checking like he checked exits. This was different, slower, almost careful, like he was trying to place something he’d felt all night and didn’t have a name for.

Like he was memorizing you.

Your pulse stumbled.

Bucky’s jaw shifted like he was about to speak and decided against it. Like the words were right there behind his teeth and he didn’t trust them.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap again “Bucky?” you heard yourself say.

His eyes lifted immediately. “Yeah?”

A single word and yet it felt like it meant too much.

You didn’t know what you were asking. Not really. Not unless you wanted to pull at the thread you’d been avoiding for months and watch everything unravel.

You didn’t know what you wanted from him… an answer, a confession, permission, denial. So you did what you always did when you got too close to the edge and grabbed humor like it was a life raft.

You smiled softly and said, “Tell Sam I’m not proofreading his essay if he keeps calling it ‘a vibe piece.’”

Bucky’s mouth curved, the tension easing with it. It wasn’t a big smile, Bucky didn’t do big smiles, but it was real and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to examine.

“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice rough with amusement.

“Good.” You shifted your weight toward the door, trying to behave somewhat normal. “Night.”

“Night, doll.”

The nickname slipped out like muscle memory. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… easy. 

Your breath caught. Heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks so fast you felt embarrassed by your own body. Because doll wasn’t new, he’d said it before, here and there, but tonight it landed different.

You forced a laugh that came out too thin. “Goodnight,” you repeated, like saying it twice could override the way your heart was sprinting.

Then you stepped backward toward the glass doors before you could do something stupid like stare. You lifted your hand in a small wave, because you were normal, and this was normal, and best friends said goodnight all the time.

Bucky lifted his hand back, just a fraction, like he didn’t want to let the moment go any more than you did.

You turned quickly before he could see how flustered you were. You hurried down the steps, boots tapping, the night air loud in your ears. You didn’t look back.

You told yourself you didn’t look back because you didn’t want to slip on the icy step, because you were focused, because you were responsible.

Not because if you looked back and saw him watching you, you might crumble.

You reached your car and fumbled your keys out, fingers clumsy from cold and nerves. You slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and sitting there for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, breathing like you’d run a mile.

You started the car, heat blasting on weakly, the engine coughing awake. Only then did you glance up through the windshield… and see him. Bucky was still inside the lobby, standing just behind the glass doors.

Still, broad shoulders squared, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to stop himself from doing something else. His face was turned toward your car, eyes fixed on you with that quiet, steady attention that always made you feel seen.

He didn’t wave this time, he just watched. As if you leaving was the part he hated most. As if he wasn’t satisfied until he knew you were gone, safe, out of sight, beyond the reach of whatever his brain insisted might happen.

You looked away quickly, because the moment felt too intimate through the glass. Because your cheeks were still hot. Because your heart was doing something stupid and hopeful and dangerous.

You backed out carefully, tires crunching over gravel, as you pulled out of your parking space and out onto the main street. 

You didn’t see Bucky standing there, watching your taillights until they disappeared at the corner. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched after you were gone.

You didn’t hear what happened after.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back upstairs, the apartment felt quieter without you, which was stupid because it was still three grown men and a TV that Sam refused to mute.

But your absence left a shape. Like the warmth you brought in with you didn’t fully disappear so much as drain out slowly, leaving everything a little flatter around the edges.

Bucky shut the door and leaned against it for half a second like he needed the wood to keep him upright.

Sam, half-sprawled on the couch, glanced up immediately because Sam had the survival instincts of someone who’d spent years learning how to read a room faster than it could read him. His grin came slow, sharp, delighted.

“Aww,” Sam crooned, all fake tenderness. “He walked her out.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it with water like hydration could fix… anything.

Steve was collecting empty cans and stacking them in a neat little row on the counter like he couldn’t help himself. His voice stayed casual, like he was narrating something harmless.

“She’s got lab early,” Steve said, as if that explained the tight line in Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky nodded once, short and clipped. Still not looking at them. He took a long drink of water that did absolutely nothing. Cold slid down his throat. His pulse stayed high anyway.

Steve didn’t push right away. That was Steve’s thing, he never yanked. He waited. He let people settle into their own truth.

Sam, on the other hand, lived to poke bruises and Bucky could feel Sam’s stare like heat.

Then Steve spoke again, tone light, like he was asking about the weather. “So…” He tipped his head toward the door. “You guys just friends?”

Bucky’s stomach did something unpleasant, like a drop on an elevator. He kept his eyes on the faucet even though it was off, like he was still busy. “Yeah.” But it came out too fast.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Steve’s expression didn’t change, but there was curiosity under it…real, quiet curiosity.

“Just friends,” Steve repeated, like he was testing the words.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the glass. “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. Bucky shot him a look that said don’t you dare. Sam held up both hands, delight practically vibrating off him. “I’m just… listening.”

Steve nodded slowly, like he’d reached a conclusion. “Okay.”

Bucky finally looked over, suspicious. “Okay?”

Steve shrugged. “Just checking.”

Bucky drank again because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. The water didn’t help. His chest still felt tight, like it remembered your smile too vividly.

Then Steve’s mouth tipped into something almost mischievous, so rare on him it should’ve been illegal “Cool,” he said, lightly. “So I can talk to her.”

The room went silent.

Not the normal “we ran out of things to say” silence, but the kind of silence that happens when something instinctive snaps into place.

Bucky’s entire body locked up like someone had flipped a switch in his spine. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to the counter.

Sam’s eyes widened, delighted. “Oh my God.”

Bucky’s voice came low. Flat. “What.”

Steve lifted his brows. “I said, if you’re just friends, then—”

Bucky set the glass down very carefully… then stepped closer. Not aggressive, at least not outwardly. But the air changed anyway, heavier, sharpened. Bucky Barnes did not have to raise his voice to make a room listen.

Steve’s smile faded into confusion. “Dude—”

“You’re not talking to her.” Bucky’s words were quiet, almost casual, which somehow made them worse.

Sam pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. It sounded like pain.

Steve stared. “Bucky. Why would I not talk to her? She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s funny—”

Bucky’s jaw flexed and Sam made a strangled noise like oh no he’s listing reasons. Steve, still oblivious in the way only Steve Rogers could be: “And she’s pretty, and—”

Bucky’s eyes went dangerous as he interrupted Steve, voice still calm but edged with something feral. “Stop.”

Bucky took another step, close enough now that Steve actually leaned back a fraction without realizing he was doing it.

“Listen,” Bucky said, each word measured. “You don’t get to—” He cut himself off, because saying you don’t get to look at her like that would’ve been admitting too much. But his stare did it for him anyway.

Steve’s eyes flicked across Bucky’s face like he was reading something he hadn’t noticed before, like puzzle pieces clicking together.

Realization dawned slowly. “Oh,” Steve said, very quietly. “Ohhhh.” Sam wheezed in the background. 

Bucky’s cheeks went hot with irritation, at Steve, at Sam, at himself, at the fact that his body had reacted like a guard dog before his mouth could catch up.

Steve’s expression softened into something almost fond, which only made Bucky angrier. “You like her,” Steve said.

Bucky’s shoulders went rigid. “No.”

Sam barked a laugh. “That ‘no’ had a stutter in it, buddy.” Bucky looked like he wanted to throw the entire couch at Sam.

Steve held up both hands, backing off a little. “Okay. Okay. But you just told me you’re friends.”

“We are friends,” Bucky snapped.

Steve tilted his head. “But you want more.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

Sam swung his legs off the couch, animated now. “Dude. You literally look like you’re about to challenge Steve to a duel for even imagining asking her out.”

Bucky’s gaze cut to Sam. “I’m not.”

Sam pointed. “You are.”

Bucky’s voice dropped again, stubborn. “I’m not.”

Steve’s smile came back, gentle this time, not teasing. “Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked away like the ceiling suddenly had something interesting going on.

Steve stepped closer, careful. “I wasn’t actually going to ask her out. I was messing with you.”

Bucky looked back at him, sharp. “Why.”

Steve shrugged, helpless honesty. “Because it’s been three years,” he said. “And you’ve been looking at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed once. Steve kept going, because he wasn’t wrong and they all knew it.

“You keep calling her cute little nicknames like you don’t know what that does to you. You save her a seat without thinking. You go quiet when she’s tired like you’re trying to absorb the weight for her. And you get weird when anyone else gets her attention.”

Sam nodded violently. “So weird.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “And I’m not trying to steal your girl.” He paused, watching Bucky’s face. “I’m trying to get you to be honest… at least with yourself.”

That phrase, your girl, hit something deep and instinctive in Bucky’s chest, and the worst part was how right it sounded, like it had been written somewhere long before he’d even learned how to want things again.

Bucky exhaled, hard, like he was letting go of a fight he didn’t know he’d started.

Sam leaned forward, quieter now. “You gonna tell her?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a beat.

He could still see you at the door, turning with that small smile. He could still hear the soft “night.” He could still feel the way his chest had tightened when you stepped away, like his body didn’t know what to do when you weren’t within reach.

Then, barely, like the words cost him pride and oxygen, “She deserves better than me springing it on her,” he said.

Steve’s expression softened even more. “That’s not an answer.”

Bucky swallowed. “I’m not gonna—” He shook his head once, frustrated. “I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”

Sam’s voice went surprisingly gentle. “You mean the thing you’re already messing up by acting like a kicked puppy every time she smiles at someone else?”

Bucky shot him a look. Sam held it, unflinching.

Steve nodded, calm. “You don’t have to do anything tonight. But… maybe stop lying about what you feel.”

Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Then he muttered, like the words tasted like pride and fear at the same time, “I’m not lying.”

Sam lifted his brows. “Then what was that back there? ‘Yeah just friends’?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m just… defensive.”

Steve smiled, small. “You mean possessive.”

Bucky’s glare could’ve melted glass.

Sam slapped his thigh. “Oh, he’s down bad.”

Bucky’s voice came low, warning. “Sam.”

Sam held up his hands again, laughing. “Okay, okay. But for the record? If you don’t tell her soon, somebody else is gonna try. And you’re gonna have an aneurysm.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the door, like he could still see you, could still feel the warmth you left behind in the room. Then, reluctantly, like admitting it might break him, “…Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

Steve’s smile went soft. “Good. That means you care.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always cared.”

Sam grinned like Christmas came early. “Awww.”

Bucky turned, already moving toward his bedroom, because if he stayed in the living room any longer he was going to do something dramatic, like text you right now and say something catastrophically honest.

Sam called after him, bright and smug: “So we agree? She’s not just your friend.”

Bucky paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. Then, without looking back, he said, quiet and deadly: “Try and find out.” And shut the door. 

Sam exploded into laughter. Steve just stood there, shaking his head, smiling like he’d finally solved a mystery.

And somewhere off in the distance, you were driving home with no idea that the line between “best friends” and “mine” had just been drawn hard inside Bucky’s chest.

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You didn’t think about Bucky on the drive home. That was the lie you told yourself, anyway.

You told yourself you were thinking about your eight a.m. lab, about the way your TA looked like he’d been spawned by black coffee and bad sleep, about how you still needed to print your pre-lab worksheet, about whether you’d remembered to pack your goggles or if Future You was about to have to buy another pair from the bookstore for a price that felt criminal. 

You told yourself you were thinking about the exam next week, the one that sat in the back of your head like a storm cloud you kept pretending wasn’t there. You told yourself you were thinking about literally anything else.

But your mind kept doing that annoying, traitorous thing where it rewound moments like a song you couldn’t stop replaying, even when you changed the station.

Bucky’s eyes on you in the kitchen. Not a glance. Not a check-in. A linger. Like he’d been looking at you and forgetting to look away.

The way his voice had dropped when he’d said “Night, doll”, soft and low, like it belonged in the quiet. And the pause after, that half second where everything in you had gone still because you could tell he’d realized he’d said it out loud.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and forced your gaze onto the road, like you could steer yourself away from the thought if you held on hard enough.

It was nothing, you told yourself. It was a nickname. Bucky called people nicknames. Bucky was… Bucky. Quiet, protective, occasionally softer than he wanted anyone to notice. And you were his friend.

His best friend, technically, if you were counting hours spent in the same space, shared notes, shared snacks, shared silence. If you were counting the way he always saved you the seat that wasn’t too close to other people. The way he always angled his body between you and whatever made you tense. The way he somehow knew when your social battery was dying and would silently hand you your coat like here, I’m giving you an exit.

Friends did that. Friends walked you out. Friends texted you to make sure you got home.

You repeated it like an incantation as you drove, friends, friends, friends, like saying it enough times would make your stomach stop doing that weird, soft flip every time you pictured his face at the door.

You should not be noticing his shoulders. You should not be noticing the shape of his hands when he reached for a glass. You should not be noticing the way he looked at you like you were the only calm thing in a room.

You were not doing that. You were normal. This was normal.

Your brain, unfortunately, did not agree.

You swallowed hard at a red light and stared straight ahead, unblinking, like that could keep you from spiraling.

Because spiraling meant admitting something, and admitting something meant you’d have to do something about it… and you weren’t ready.

You weren’t ready to name the thing in your chest that kept swelling every time he said your name. You weren’t ready to admit that sometimes you caught yourself looking at his mouth. That sometimes, when he was laughing, rare and rough and real, you felt like your heart had been physically tugged in that direction.

You weren’t ready to ask yourself what it would mean if he didn’t just feel safe, but what it would mean if he felt like home.

So you did what you always did when feelings got too big: You shoved them into the “later” folder in your brain and hoped they would die of neglect.

By the time you pulled into your apartment complex and killed the engine, you’d decided it meant nothing. By the time you climbed the stairs and brushed your teeth and crawled into bed, you’d reinforced that decision so aggressively you almost believed it.

And by the time you fell asleep, you’d filed the whole night away under:

Bucky being Bucky. Me being dramatic. Nothing to see here.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you woke up, your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes squinting at the brightness like it was personally offensive.

Bucky: You get home okay?

Your brain didn’t even have time to put up defenses before your body reacted, warmth blooming in your chest, soft and immediate. Like your insides had been waiting for it. 

You stared at it for a full ten seconds until your thoughts caught up.

He texted to check in. That’s normal. People do that.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Don’t be weird, you told yourself as you typed back with a yawn and a smile you refused to examine.

You: Yeah. Fell asleep like a rock. You guys survive without me?

You hit send, then immediately rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it might tell you why your heart was suddenly beating like you’d just done cardio.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Bucky: Barely.

Bucky: Good luck in lab.

You blinked at the screen.

That second text, good luck in lab, was so stupidly sweet it made your chest do the thing again. That soft squeeze, right under your ribs, like your body recognized care before your brain could dismiss it.

He remembered your schedule. Of course he did. He remembered everything. He remembered your coffee order “by accident” and then never forgot it. He remembered the exact brand of granola bar you liked. He remembered the way you got quiet when you were anxious.

He wasn’t just being polite. He was being… Bucky. And you weren’t supposed to feel like this about Bucky.

Because feeling like this about Bucky meant risk. It meant the possibility of losing the easiest, safest relationship you’d ever had. It meant ruining the one thing in your life that didn’t feel complicated.

It meant taking something good and putting it in your shaky hands. 

You typed a reply, erased it, typed again.

You: Thanks 😊

Too soft. Delete. 

You: Appreciate it.

Too formal. Like he was your professor. Delete. 

Your fingers hovered again and your brain scrambled for something safe and normal, something that didn’t scream I read your texts like they’re scripture.

So you sent the only armor you had: sarcasm.

You: Thanks, old man.

Three dots popped up immediately and you felt your mouth twitch, helpless, like you could already hear him.

Bucky: I’m 23.

You laughed before you could stop yourself, one of those soft, stupid laughs that made your whole face warm. You rolled onto your side and hugged your pillow tighter, smiling like an idiot.

Stop it, you told yourself. Stop smiling. Stop reading into it. Stop—stop—stop—

But your mind, traitorous as ever, offered up the image of him in his lobby again. The way he’d looked at you like he was holding something back. Like he’d wanted to say more and didn’t trust himself.

Your stomach dipped.

Because if you were being honest, if you peeled back all the sarcasm and denial and careful avoidance, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t new. It had been building. In tiny, quiet ways. In ways you’d pretended were nothing because nothing was safer than something.

But last night… last night had felt like a line you’d both stepped too close to.

And now you were lying in bed with your phone in your hand, cheeks warm, heart stupid, and your lab looming, trying very hard not to think about how you wanted to text him something soft. 

Something honest, something… terrifying.

Instead, you sat up fast, like movement could shake the thoughts loose, and threw the covers back.

“Nope,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of bed. “We are not doing this today.”

You set your phone down like it had personally betrayed you, then immediately picked it back up and looked at the screen again.

Because you were weak. And because Bucky Barnes was your best friend. And because something in you was starting to realize that might not be the whole truth anymore.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Campus was already loud by the time you got there.

Winter air, backpacks, the smell of burnt espresso and wet concrete. You power-walked across the quad with your tote bag thumping against your hip and your hair still damp from the shower.

Halfway to the science building, you cut through the student union to grab coffee, because if you had to pipette anything before caffeine, you would simply pass away.

The line was long. Of course it was.

You shuffled forward, clutching your tote bag, scrolling your phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone trying not to think about how little you’d slept.

“Hey.”

You looked up and immediately softened at the sight of Steve, standing a few feet away with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lifting in a small wave like he’d been waiting to spot you. 

He looked annoyingly put-together for eight in the morning in a hoodie, clean sneakers, his hair behaving. The human embodiment of “I definitely slept.”

“Steve,” you said, relief in your voice before you could help it. “Thank God. A friendly face.”

He smiled. “Is that what I am? Not ‘a walking lecture on responsibility’?”

“You contain multitudes,” you said gravely. “Mostly protein.”

Steve laughed, stepping up beside you so you were shoulder-to-shoulder in line like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was. You’d had enough shared group projects and late-night study sessions for it to be normal.

“Early lab?” he murmured, like he didn’t remember from the night before. 

“Eight a.m. The crime of it all,” you sighed. “Why are you up? You don’t even have class until like… never.”

“Rude.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I have an eight-thirty. And Sam texted me at seven asking if ‘breakfast counts as a concept.’ So I’m on crisis duty.”

Your mouth twitched. “You’re enabling him.”

“I’m saving the GPA of the friend group.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Hero complex.” 

Steve’s grin widened. “Guilty.”

You both moved forward a couple steps. You felt your shoulders unclench, the simple ease of it. Steve was one of the few people who could talk to you without draining your battery. 

He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at you over the rim like he was trying very hard to look casual about something he’d already decided to bring up.

“So,” he said, measured, “you escaped pretty quick last night.”

You blinked. “I did not escape.”

Steve’s mouth quirked. “Uh-huh. You left and Buck spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t listening for the door.”

Heat climbed your neck. “He did not.”

Steve’s expression stayed infuriatingly neutral. “He did.”

You huffed, trying to keep it light. “Maybe he was just… making sure the door latched. He’s weird about locks.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled. “Maybe.” Then, softer, like he couldn’t help it: “He’s just… different when you’re around.”

That landed quieter than it should’ve. You busied yourself with the menu board, as if latte options could save you from emotions.

Steve didn’t push right away. He let the line move, let the moment breathe. He was good at that. Then he said, like it was nothing: “He was up early.”

You glanced at him. “Bucky? Voluntarily?”

Steve’s mouth tipped. “Didn’t say that.” A beat. “Just… seemed like something was on his mind.”

Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.

Steve’s gaze dipped to your hand, the way your thumb kept hovering over your phone like you were waiting for it to light up. He didn’t smile, just looked back at you with quiet, patient understanding.

“And you,” he added, “seem… a little distracted.”

You scoffed automatically. “I’m not distracted. I’m thriving.”

Steve smiled like he’d known you long enough to translate. “Sure you are.”

The line crept forward again. You were just starting to decide what you wanted when Steve, very casually, asked: “So… you and Buck still doing the “we’re just friends” thing?”

You paused for half a second, your brain doing a hard reset at the question. Steve’s eyes crinkled. “That’s not a no.”

You gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s also not a yes to whatever you’re trying to start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said, too innocent.

You scoffed. “You’re literally always starting something.”

Steve lifted his free hand in surrender, but his voice softened as he said it, no teasing now, just honest. “Okay, fine. I just…” he shrugged, eyes kind, “I care about him. And you’re important to him. That’s all.”

Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t love. You reached for sarcasm once again like it was a blanket. “I’m important to everyone. I’m a national treasure.”

Steve smiled like he believed you. “You kind of are.”

You rolled your eyes, but you can’t stop the little tug at the corner of your mouth. The line shuffles forward again, and now you’re close enough to the counter that you can actually smell the espresso. The barista at the register looks half-awake, hair shoved into a messy bun, name tag slightly crooked. “Next!” You step up automatically, slipping into your practiced morning voice as you rattle off your order. 

You drift toward the pick-up counter after paying for your drink, the shop humming around you. Steam hissing, cups sliding, the low clatter of lids and sleeves. Music plays somewhere under all the conversation, muffled by the grinder going off again.

You lean back against the wall near the window, cradling your receipt like it’s a promise. Outside, students cross the quad in bundled-up clusters, their breath ghosting in the cold. Inside, it’s warm enough that your cheeks finally stop stinging.

Steve sips his coffee and watches you over the rim with that same I’m being casual but I’m actually paying attention look.

You lift your chin, already defensive. “Don’t.”

Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t what?”

“Do your Captain Concerned face.”

“I’m not,” he says, which is a blatant lie.

You huff a laugh and look away, tracking the line of cups moving down the counter like you can will yours into existence. A barista calls a name and someone snatches the drink like it’s a life raft.

Steve shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you. “You know you don’t have to figure all of that out at eight in the morning, right?”

You glance at him. “Figure what out.”

He gives you a look. Not pushy. Just… come on. “You and Buck,” he says simply.

Your stomach flips. “I’m not figuring anything out,” you say, a little too quickly. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

Steve hums, unconvinced, but lets it sit. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Just don’t spiral yourself into a wall over it.”

You flick your gaze back to him. “And if you keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you ‘Dad’ unironically.”

Steve grins. “I can live with that.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and bounce lightly on your heels, half-impatient, half-anticipating that first sip like it’s going to reset your whole nervous system.

Then the barista calls your name and relief hits so fast you almost laugh. “That’s me.” You step forward, reach for the cup, warm in your hands, sleeve snug around it. The smell alone makes your shoulders drop like your body finally remembers how to unclench.

You turn back toward Steve… and nearly collide with someone entering the shop. You stop short on instinct, yanking your drink back so it won’t spill, heat sloshing dangerously close to the lid. Your apology is already on your tongue, automatic, practiced.

“Sorry—” But the word catches.

Because it’s Bucky. And for one stupid second, your body reacts like the universe just reached into your chest and squeezed.

He’s not dressed up. Just a worn jacket and a dark hoodie underneath, like he threw it on without thinking. His hair looks slightly damp, like he showered in a hurry and left with his hoodie still smelling faintly like soap. The cold outside has pinked his cheeks a little, and you hate how much you notice details you shouldn’t be noticing.

His eyes sweep the room once as he steps in on instinct and they land on you almost immediately. For a second, his face eases. The hard line of his mouth loosens. The set of his shoulders drops by a fraction. Like seeing you in the room resets something in him.

And your chest tightens, because you feel it.

Then Bucky’s gaze shifts, just a quick flick to your side where he notices Steve. You watch the tiny recalibration. Not anger. Not hostility. Nothing that would give him away. Just… awareness.

Bucky’s gaze flicks back to you like he’s checking in, like the only question that matters is are you okay?

“Hey,” you say, surprised into a smile that you try to make normal. Try to make casual. Try to make friend-shaped. It comes out softer anyway. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky clears his throat like your voice did something to him. “I—” His eyes dart to the menu board, like he needs a reason to exist in this space that isn’t you. “Was nearby.”

Nearby. On campus. At your coffee shop. Right when you’re here… Sure.

Steve, because Steve is Steve, lifts his coffee in greeting like this is all perfectly normal and not actively making your pulse misbehave. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bucky returns, polite. Normal. The kind of normal he uses when he’s trying very hard not to show his cards.

Your fingers tighten around your cup without you meaning to, the sleeve warm against your palm. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cup in your hand, lingering on it like it was safer to look at that than at your face for too long. “You got something?”

“Hazelnut latte,” you said. “Because I’m brave.”

Your voice comes out light, teasing, your practiced armor. Like you didn’t spend the entire morning trying not to think about him and that you didn’t stare at his text until your chest warmed in a way you refused to label.

He nods once, gaze still on your drink and then, casual, almost absentminded, he reaches out and adjusts the tote strap on your shoulder where it’s slipping.

The touch is quick, nothing dramatic, not even a full second. But it lands like a spark on dry paper.

His fingers brush the fabric, then the edge of your shoulder through your sweater, and your brain goes briefly blank, like someone unplugged it and forgot to plug it back in.

Bucky’s hand drops back to his side like it meant nothing. Like he hasn’t been doing little things like that for years.

Like you don’t remember a hundred tiny versions of this: him tucking your scarf in when you didn’t notice it slipping, him nudging your notebook back onto the desk when it slid, him sliding your coffee closer when you were too busy talking to reach for it.

“Thanks,” you manage, and it comes out quieter than you intended.

Bucky meets your eyes for the smallest second, just enough for you to feel like he heard the softness and didn’t look away from it. “Yeah,” he says.

Steve watches it happen with the patient expression of someone seeing a puzzle piece click into place. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t make you feel exposed. He just shifts his weight and asks, warmly, “You heading to lab?”

You clear your throat like a person who has not just short-circuited over a tote strap. “Yep. My own personal hell.” You try to laugh but it comes out a little breathy.

Bucky’s gaze sharpens immediately, purpose sliding over his features like a mask he knows how to wear. “I’ll walk you.”

Your stomach drops again and you blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His tone is gentle, like he doesn’t mean it as pressure. Just fact. “I want to.”

The words hit like a warm hand on your spine, your chest squeezes in that soft, terrifying way it did last night when he said doll. In the way it did this morning when he wished you good luck like he’d been thinking about you before you even woke up.

“Okay,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Sure. You can—” you gesture vaguely, because words are failing you, “escort me across the terrifying quad.”

Bucky nods, already turning with you like the decision is made. Like this is just what he does: follows you. keeps you warm. makes sure you get where you’re going.

Steve steps back to give you space and smiles at you. “Text me later,” he says. “I want the lab gossip.”

You point at him, grateful for something normal to hold onto. “Only if you promise not to mother-hen Sam into my DMs.”

Steve laughs. “No promises.”

You roll your eyes and start toward the door with Bucky beside you, your shoulder nearly brushing his, your body walking a little too carefully like it doesn’t trust itself not to lean in.

As you pass, Steve adds lightly, like it’s nothing at all: “Tell Buck I said hi later.”

You look back, incredulous, grateful for the excuse to blink and breathe. “He literally heard you.”

“I like to be thorough,” Steve calls, grin bright.

You snorted and stepped into the cold with Bucky, breath catching as the chill cut straight through you.

It was that sharp, early-winter kind that made the inside of your nose sting and turned every exhale into smoke. You tucked your chin into your scarf and immediately regretted wearing cute boots instead of practical ones.

Bucky didn’t seem to register the temperature at all. He moved beside you with that steady, unhurried pace he always had, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. 

The student union doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the warmth and noise and suddenly it was just campus morning again: footsteps on concrete, distant laughter, the thrum of cars, someone yelling into a phone about a quiz they definitely forgot.

You glanced at Bucky sideways and instantly noticed how he was walking half a step closer than normal.

Not touching. Not crowding. Not doing anything that anyone else would clock as anything. Just… close enough that when the wind cut hard between buildings, you felt the edge of his body heat brush your sleeve like a private little shelter.

It shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet your brain kept tripping over it like a loose stair. You told yourself it was just him being protective. You told yourself that didn’t mean anything.

Your body, traitor, did not agree.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to campus today,” you said, keeping your tone casual, like you weren’t overanalyzing his presence as if it were a crime scene.

Bucky’s eyes stayed forward. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, jaw set like he was bracing for the wind to pick a fight. “Didn’t know I was.”

You snorted. “That’s deeply concerning.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I was up,” he said, like that explained everything. Like being awake automatically meant he belonged wherever you were.

Your gaze flicked to the faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night but more like a pattern he pretended wasn’t a pattern. “You didn’t sleep.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted subtly, like a muscle flex. Like he didn’t love being perceived. “Some.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

He glanced down at you and for a second his expression softened in a way that always startled you. like the “Bucky Barnes who scowls at the world” melted into something warmer when it was just you.

“I’m fine,” he said, quieter.

You made a face. “You say that like it’s a spell.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched again. “Works most of the time.”

“It does not,” you said, and your voice wanted to be teasing, wanted to stay light, but there was something tender underneath it you couldn’t quite smother. You swallowed it down and tried again, steadier. “But really… why did you really come?”

Bucky’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the quad like he was tracking a hundred small things at once. “You had lab.”

You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”

“And it’s early,” he added, simple as a fact. “And it’s cold.”

Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t fireworks, wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even romantic on the surface… but it hit you anyway.

Because it wasn’t about the weather. Not really.

It was about him showing up. About him quietly deciding that you shouldn’t have to do the morning alone. About him making himself part of your day the same way he always did, like it didn’t cost him anything, like it wasn’t a choice.

Your mouth went dry. You forced a laugh to cover it. “You’re acting like I’m going to get jumped by a chemistry beaker.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “You’re underdressed.”

You gasped, offended, clutching your coat tighter around yourself like it was a courtroom drama. “These boots are fashion.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, quiet and rough, barely there, but it warmed something in you anyway. “Those boots are a lawsuit.”

You bumped your shoulder into his, a little harder than necessary, because you needed the contact to feel normal. “You’re such an old man,” you accused.

“I’m twenty-three,” he reminded you again, like he’d been waiting to say it. 

You smiled despite yourself, couldn’t help it, even when you tried. “And yet. So ancient.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for half a beat, like he wanted to say something else. Like there was another version of this conversation where he admitted the real reason he was here wasn’t the cold, or the hour, or the hypothetical beaker attack.

Like maybe the real reason was the simplest one: I wanted to see you.

But he didn’t say it.

You crossed the quad together, weaving through the morning crowd like you’d done it a hundred times except this time… you couldn’t stop noticing the shape of it.

Bucky stayed half a step closer than normal, body angled just enough that he took the worst of the wind when it knifed between buildings. His pace matched yours without you asking. When you slowed to dodge a cluster of freshmen walking five-wide like they’d never heard of spatial awareness, he slowed too. When you sped up to get around a skateboarder who nearly clipped your ankle, he adjusted without breaking stride, guiding you through the chaos like it was second nature.

It should’ve been funny. It was funny, a little. But it also made something in your chest twist in that warm, uncomfortable way you’d been trying to ignore. 

By the time the science building came into view, your hands were cold inside your sleeves, but your face was warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.

At the edge of the steps, you slowed.

“This is me,” you said, turning toward the doors like you weren’t reluctant to break away from him. Like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of how much calmer your brain had been with him beside you.

Bucky stopped with you but didn’t immediately step away.

You became abruptly aware of how close you were now, close enough you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth from the way he held tension, the little flecks of lighter brown in his eyes when the sun hit them right.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You got gloves?”

You blinked down, as if the answer might change if you looked harder. Your fingers were shoved into your sleeves like a child. “No.”

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and you weren’t sure if it was aimed at you or at the concept of winter itself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black knit gloves, and held them out.

You stared. “Are those… yours?”

Bucky’s face stayed neutral, but his ears pinked faintly, the only betrayal of anything happening under the surface. “Extra pair.”

“Since when do you carry extra gloves?” you asked, because your brain needed to cling to logistics before it got swallowed by the way your chest was tightening.

Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t at all strange to have an extra layer of warmth ready to hand to you.“Since always.”

You didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe most things Bucky said when he was trying to play something off. But you took them anyway because you always did. Because your hands were freezing. Because refusing would make this a thing, and you were trying so hard not to make things things.

Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment as you took them and your body reacted like you’d been burned. A little jolt, sharp and hot, flaring up your arm and straight into your chest, and your stomach dipped like you’d stepped off a curb you didn’t see.

You focused on the gloves like they were the only thing holding you together. “You just carry extra gloves,” you said, a little too pointed, like you could logic your way out of whatever feeling was trying to take root in your ribs.

Bucky’s shrug came again, smaller this time. “Yeah.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I’m prepared,” he said.

You huffed a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re—” you started, ready to tease him, ready to keep it light… then the truth landed too cleanly in your mouth.

“You’re always prepared for me.”

The words hung there between you, visible in the cold. You hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it at all.

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lifted to your face, steady and unreadable except for the way something in it tightened, like your words had hit a place he kept guarded.

You swallowed, forcing air into your lungs.

“Well,” you said too brightly, voice climbing a note higher than usual. You shoved one glove on, then the other, because movement felt safer than standing still. “Thanks for walking me.”

Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “Text me when you’re done.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the building, scanning like it was a threat, then came back to you, sharp and full of intent, like the only thing he was really paying attention to was you. “Just… do it.”

It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like a habit he didn’t realize he had: check in, make sure she’s okay, make sure she’s still here.

Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said, quieter now. Honest despite yourself. “I will.”

Bucky nodded once, satisfied, as if that was all he needed. As if your promise was something he could hold onto. Then, finally, he stepped back like he’d completed his mission.

You turned toward the doors, breath fogging in front of you, and took one step… then hesitated.

You looked back and he was still standing there, watching like he always did until you were inside. Your heart did that stupid, traitorous thing again, beating too hard against your ribs.

You lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to look normal, trying to ignore the fact that your fingers felt warm inside hisgloves.

Bucky lifted his hand back, subtle and restrained, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time.

And you ducked inside before you could talk yourself into circles, before you could stand there long enough to do something reckless, like walk back down the steps and ask him what the hell you were to him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The lab greeted you with the sharp scent of bleach and metal, disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. You shrugged off your coat, hung it on the rack, slipped your goggles into place, and forced yourself back into the rhythm of the room: steady hands, precise measurements, careful data collection.

You turned toward your station, the one with the slightly crooked label and the burner that always clicked twice before it lit. Your lab partner, Riley, was already there, hair in a messy bun, sleeves shoved up, face bright with the kind of morning energy that made you distrust her.

“Hey!” Riley chirped, waving like you were meeting for brunch instead of chemistry.

You waved back, grateful for something normal. “Morning.”

Riley leaned over the bench, eyes scanning your materials like she had a radar for preparedness. “Did you bring your notebook?”

You patted your tote bag. “Always. I’m the only reason you pass.”

Riley grinned, shameless. “True.”

That made you laugh, and for half a second you felt like yourself again, like you could just slide into the routine and let your brain go quiet. You both started setting up: measuring, labeling, filling small beakers with precise amounts of solution. You wrote your names on a strip of lab tape and stuck it to the glassware.

Normally, you loved this part, the rhythm of it. Hands busy, mind narrowing down to a single point. The satisfaction of order: numbers, measurements, exactness. Lab work was one of the few places your brain could be loud without being chaotic.

But today your thoughts kept drifting like static, like a radio station you couldn’t tune out.

Bucky standing at the science building steps, still watching you when you turned back. Bucky’s quiet voice: Just… do it.Bucky’s gloves on your hands, now folded in your tote like a secret you couldn’t put down.

You shook your head once, sharp, like you could physically dislodge it.

Focus.

Riley was mid-sentence about your TA, something about the man’s obsession with “proper labeling” and “not treating acid like juice”, when a voice cut in from the station beside you, murmuring your name like it belonged in his mouth.

“Hey… that’s you, right?”

You glance over and another classmate, Ethan Calder, tall, sandy-haired, always wearing a hoodie like it was glued to him, stood by the neighboring bench with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He sat two rows behind you in one of your lecture classes. He’d asked you for notes once and now laughed too loudly at your jokes since.

“Yeah,” you said, polite. “Hey.”

Ethan’s smile brightened like you’d just rewarded him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, casual and rehearsed, like he’d seen someone do it in a movie and decided it counted as charm.

“Didn’t know you were a morning person,” he said, tone light.

You blinked. “I’m not.”

He laughed, like that was delightful. “That’s kind of cute.”

Your stomach twisted.

Not because Ethan was doing anything wrong, he wasn’t. He was flirting, harmlessly, the way college guys did when they thought they had an opening.

But the word cute landed on your skin like an ill-fitting sweater. Scratchy. Wrong. A label you didn’t want.

Ethan kept going, undeterred. “You always seem… chill,” he said, gaze lingering in a way that made your shoulders want to tense. “Like you’ve got your life together.”

You stared at him for a beat. My life together?

Your life was held together by color-coded planners, caffeine, and the sheer determination not to disappoint people. But sure. If that looked like “together” from the outside, maybe everyone else was worse off than you thought.

“Uh,” you said, trying to steer it back to neutral ground, “I just… write everything down.”

Ethan nodded like that was adorable, like the idea of you being organized was part of his fantasy. “Maybe you could write my number down.”

Riley made a very unfortunate choking sound that could’ve been interpreted as a cough if the universe was kind and your face went hot instantly.

Ethan smiled, pleased with himself. “Unless you’re seeing someone.”

The question should’ve been easy. You should’ve smiled, said no thanks, kept it polite. It would’ve slid off you like water. You’ve brushed off flirting before, deflected, redirected.

Except your brain didn’t stay in the present, no, instead it immediately supplied Bucky.

Bucky’s face at the coffee shop. Bucky stepping to your side like he belonged there. Bucky adjusting your tote strap without thinking, like touching you was instinct. Bucky giving you gloves as if keeping you warm was as natural as breathing.

Your mouth opened… and nothing came out.

Because if you said no, it felt like lying. And if you said yes, you didn’t know who you’d be talking about.

Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Or… are you?”

You forced a small laugh, light and awkward. “I’m… not really looking to—”

“That’s fair,” Ethan said quickly, eager to recover, but then he added, softer, like he thought this was romantic: “I could change your mind.”

Your skin prickled. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of line people said when they thought persistence was attractive, but it made something in you recoil. Not because he was scary… but because he wasn’t Bucky.

And that was the problem. That was the sudden, horrifying clarity of it.

You didn’t want attention like this from someone else. You didn’t want to be someone’s new interest, someone’s casual flirt, someone’s challenge. You didn’t want to be looked at like a prize. You wanted—

You froze. Because your brain finished the sentence before you could stop it.

You wanted Bucky.

The thought landed clean and undeniable, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught in your chest and your hands, holding a test tube, went suddenly too still.

You swallowed past the tightness, forcing your voice steady the way you did when you were trying not to shake.

“Ethan,” you said, calm but firm, “you’re nice, but… no.”

Ethan blinked. “No?”

You nodded, firmer now. “No.”

He stared at you for a beat like he wasn’t used to being shut down without softness. Then he lifted his hands, backing off. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you said, because you were always fine, always polite, always smoothing edges even when you didn’t owe it.

Ethan retreated to his station, cheeks a little pink, posture a little smaller, and the air around you finally loosened.

Riley leaned in, whispering, “Was that—”

“Don’t,” you hissed.

Riley held up both hands. “I was going to say ‘was that uncomfortable’ but okay.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose and focused on the beakers because if you looked at Riley’s face for one more second you might actually scream.

They worked in silence for a few minutes: measure, pour, record, repeat. Your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind, meanwhile, was in full catastrophe.

Why did that feel so wrong?

Because you didn’t like Ethan, that was normal, but it wasn’t just dislike.

It was… comparison. Immediate, involuntary comparison. Ethan’s smile against Bucky’s quiet warmth. Ethan’s practiced charm against Bucky’s raw sincerity. Ethan trying to impress you versus Bucky never trying at all and still somehow being the person you wanted most.

Your throat tightened again. 

You’d been telling yourself for years that what you felt for Bucky was friendship.

You’d told herself the warmth in your chest when he smiled was normal. That the jealousy you felt when other girls laughed too hard at his jokes was just protectiveness. That the way you always noticed him first in a room was just because he was your person.

But Ethan had flirted with you for thirty seconds and all you could think was: I want Bucky.

Your hand steadied the burette like it was the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked on the meniscus because if you looked up you might actually fall apart in front of fluorescent lights and twelve other people in goggles. You counted drops. You breathed through your nose. You pretended the tightness in your chest was just anxiety about the lab report.

Riley nudged you lightly with an elbow. “You okay?”

You blinked hard, refocusing on the liquid levels like your life depended on it. “Yep.”

Riley’s eyes flicked to your face, immediately unimpressed. “That was a ‘no’ disguised as a ‘yep.’”

Your laugh came out too sharp, more of a bark than a laugh, the kind that was all edges. “I’m fine.”

Riley narrowed her eyes like she could see straight through your skull. “Did Ethan bother you?”

You hesitated, because the truth wasn’t that Ethan bothered you. He was fine. He was normal. He was what flirting was supposed to look like in college: harmless lines, easy confidence, a little too much charm.

He’d held up a mirror for half a second, and you’d seen what you’d been refusing to look at, what your body already knew, what your mind had been trying to outrun.

You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. He’s—he’s harmless.”

Riley didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited, patient in the way only someone who knows you well can be.

You stared at the data sheet until the numbers blurred into gray lines, swallowing thickly. And then, so quietly it barely registered over the lab noise, you whispered, “I think I’m screwed.”

Riley’s eyebrows lifted. “Academically or emotionally?”

A sound escaped you, half laugh, half broken exhale. “Both.”

Riley’s expression softened immediately, the teasing draining out of her face. “Hey…”

Your fingers tightened around your pen until it dug into your grip. “I didn’t like it.”

“Okay,” Riley said, gentle. “That’s allowed.”

“No, I mean—” You swallowed hard, throat tight in a way that made your eyes sting for the stupidest reason. “I didn’t like it because it wasn’t… him.”

Riley went still.

And you hated that your body betrayed you in real time, the heat crawling up your neck, the ache behind your ribs like something deep had been pulled awake, the way your breath turned shallow like you’d just run up stairs.

Riley’s voice dropped. “Bucky.”

You didn’t answer, because saying his name out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.

Riley’s face did that slow, dawning thing people do when the last gear finally clicks. “Oh my God.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”

Riley’s whisper was reverent yet delighted, like she’d just discovered a secret romance in the margins of your life. “You like him.”

Your eyes snapped open. “No.”

Riley stared at you. “Dude,” she said, flatly.

Your throat bobbed. “I mean—I don’t know. We’re just—”

Riley held your gaze with the quiet endurance of someone watching a friend lie to themselves in slow motion.

“I didn’t want Ethan to ask for my number,” you admitted, your voice cracking with honesty as the words came rushing out. “I didn’t want anyone else to… want me like that. It felt wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And then all I could think about was—” Your stomach rolled. “How Bucky looks at me.”

Riley’s mouth softened. “How does he look at you?”

You stared at the beaker like it contained the answer and if you stared long enough, the solution would change color and give you clarity. But the truth was already there, bright and unavoidable.

He looked at you like he was holding back, like he was always one breath away from doing something reckless.

Like he was trying to be good, trying to be careful, trying not to ruin what you had, while still orbiting you like gravity.

Like he wasn’t just watching you… he was keeping you.

Your voice came out on a whisper that scared you with how true it sounded.

“Like I’m his.”

Riley’s eyes widened.

Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. Because now that you’d said it, you couldn’t un-know it. And worse? You realized you wanted it to be true.

You wanted to be his. Not in some dramatic, possessive, unhealthy way. In that quiet, steady way Bucky did everything, like care could be a constant and safety could be a person.

The thought terrified you so badly your hands shook, the pen wobbling against the page.

Riley reached out and touched your wrist lightly, grounding you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “It feels like I am.”

Riley’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter. “Didn’t you say he walked you here?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And he told you to text him when you’re done.”

Your chest tightened again, because you’d almost forgotten, you’d been too busy unraveling. Riley gave you a look that was gentle but firm, the kind that didn’t let you run away from yourself. “Text him when lab ends,” she said. 

You nodded, even though the idea of seeing Bucky now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, made your stomach flip violently.

You finished the lab on autopilot. You recorded numbers. Cleaned glassware. Put equipment away. Smiled at the TA like you weren’t internally combusting. When the final timer beeped, relief hit you so hard you almost swayed.

Around you, the room loosened. Students started filtering out in clumps, noise swelling as people tugged off goggles and complained about the assignment, their voices overlapping into that familiar post-lab chaos.

You wiped your hands on a paper towel, tossed it, and reached for your phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, your screen lighting up. Your stomach flipped like it recognized what was about to happen and you stared at the screen like it might bite. 

Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s contact for a second. You swallowed hard, pulse thumping in your throat and you typed before you could chicken out.

You: Done. Survived. Barely.

You hit send… and then you just stood there, heart pounding, staring at “Delivered,” because suddenly you couldn’t remember how to be casual with the boy you’d been casual with for years.

Riley nudged your shoulder gently, snapping you back into your body. “You okay?”

You blinked and realized you were holding your breath. Your hand was still hovering midair, phone clenched like a lifeline.

“No,” you whispered honestly, because you were past pretending now. “I’m not.”

Riley’s mouth quirked, sympathetic and smug at the same time. “Welcome to having feelings.”

You let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t on the verge of panic.

Your phone stayed silent for one awful second. Then two. Your chest tightened.

Because now that you’d realized it, now that you’d said it out loud, even if only to Riley… there was no going back to just friends.

Not when your body reacted to him like this. Not when the thought of someone else flirting with you made your skin crawl. Not when being “casual” suddenly felt like standing on a fault line pretending the earth wasn’t moving beneath your feet.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts. 

Bucky: Where are you coming out?

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your organs shifted.

Because… of course he was asking that.

Because he hadn’t actually said he’d be waiting, he’d just quietly built it into his day like a fact. Like your lab ending meant his next step was to be wherever you came out.

You swallowed, fingers suddenly clumsy on the screen, and typed back.

You: East doors. By the stairs.

The response came so fast it almost felt like he’d been holding the phone, waiting for it.

Bucky: Okay.

You shoved your phone into your tote, forced your face into something neutral, and started packing up the last of your things while Riley watched you with the kind of expression you wore when your friend was actively walking into a romcom plot.

The hallway outside the lab was crowded with students spilling out in little clusters, chattering about assignments or complaining about rubrics as you walked around them with your head down, moving with purpose.

Then you saw him, standing near the east doors like he’d been placed there on purpose.

Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders loose but alert. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it and forgotten to fix it after. That familiar, contained stillness that made him look like he’d been carved out of calm.

But the second his eyes found you… something in him eased. Not dramatic, just a subtle softening in his mouth, in his gaze, like tension he’d been holding finally released. He pushed off the wall and started toward you, closing the distance with that steady, unhurried stride of his. 

And then, because the universe loved torment, Ethan appeared at your elbow like a poorly-timed jump scare, sliding into your path with the kind of confidence that only came from not realizing you were currently hanging on by a thread.

“Hey,” Ethan said, too smooth, matching your stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. “About earlier—”

Your skin prickled instantly. Not fear, not dread, just that full-body nope, the reflexive recoil of your nervous system when it recognized a situation you did not have the bandwidth for.

You didn’t want to do this again. Not in a hallway full of people. Not while you were still trying to pretend your life hadn’t tilted on its axis. Not with Bucky ten feet away, walking toward you, and your heart already sprinting like it knew.

“I meant what I said,” you replied, polite but firm. “No.”

Ethan blinked, then lifted both hands like you’d just pointed a weapon at him and he wanted you to know he was harmless. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just—listen, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

The hallway swelled around you: voices, laughter, the squeak of shoes, the faint beep of a door mechanism. People streamed past in clumps, talking over each other, and you could feel your pulse in your throat like your body was trying to make itself heard.

“Okay,” you said, careful. “Thanks for saying that.”

Ethan nodded, and instead of stopping there like a normal person, he kept walking with you, still at your elbow, still in your space, still acting like proximity was something he was entitled to.

“So… no hard feelings?” he asked, as if the conversation needed to continue. As if he could negotiate his way back into comfort.

You opened your mouth to answer, but then Bucky reached you.

He didn’t wedge himself between you and Ethan. He didn’t square up or puff out his chest or do anything dramatic. He simply stepped into the space on your other side, close enough that the air around you changed. Like a warm wall appeared. Like your body recognized him and settled on instinct.

And Ethan, without even realizing he was doing it, drifted half a step away.

Bucky’s gaze flicked once to Ethan, quick and assessing, before landing on you like Ethan didn’t exist. Like you were the only thing that mattered.

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.

Your brain stuttered for a second before you nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Bucky held your eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to believe you. Like he could see the little crack in your “fine” and he wasn’t sure yet whether to push.

Then he shifted his attention just slightly to Ethan.

Ethan cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his own existence. “Hey, man.”

Bucky gave a short nod. “Hey.”

A beat of silence sat between them and you could practically hear Ethan recalculating his odds, his confidence shrinking by degrees. His gaze flicked from Bucky to you, then back, trying to read the situation like it was a test question he hadn’t studied for.

Ethan’s smile returned, smaller now, edges a little forced. “So you two are…?”

Your heart jumped into your throat, but Bucky didn’t look at you when he answered, didn’t glance at you for permission, didn’t hesitate. He just said it, calm and sure: “She’s with me.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Not because it was a lie… but because it didn’t feel like one.

Ethan blinked, thrown off-balance. “Oh.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”

Ethan’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to clarify or try to save face. But then he looked at Bucky again and thought better of it. “Okay,” Ethan said quickly, backing off with an awkward half-laugh. “Cool. My bad. Have a good one.”

He peeled away into the crowd, disappearing into the hallway noise like he’d never been there.

And you just… stood there, frozen in the hallway while the world kept moving around you. Students streamed past in waves. A girl laughed loudly behind you. Someone complained about the lab report. The doors hissed open, letting in a bite of cold air, then shut again.

But everything sounded muffled, like your hearing had dipped underwater.

Bucky turned back to you like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken your entire nervous system and shaken it.

“Let’s go,” he said gently. “It’s cold.”

Your voice came out too soft, almost fragile. “Bucky…”

He paused immediately, like your tone hooked him by the spine. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You didn’t know what to say, you just knew that a warm, traitorous part of you had liked it.

Liked the way Ethan had backed off without argument.

Liked the way Bucky had been effortless about it.

Liked the way he hadn’t asked you if it was okay first, because he’d read you, decided you didn’t have the bandwidth, and stepped in.

Liked the way it made you feel… chosen.

You swallowed hard, forcing your brain to function. “You didn’t have to do that,” you managed.

Bucky’s brows knit faintly, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Do what?”

“Say… that.” You made a helpless little gesture in the air, fingers fluttering like you could physically wave the sentence away. “The… with me thing.”

Bucky stared at you for a second, like he genuinely didn’t understand why it was a big deal. Then his jaw shifted subtly, the smallest tell you’d learned to recognize over years of knowing him. Not anger or irritation, but something more like restraint.

“He was bothering you,” he said simply.

You blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t— I mean, kind of, but—”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not at you, never at you, but like he was focusing in, narrowing down to the truth you were trying to dodge. “You didn’t like it.”

Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t just guessing, he knew. Not in a dramatic, mind reading way, but in the way he always knew things about you.

You tried to laugh it off, because laughing was safer than letting your throat go tight like it wanted to. “You’re psychic now?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched once, the hint of humor faint and fleeting. “No.”

And then, quieter, like he was admitting something he didn’t usually say out loud: “I pay attention.”

The words hit you like a punch to the ribs.

You looked away quickly, because if you kept staring at him you were going to do something insane, something that would change the entire shape of your life like grab his sleeve and ask him what he meant by she’s with me.

You pushed through the doors into the cold with him. The wind met you immediately, biting at your cheeks, threading through your hair, slipping under the edges of your coat like it had a personal vendetta. You instinctively hunched and Bucky, without thinking, angled his body slightly on your side.

Not dramatically or obviously, just enough that the wind hit his shoulder first instead of yours.

Your fingers curled around your tote strap until your knuckles went pale under the knit gloves. Your heart wouldn’t calm down, pounding violently in your chest like it didn’t know how to be normal anymore.

You walked in silence for a minute. Not an awkward silence, exactly. Just… full. Packed with everything neither of you was saying.

Finally, the question bubbled up and spilled out before you could talk yourself out of it. “How did you know I didn’t like it?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the walkway out of habit like he was still half in protector mode even though the biggest threat on campus was probably a rogue scooter.

His silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach dip, and when he did answer, his voice was low. “Because you smile different when you’re uncomfortable.”

Your throat went dry so fast it felt like someone had turned off a faucet. You swallowed, trying to force your voice back into something normal. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

Bucky shrugged, but his shoulders were tense like he’d said too much, like he’d let something slip past the walls he kept up around everyone else.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I pay attention.”

And your brain, which had already been cracked open all morning, just… spiraled.

He notices my smiles. He knows the difference. He knows my uncomfortable smile. He knows me.

You stared at the path ahead like it might offer a lifeline. You needed something normal. Something you could grab onto that wouldn’t make your ribs ache.

“So,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice like you were shoving a smile onto a bruise, “do you just hang out outside my classes now? Like a campus security guard?”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. It was small, but it was real. “No.”

You arched a brow. “Because it kind of feels like yes.”

“I was already up,” he said again, like that explained everything.

Your stomach twisted, the humor slipping away. “Why?” you asked, softer without meaning to be. You had brushed it off earlier but now it was going to nag at you. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

Bucky’s hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was tight, a muscle shifting once as if he was grinding something down, and for a second you thought he might dodge. Thought he’d give you something vague and safe: had stuff on my mind, just couldn’t, it’s fine.

But then he said it, very quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it. 

“I didn’t like what Steve said last night.”

Your breath caught. “What did he say?” you asked, your stomach dropping to your feet as you could only imagine what Steve might’ve said. 

“He said…” Bucky’s voice dropped, rougher than before. “If we’re just friends, he can… talk to you.”

Your heart slammed so hard it felt like it knocked air out of your lungs. For a second, the campus noise blurred, all of the chatter turned into background static as the sentence rearranged itself inside your head into something sharper.

Because Steve wasn’t a threat. Steve was Steve. But the idea had landed somewhere deep in Bucky and set off something instinctive.

And suddenly everything clicked into one clean, terrifying line: Bucky had come to campus because Steve’s joke had hit something real in him. He’d come because the thought of someone else having access to you made him restless.

He’d come because… Because he didn’t want to share.

You forced your voice steady. “And that bothered you?”

Bucky’s shoulders went rigid for half a second like your question hit the exact spot he’d been trying not to press, before he muttered, rough and blunt, “Yeah.”

Your pulse went so loud you could hear it in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that didn’t match the slow winter morning at all. “Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, the word sound almost like a plea. 

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then snapped back to your eyes. His voice came out low. Careful. Measured like each word was something he had to decide to let go of.

“Because I—”

Your name being shouted from across the quad interrupted Bucky.

You turned on instinct, heart still lodged in your throat, and saw Sam jogging toward you from the sidewalk, one arm lifted in an enthusiastic wave. He was moving with that unmistakable Sam energy, loud even when he wasn’t speaking yet. Steve followed behind him at an annoyingly calm pace, moving like a man who had never once in his life been late to anything.

Beside you, Bucky’s posture changed, subtle, but immediate. His shoulders shifted, his stance angling a fraction closer to yours, like his body had decided to make you a safe point without asking permission first.

“There you are!” he said, slightly out of breath, grin wide. “Steve said he saw you earlier and I was like—”

He cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes finally took in the scene properly: the proximity, Bucky’s position, your flushed face, the fact that you and Bucky looked like you’d been in the middle of something serious.

Sam’s grin sharpened into something gleeful and dangerous. “Ohhhh.”

Steve stopped beside Sam, gaze flicking between you and Bucky, taking in the distance between your shoulders, the way Bucky’s body was angled toward you, the slight tension in Bucky’s jaw like he was clenching down on words.

Steve’s smile was gentle. Not smug, just… knowing. “Well,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “this looks familiar.”

Heat flooded your face so fast you could’ve powered the entire science building. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.

Sam’s grin widened until it bordered on feral. “Oh my God.”

You cleared your throat violently, because if you didn’t make some sound you were going to combust. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes sparkled with chaos, gaze bouncing between you and Bucky like he was watching live entertainment. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said flatly.

You and Steve both spoke at the exact same time. “No.”

Sam blinked, then slowly turned his head between the three of you like a referee. “That,” he said, delighted, “is a lie from at least two of you.”

You wanted to disappear into the concrete. Melt right into the sidewalk. Become one with the campus landscaping.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you briefly and you could see the frustration, felt it like a touch. Not angry at you, but annoyed at the interruption. And even more annoyed at himself for almost saying something he couldn’t take back.

Because you could still feel it… the way he’d looked at you right before Sam showed up, the way his voice had dipped.

You couldn’t unfeel the sentence he’d been about to say. And you couldn’t ignore the sick little flip in your stomach when you realized:

Whatever Bucky had been about to tell you… It mattered.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Later that evening, you tried to be normal about it. You really did.

You went home, kicked your shoes off by the door like you always did, washed your hands like you’d been handling radioactive material, scrubbed under your nails, tied your hair up, made yourself a sad little dinner that consisted of a microwaved frozen dinner, a slice of toast, a handful of grapes you ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt like admitting you were home alone with your thoughts.

You even opened your laptop, even pulled up your lab notes, even stared at them long enough to pretend you were reading.

But the words might as well have been written in another language because your brain refused to care about molarity when it was busy replaying Bucky’s voice like a cursed audio loop.

She’s with me.

I didn’t like what Steve said last night.

Because I—

You pressed your palms to your eyes until you saw stars.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t known Bucky was… protective, he always had been. In ways that were easy to explain away if you kept your eyes half-closed and your heart on mute.

He walked you to your car. He waited until you got inside. He kept an eye on your drink at parties. He texted when you got home, sometimes hours later, like the worry came for him in waves.

You had always filed it under best friend behavior, because if you didn’t file it there, you’d have to file it somewhere much more dangerous.

Somewhere that asked you questions like:

Why does your heart do that when he looks at you?

Why do you hate it when he laughs with other girls?

Why did “she’s with me” make you feel… safe?

You groaned into your hands and slumped down onto the couch.

Your apartment was quiet in that particular way that made your thoughts louder. The window beside your couch showed a slice of campus life: students crossing the sidewalk, headlights in the dusk, the occasional burst of laughter.

You felt like you were trapped behind glass.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table and you snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.

Bucky: You good?

You stared at the screen until your eyes stung. Because that was his favorite question. Like he could feel when you weren’t. 

You typed back, deleted it, typed again, erased half the words and tried to make the lie look smaller.

You: Yeah.

You hated the lie the second you sent it.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was choosing his words carefully.

Bucky: Okay.

Bucky: You got my gloves?

You set your phone down like it was too heavy and opened your tote bag. Your fingers found the simple, black knit immediately. They were soft from use, warm in the way fabric got warm when it lived near someone’s skin. You turned them over in your hands like you might find an explanation stitched into the seams.

Your thumb brushed the inside cuff and caught on something. You frowned, pinching the fabric between your fingers and pulling it open. There was a little stitched tag on the inside with a name written in black ink like someone had labeled them carefully.

BUCKY

Your chest cracked open.

Of course he’d labeled them. Of course he’d kept track of them. Of course there was no such thing as an “extra pair” that just happened to be in his pocket the exact day you forgot yours. 

He’d brought them for you, like he’d been prepared to take care of you before you even realized you needed it.

You stared at the name until you went a little dizzy, your vision blurring at the edges.

Stop, you told yourself. Stop being dramatic.

But your mind wouldn’t stop pulling at every thread, because now that you’d seen it, it was everywhere.

You swallowed hard, staring at your phone again like it might save you as your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name. You could call. You could text. You could pretend this was fine.

But it wasn’t fine. You didn’t do well with limbo, never had. It ate you alive.

And Bucky… Bucky was your best friend.

If this was going to change, you needed it to change on purpose, not in pieces, not in half sentences and interrupted almost-confessions and Steve and Sam showing up like the universe’s worst timing.

You needed to know if you had just imagined the whole thing… or if Bucky Barnes had almost admitted something that would rearrange your entire life.

You stood abruptly, like your body decided before your brain did. You paced the living room once, then twice, the gloves still in your hand like a stupid little talisman.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bucky: If you’re not, just say that.

You stopped mid-step, your throat tightening so hard it felt like swallowing glass.

He knew your “yeah” was a lie because he knew your voice even through text. Because he knew how you dodged when you were unraveling. Because he’d been paying attention for so long you didn’t even know what parts of you belonged only to you anymore.

You stared at the message for a long beat, chest rising and falling too fast. Then you typed before fear could talk you out of it.

You: I’m not.

The response came so fast it felt like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hand the whole time.

Bucky: Want me to come over?

Your pulse spiked as you imagined Bucky in your apartment, in this quiet space where there was nowhere to hide. You imagined him sitting on your couch, those steady eyes on you, his voice low and careful.

It made you feel like you might combust.

You swallowed, fingers trembling.

You: No.

You: I’m coming to you.

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for you to imagine him reading it, blinking, sitting up straighter.

Bucky: Okay.

Bucky: Door’s open.

That did something to you, something soft and devastating. Like he’d been waiting for you all along.

You grabbed your coat without thinking, shoved your feet back into your boots, and headed out the door before you could reconsider.

The walk across campus was cold and surreal, streetlights pooling pale gold on the sidewalks. Your breath came out in nervous little clouds. The air smelled like winter, sharp, clean, faintly like smoke from someone’s distant cigarette.

Every step made your stomach tighten.

Because what if you were wrong? What if Bucky had been protecting you because that’s what he did and you were about to embarrass yourself in the most catastrophic way possible?

But then you remembered the gloves. The name inside them. And the way his voice had gone low and rough when he said he didn’t like Steve’s joke.

Your heart pounded harder.

Bucky’s building was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a mile by the time you made it there. 

The stairwell smelled faintly like someone’s laundry detergent and old carpet. Your boots thudded softly as you climbed, the sound too loud in the quiet. Your hands were numb by the time you reached his floor and stopped outside his door. 

You lifted your fist… and hesitated. Because this was it. This was the moment where you either saved your friendship by pretending nothing had happened… or risked everything by naming it.

You exhaled shakily, then knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing on the other side waiting for the exact moment you decided you were brave.

Bucky stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d showered recently. He looked… tense, like he’d been pacing, like he’d been trying to burn nervous energy off with movement and failing.

His eyes found you and something in his expression eased. Relief. Quick and raw and so obvious it nearly broke you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Hey.”

For a half second neither of you moved. Then Bucky stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

You walked in on legs that felt slightly unsteady, like your body was moving a beat behind your mind.

Bucky shut the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the stillness.

You turned to face him and for a moment you just… looked at each other. Best friends, standing a little too close. Two people on the edge of something neither of you had wanted to name until the universe forced your hand.

Bucky’s eyes tracked your face the way they always did, like he was checking for damage, like he could read your mood in microexpressions you didn’t even know you made. Your throat tightened at the thought.

Your voice came out shaky despite your best efforts. “What were you about to say.”

Bucky blinked once, like your bluntness snapped him out of whatever careful script he’d been trying to build in his head. “What?”

You dug into your coat pocket and pulled out the gloves, holding them up between you like evidence. “These,” you said, breathy. “The ‘extra pair’ you just happened to have. With your name written inside.”

Bucky’s ears went pink instantly, the color creeping up like betrayal. His jaw flexed once, and his gaze flicked away to the side toward the kitchen, toward the counter, toward literally anything that wasn’t your eyes.

“You were about to say something today,” you continued, forcing yourself to keep going before you lost the nerve. “Outside the quad. You said… you didn’t like what Steve said.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

You stepped closer, just enough to make it impossible to pretend this was casual. “And then you said ‘because I—’” your voice cracked on the last word. “And you stopped.”

Bucky finally looked back at you, his eyes serious and unguarded in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped too close to the edge of something sharp. He breathed in slowly through his nose, controlled and measured, like he was trying to keep himself steady.

“I need you to tell me what that was,” you said quietly. “Because I’ve been spiraling for six hours and I’m either insane or… you meant something.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed as he looked down for a second, like he couldn’t bear the weight of your gaze, then back up at you. When he spoke, it wasn’t your question he answered first.

He said your name, rough and low, like saying it hurt.

You didn’t flinch. You lifted the gloves slightly, your hands trembling. “Tell me,” you whispered.

Bucky stared at you like the truth was something fragile in his hands. Then he exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“I meant it,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “Meant what.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and involuntary, then snapped back up to your eyes like he hated himself for it. 

“When I said you were with me,” he said quietly. He took a step closer, closing the space between you until you could feel his warmth like heat rolling off a radiator.

His voice dropped, softer but more dangerous somehow. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” he said. “Or to… make you feel trapped.”

You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t—”

“I know.” His words cut in gently, not harsh, just urgent, like he needed you to understand this part. “But I need you to hear me anyway.”

His hands stayed at his sides, fists loose but clenched enough to show he didn’t trust himself to reach for you.

“I said it because the idea of someone else—” Bucky stopped, jaw working, like he was fighting himself for control over the sentence. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t like it.”

Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears it felt like it filled the whole apartment. “Don’t like what?” you whispered, even though you knew.

Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and raw. “I don’t like anyone thinking they can have you,” he said, voice low. “Like you’re… available. Like you’re a thing they can just try for.”

Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have sounded as intimate as they did. They shouldn’t have made your chest ache like relief… but they did.

Bucky’s eyes went a little darker, not with anger, not really, but more like restraint straining at the edges. Like he was trying to keep himself from stepping over a line he’d drawn for himself years ago.

“And I know that’s not—” he swallowed again. “I know I don’t get to decide that. I know you’re not mine.”

Your eyes burned. Because the words hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.

You’re not mine.

You hated it.

Bucky’s voice broke just slightly and it was the crack in it that shattered you more than anything. “But I want you to be.”

Silence stretched between you like a held breath, too big for the room, too heavy for your ribs. Your chest went tight, as if your lungs forgot how to work. Bucky’s eyes looked almost panicked now, the kind of panic that didn’t match his size or his stillness, like he’d said too much and was about to start taking it back.

“Shit,” he said quickly, words tumbling out rough and hurried. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I—”

He started to shift, shoulders pulling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was about to back away and put space between you before you could reject him, but you stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could.

Bucky froze, his eyes snapping to where your fingers wrapped around him.

Your voice came out small. “I didn’t like it,” you admitted.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, pain flashing so fast it made your stomach twist. “I—”

“No,” you rushed, tightening your hold just a fraction, not to restrain him but to anchor him. “Not… not what you said. Not you.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t like it when Ethan flirted with me today,” you said, the words feeling like an electric shock to your nervous system. “Because it wasn’t you.”

Bucky went completely still.

“I realized it in lab today,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just handed him oxygen. Your name left his lips on a breathless whisper, soft and disbelieving, like he needed to say it just to make sure you were real.

You laughed shakily, the sound wobbling on the edge of tears because apparently your body decided this was the moment to be dramatic. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” you confessed, and your voice broke on the last part, “and I just… didn’t let myself know.”

Bucky’s eyes softened so suddenly it made your heart ache. He lifted his hand slowly, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement, and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

The question wasn’t just about the words. It was about the jump, the change, the way there was no putting it back once you stepped over this line.

You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself, your cheek fitting into his hand like it belonged there. “Yes,” you said.

Bucky exhaled like a prayer, then nodded once, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fall apart right in front of you. “Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like he was telling himself as much as he was telling you. “Okay.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist. Your voice trembled, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been in years. “So what now?”

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time. Less accidental, no longer fighting it. 

“Now I kiss you,” he said softly, “if you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs.

And you didn’t even pretend to be brave, you just whispered: “Please.”

And Bucky moved, slow and careful, like he was handling something precious. Like he’d been wanting to do this for years and had forced himself not to.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady, fingers spreading there like he’d memorized the shape of you in his head long before he ever got to touch you. He tilted his forehead to yours for a brief second, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a shaky exhale as if he needed to ground himself first.

Then his mouth found yours, soft at first. A question that you answered immediately without hesitation, your lips parting, your hand still holding his wrist like you were afraid he’d think this wasn’t real and pull away.

Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, low and wrecked, as the kiss deepened with all the restraint he’d been holding back finally slipping loose. 

You rose onto your toes without thinking, needing to be closer, needing to meet him fully. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed proof he was solid and warm and not just a daydream you’d tortured yourself with.

Bucky’s hand tightened protectively at the back of your neck, pulling you in that last inch like he couldn’t stand the space anymore.

It wasn’t frantic, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that rewrote the past. That made every late night “drive safe,” every tote strap adjustment, every “text me when you’re done” suddenly glow with new meaning.

When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your neck like he was anchoring you both to the same reality. His eyes searched your face, as if he was checking for regret and finding none.

His voice came out rough, almost shaken. “Hi,” he murmured, like he was meeting you for the first time.

“Hi,” you breathed back, smiling through the residual tremble in your lips. “Took you long enough.” The words came out like a joke, but they landed like truth.

Because you could still feel him, still feel the warmth of his mouth on yours, the careful way he’d kissed you like you were something fragile and holy and real. Not a moment he’d stolen. A moment he’d waited for.

And now… now he was just looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were standing in his apartment and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t ended.

His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, but his hands were giving him away, hovering just above your waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to touch you again. Like he was holding himself back by force, braced on a thin line of restraint.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed, watched his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again like it hurt.

“You’re… really here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.”

His eyes softened, relief and disbelief tangling together, like he’d been preparing for you to change your mind at any second.

Your voice came out quieter, gentler, because you could see how hard he was trying to be careful. “Are you going to kiss me again,” you asked, heart thudding, “or…?”

Bucky huffed a low laugh, quiet and disbelieving, like you’d just handed him permission he didn’t trust himself to want.

Then he stepped in like the floor gave way beneath him. His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t exploratory. It wasn’t cautious.

It was yes. It was finally.

You made a soft, helpless sound into the kiss, and that was all it took. Bucky responded with a quiet, almost desperate shift of his body, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with purpose. With hunger. With years of restraint breaking like a tide over both of you.

He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like this, like you, were something he’d wanted for so long that now, having you in his arms, was almost too much to believe.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as he began walking you backward, not forcefully, never that, but with a steady, unspoken pull. The kind of guidance he’d always offered without words. The kind that made you feel like he’d always known how to take care of you, even now, even here.

Your back met his bedroom wall with a quiet thud, gasping softly against his lips.

Bucky froze the moment you made that sound. He pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes scanning your face with wide, protective panic.

“Too much?” he rasped, voice hoarse, already starting to pull back like he’d rather hurt himself than risk hurting you.

“No,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your fingers tugged at the front of his shirt to keep him close. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmured, voice low, nose brushing yours, his hands still bracketing your waist like he was containing himself by touch alone. “Because I—” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to stop wanting you.”

You slid your hands up under his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin. The heat of him made your breath catch, His chest rising unevenly beneath your palms.

You traced the defined line of his abs, the faint scar that cut across his ribs, the familiar terrain you’d never let yourself map until now. His breath shuddered, body rocking infinitesimally closer to you like he couldn’t help it.

Your voice came out trembling, but sure. “I mean it.”

Bucky exhaled something close to a moan, a low, wrecked groan that sounded like surrender. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of your touch, your words, your want was too much all at once.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms dragging over the curve of your back, and you shivered at the heat of his skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time. Hotter. No hesitation. No fear. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

Your back arched with a soft moan when his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra, and he made a sound low in his chest, something primal and completely wrecked. Like he’d dreamed about this. Lived in the edges of it. And now that it was happening, he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“I’ve thought about this,” he panted between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “more times than I should admit.”

You let out a breathless laugh, light and shaky. “Tell me.”

He shook his head, kissed down the column of your throat with open-mouthed heat, nipping lightly at your pulse point as you gasped. “I’d rather show you.”

With shaking hands, you helped him pull off your sweater and bra, suddenly bare to him under the low golden light of his bedroom. You expected him to dive in hungrily, to lose control.

But Bucky didn’t move. He just stared like you were something sacred.

His breath hitched, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. The reverence in his gaze made your whole body flush.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse with truth. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your face went warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He blinked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like I’m going to disappear.”

His brow furrowed.

And then, so slowly, like he wanted you to feel it, he leaned in and kissed the center of your chest. Then just above your heart. Then lower, to your sternum, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast.

“I look at you like that,” he murmured against your skin, “because I still can’t believe you’re real.”

You made a small, broken sound, a half sigh, half laugh, and reached for him with shaking hands. You pulled his shirt up and over his head, and your fingers immediately splayed across his chest.

You felt everything, the lines of his muscle, the warmth of his skin, the old scars that you’d only ever glimpsed before. Now, they were yours to learn.

“You are so—” you choked, voice cracking. “God, Bucky.”

He kissed you again before you could finish, and this one was hot. Messy. Desperate. His mouth moved like he was drowning in you. Like he didn’t know how to stop. His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.

“Come here,” he breathed.

You didn’t even hesitate.

He walked you backward toward the bed, guiding you with gentle pressure, and when your legs hit the edge, he caught you, lifting you just enough to lay you back like you were something precious.

Bucky hovered over you like he was afraid you might fade if he moved too fast. You reached up again, arms around his neck, legs curling around his waist, needing the contact, the heat, the pressure.

He kissed you like he wanted to know every inch of you by heart.

When his mouth finally moved down over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, you could barely breathe. He peeled your leggings down slowly, dragging his hands over every new inch of revealed skin.

Bucky looked up at you from between your thighs, hair falling into his eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen. “You still sure?” He asked, waiting. 

You bit your lip and nodded, dazed, already unraveling. But he didn’t move.

“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, gently kissing the inside of your thigh. “Need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

The look he gave you, starving, reverent, almost ruined, was something you would never forget.

Then he lowered his mouth to you.

There was no urgency in him, only intention. Purpose in every movement, like he’d waited his whole life to be here and now that he was, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. 

His mouth was slow and devastating, tongue dragging in languid, sinful strokes that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch around his head. He held you down when you tried to lift your hips, just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, making your stomach flutter and your fingers clutch the sheets like they were your only tether.

Bucky learned you. Treated every gasp and every stuttered moan like gospel. He was methodical, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, relentless pressure that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.

He groaned when your thighs clenched around him, like it turned him on just knowing how close you were. 

When you pulled his hair harder than you meant to, he let out a ragged moan against your skin, the vibration sending another shudder straight through you. One of his hands slid up to lace his fingers with yours above your head, grounding you, anchoring you, holding you still as your body began to tremble beneath his mouth.

And when you finally came, loud and breathless, your back arching, eyes shut tight, voice breaking on his name… he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

He slowed, yes, gentled his mouth, softened the drag of his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He coaxed you through it, easing you down from the high with care in every movement. He kissed the inside of your thigh as you shook. Pressed his cheek to your skin like he was listening to your heartbeat there. He murmured something low and sweet that you couldn’t quite hear. couldn’t think enough to make out, but it sounded like “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

And then he crawled up your body slowly, each movement deliberate, almost languid. He kissed the soft slope of your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, your lips. Slow and messy. Open-mouthed and gentle. Like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here.

You tasted yourself on his tongue and whimpered into his mouth, trembling. “Bucky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken in the middle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

He stripped the rest of the way, pushing his sweatpants down his hips with hands that weren’t nearly as steady as he probably wanted them to be. The last barrier between you fell away and for a second he just stood there, exposed and breathing hard, eyes flicking over your body like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You were already bare beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen from his mouth.

For one blinding second, nerves flared sharp and electric in your chest. Not because you weren’t sure, but because this was real now.

No more almost. No more tension disguised as friendship. No more pretending the looks didn’t linger too long.

What if this changed everything?

Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be. Not cocky. Not smug. Not assuming.

Just… hoping.

And that’s when you knew… It already had.

He moved back between your thighs slowly, like he was stepping into something sacred rather than something physical. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured. “I’ll never—”

You kissed him quiet. “Please,” you whispered against his lips. “I want you.”

He groaned softly and dropped his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between, warm and ragged. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body pressing you into the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

Then, slowly, achingly slow, he began to push into you.

The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, teasing at first, until he started to sink deeper, inch by inch. Your breath caught, a soft gasp breaking from your lips as he stretched you open, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure. There was no rush in his movement, only worship. Like every second inside you was something sacred.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails grazing down his skin, trying to anchor yourself as your body trembled beneath the overwhelming sensation. Every inch he gave you felt like a new place inside you had been claimed. 

He didn’t stop until he was buried fully, flush against you, his hips nestled to yours. Both of you stilled, breathless, bodies shaking under the weight of it.

His forehead rested against yours again, nose brushing yours, eyes fluttering closed. His voice was barely a whisper when it came, raw and wrecked. “Fuck… You feel like home.”

Your chest cracked wide open like a dam giving way, every nerve ending suddenly too exposed, too alive. You couldn’t get enough air. Each breath stuttered in your lungs, shallow and desperate, like your body had forgotten how to function under the weight of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as you tugged him closer, like proximity alone could soothe the ache blooming hot and needy between your hips.

“Move,” you whispered, already wrecked, your voice breaking on the word. “Please… I need you.”

He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been ripped from the center of his chest, and obeyed, rolling his hips forward devastatingly slowly. 

The stretch was deep and intoxicating, the drag of him inside you so full it made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. He didn’t thrust like someone chasing release. He moved like someone memorizing you. Like someone savoring every inch.

His hips circled once before he pushed in again, deeper this time. Your back arched helplessly off the bed, breasts brushing against his chest as your thighs tightened around his waist.

“Jesus…” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so damn good.”

Every word vibrated between you.

He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and unhurried, and you felt every single inch. The heat. The stretch. The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting.

You moaned openly now, unable to hold it in, your nails dragging down his back as you tried to pull him even closer, impossible as that was. “Bucky,” you sobbed softly. “Please.”

“Got you,” he rasped, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His pace shifted, still deep, still intentional, but heavier now. Each thrust pressed into that sensitive place inside you that made your toes curl and your stomach tighten. He wasn’t frantic. He was claiming.

Every roll of his hips said I’ve wanted this.

Every slow drag said you’re mine to learn.

Every deep push said I’m not letting go.

Your legs locked tighter around him, ankles crossing at his lower back as if your body had made the decision before your brain could. You rocked up to meet him, desperate for friction, for more.

He groaned when you did that and his hands slid from your waist to grip your hips, steadying you as he began thrusting harder.

“Could live here,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Die right here.”

Your body clenched at the rawness in his voice.

He kissed down your neck, tongue smoothing over the spot he’d just bitten before moving lower, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, your chest. His thrusts never faltered. Slow, powerful, stretching you open around him again and again.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. You could feel the slick heat of yourself coating him, feel the way he slid inside you with increasing ease, each motion sending sparks down your spine.

His name spilled from your mouth in broken, breathless sobs. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like you needed him to know exactly who was doing this to you.

“Mine,” he growled against your ear, the word rough and possessive but not demanding, just overwhelmed. “You’re mine, sunshine. Every inch.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky—God—please—”

That did something to him. His hips snapped forward harder, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His hand slid between your bodies without breaking rhythm, fingers finding your clit immediately, like he’d studied you for this moment.

He circled once, slow and precise. You jolted, your thighs trembling violently around him.

“Look at me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours.

You forced your eyes open. His were dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue. He looked wrecked. Completely undone.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so good.”

The praise shattered whatever control you had left as your orgasm hit hard and blinding, ripping through you with a cry that broke in your throat. Your body locked up around him, clenching tight, pulsing helplessly as wave after wave tore through your core.

You shook violently beneath him.

Bucky swore, his thrusts losing their smooth rhythm as your body milked him. He pressed deeper, hips grinding against you as he worked you through it, not stopping, not pulling away.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s it—come for me—”

You felt like you were falling apart, like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening impossibly tighter as you rode out the aftershocks.

He snapped once more, deep and desperate, before he was coming too. His hips stuttered against yours, his whole body trembling as he buried himself fully inside you. A low, broken sound tore from his throat, your name spilling out with it like confession.

He held you close, so close your ribs ached, while he came undone. You felt him everywhere. The heat. The fullness. The way he pulsed inside you as he finished, forehead pressed hard to yours like he needed the anchor.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.

His face dropped into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves against yours, sweat-damp skin sticking together.

And when your legs loosened slightly around his waist, his arms tightened instinctively, pulling you back against him like letting space form between you wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever, if he could help it.

His hand slid up your back, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through your hair as your heartbeat came down from the clouds. “You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just beneath your ear.

You nodded, still breathless, still floating. “More than okay.”

There was a beat, a moment suspended in the quiet, where the air felt thick with everything unspoken. And then it spilled from you, raw and steady, like it had been waiting all along.

“I’m in love with you,” you whispered, voice rough with truth.

Bucky’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Then he leaned in, nose brushing your temple, and breathed you in like that was the only answer he’d ever needed.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because I’ve been gone for years.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. And this time, when you kissed him, slow and soft and certain…

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the time you pulled into the garage after a long day at the compound, you’d nearly forgotten about the reckless shopping spree. You toed your shoes off neatly by the door, hung your keys on the hook, and called out softly:

“Buck? I’m home!”

Footsteps padded down the stairs, heavy stride, familiar rhythm, and before you could take another breath, Bucky’s warm presence filled the doorway. He leaned in immediately, kissing your temple like he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey doll,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “You, uh… got a package upstairs.”

“A package?” You echoed, distracted as you started unbuttoning your coat.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Pretty sure it’s yours. Big box. Like… giant.”

You froze halfway through the second button, blinking up at Bucky as though he’d just announced the second coming of Christ.

“A… a giant box?” You echoed, voice going a touch too high-pitched.

Bucky’s brow lifted instantly. Suspicious, amused, and definitely interested now. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, like he was watching live footage of your brain buffering. “Big one. Brown cardboard. Has your name on it. We talkin’ shoes? More candle shit? Don’t tell me you bought another weighted blanket—”

“Nope!” You blurted too fast. Way too fast.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“Sweetheart.”

“…yes?” you squeaked.

“What’d you order?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Lie. Lie. Lie, you begged your own brain

“Just… stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, his metal fingers trailing up your arm like a man who definitely knew you were hiding something. “Stuff that needs a box bigger than you?”

Your stomach sank.

He was going to see the total if he opened it. He was going to find out you spent the price of a small utility bill on lace, mesh, silk, and bows.

He’d combust… and not in a normal way.

“Don’t… open it,” you said quickly, poking his chest.

His grin went slow and wolfish.

“Oh, absolutely opening it now.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare—”

He was already halfway up the stairs.

“BUCKY!”

He reached the bedroom door before you did, grabbed the giant box like it weighed nothing, and set it on the foot of the bed. When you burst in behind him, breathless and ready to throw yourself between him and the cardboard like you were preventing a bomb detonation, he gave you the smuggest grin you’d ever seen on his stupid handsome face.

“You know,” he said mildly, hooking his thumb under the tape, “I could smell something on it. Perfume or somethin’. You orderin’ new lotion?”

You lunged.

He sliced the tape open.

Lingerie of all colors, fabrics, lace, silk, and ribbons spilled open like a treasure chest from the world’s sexiest pirate ship.

Bucky went silent.

He stared down at the pile.

Then at you. 

Then back at the pile.

Then at you again, slower this time, eyes darkening like storm clouds rolling in.

“You… did… not…”

You backed up until your calves hit the dresser.

“It was on sale.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“All of it?”

“Some of it.”

“How much did you spend?”

You pressed your lips together.

“Doll.”

“…two hundred-ish?”

He moved.

Not fast, not slow.

Just… predatory.

“That’s not a number.”

“Two—” she winced, “—eighteen.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then dragged a hand over his face like he was seconds from falling to his knees in prayer.

“Two hundred and eighteen dollars…” he hissed. “On lingerie.”

You nodded.

“For you.”

He looked like you’d just personally handed him the keys to heaven.

“Baby,” he said hoarsely, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

“Not intentionally.”

He stepped closer until your back hit the dresser next and bracketed you in with his hands, caging you without touching.

“Show me.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

Bucky dipped his head so his lips brushed your ear.

“Show. Me.” Each word a growl. “Every. Fuckin’. Piece.”

Your damn knees almost gave out.

“Oh,” you shakily whispered. “Okay.”

He stepped back from where he had you pinned and lowered himself into the armchair across from the bed, spread his thighs, and settled in like a man ready to witness something holy.

“Sunshine.”

“Yes?” you whispered, already reaching into the box.

“I’m not touchin’ you until you’ve shown me all of it.”

Your inhale was sharp.

“That’s… Bucky, that’s like ten sets—”

“Then you better start,” he murmured, voice dark honey. “Slow.”

You swallowed hard and pulled out the first set, a pale lilac mesh with tiny embroidered daisies, and disappeared into the bathroom. You changed fast, heart hammering, hands shaking.

And when you stepped out…

Bucky’s jaw dropped open.

“Fuck…”

You flushed bright pink. “Do you… like it?”

He didn’t answer, he stood so suddenly the chair scraped. He walked toward you in two long steps, cupped your face, kissed you like he was starving, then ripped himself away with a growl.

“No. No, I said I’m not touching you. I sit. You model. Don’t tempt me.”

“You kissed me!”

“That was a reflex!” he half–shouted, pacing away from you like a feral animal. “You can’t just come out lookin’ like… like that! I need a second—Jesus—okay, keep goin’.”

The second piece was black lace with velvet straps.

He choked on air the second you stepped out. 

The third was white and barely there.

He swore under his breath the entire time you modeled it.

By the sixth piece, he was gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to bend steel.

By the ninth, sweat had broken along his forehead.

When you stepped out in the tenth, a red satin ribbon set that literally tied at your hips, Bucky made a sound that wasn’t human.

“Sunshine,” he said weakly, “if you don’t get on this bed right now, I’m gonna pass out.”

“You said all of them.”

“I lied.”

“But you said—”

“I liiiiied,” he practically whimpered, dragging himself up.

“But you said—”

“Baby,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m beggin’ you. Come here.”

You sauntered—sauntered—toward him, all tease and sunshine and sin in red ribbon.

“Say the magic word.”

His head tipped back.

“Please,” he whined, his voice soft, wrecked, and utterly desperate.

And when you climbed into his lap, he grabbed you so hungrily you gasped, finally letting days of pent-up need pour out of him.

“You bought all this lingerie,” he panted against your throat, “and you modeled damn near every piece knowing what you were doin’ to me.”

“I wanted to look pretty.”

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving.

“Pretty? Doll, you look like a fuckin’ fantasy. You look like every dream I’ve ever had, sittin’ in my lap in ribbons. I’m gonna ruin every single one of these sets. Every one.”

You shivered. “You already ruined the last batch.”

“Exactly,” he said, pushing you back onto the bed with a growl. “Now be a good girl and let me ruin this one too.”

You laughed breathlessly as you hit the mattress, your hair spilling around you like a halo of sunshine dipped in sin. The red ribbon lingerie sat perfectly against your skin, thin strips of satin crossing your chest, a bow above your sternum, two long ties at your hips framing soft, warm skin Bucky had dreamed about all damn day.

He just stood there for a moment, staring at you like he legitimately didn’t know if he should get on the bed, get on his knees, or climb onto the ceiling like some feral creature.

“You’re starin’,” you teased, propping yourself up on your elbows.

He blinked hard.

“You’re sittin’ on my bed,” he rasped, “wearing somethin’ that’s barely cloth and expectin’ me to act normal.”

“It’s just lingerie—”

“No,” he cut in, voice low and hot, “it’s you in lingerie.”

He crawled onto the bed and over you like a man possessed. His metal hand traced the red satin at your hip, fingertip brushing the bow.

“This…” he murmured, “…this is what broke me.”

“You haven’t even touched it yet.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, leaning in until his breath warmed your neck, “I don’t need to. You walkin’ outta that bathroom wearing this? That did it.”

His mouth found your jaw, your throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses down to the top of your chest. His vibranium fingers teased the bow at your sternum, pulling at one ribbon slowly, deliberately, just to watch you gasp.

“You spent two hundred dollars on lingerie?” he breathed against your skin. “You know what that tells me?”

“That I have terrible self-control with online shopping?”

He laughed into your neck. “No, doll. It tells me you bought all this because you knew I’d lose my mind the second I saw you in it.”

His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing the satin edge.

“And you were right.”

You arched up into him, nudging your knee between his thighs, feeling how hard he already was for you. He hissed.

“Sweetheart,” he warned.

“What?” You asked sweetly, feigning innocence you absolutely didn’t have.

“Stop temptin’ me.”

“You literally just said that was the point.”

He groaned like you were murdering him with sunshine.

Then he kissed you, deep and needy, all tongue and heat and pent-up hunger, like he’d been waiting for this since the moment he opened that damn box. You grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer, and that was all it took.

He snapped.

One second he was kissing you, the next his fingers hooked into the red bows at your hips, pulling them loose in one forceful tug. The satin slipped apart like it was made to be undone by him.

“You’re gonna ruin it,” you whispered, breathless.

“Yeah,” he murmured darkly, kisses trailing down your stomach, “I am.”

He moved lower. Lower. Until his face hovered right between your thighs, eyes staring up at you like you were dessert.

“You look at me like that,” he said, voice a growl, “in red ribbons… and expect the set to survive?”

Your hand slid into his hair, tugging gently.

“Buck—”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

His mouth was on you, hot, greedy, and reverent, licking into you like he’d been starved for days. You gasped, hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head, and he made a sound that vibrated through you. 

His grip tightened on your thighs, pulling you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you. His metal hand flattened against your stomach, keeping you pinned while his tongue worked deeper, slower, then faster, then slower again because he wanted you begging.

“Oh my God,” you choked out, fingers gripping his hair so tightly he groaned into you. “Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he panted between long, messy strokes, “say my name in that voice. The one you only use when you’re wearin’ stuff I bought you—”

“I bought this!”

“And now it’s mine.”

He sucked at you like he wanted to claim every inch. You were trembling, your thighs shaking around his head, your breath uneven and broken as you tried to hold on…

But he wasn’t having it.

Two fingers slid inside you, deep and slow, curling perfectly, and your back arched so sharply your shoulders lifted off the sheets.

“Buck—!”

“Good girl,” he growled, dragging his mouth up to your clit again, lips sealing around it. “Come on, sunshine. Give it to me. Let me taste what two hundred dollars bought.”

That was it.

You shattered, crying out his name, your whole body shaking with the force of it. He held you through it, groaning into you as he worked you through the waves, drinking down every sound you made.

When you finally collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, Bucky kissed the inside of your thigh, leaving a wet mark straight on your skin. 

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One set down.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open.

“One… set?”

“You modeled ten,” he said, crawling up your hovered over you again, his voice a sinful promise. “I’m gonna ruin all of ‘em.”

You stared up at him, cheeks flushed, hair a halo on the pillow.

“You’re insane.”

He smirked, digging his knee between your thighs again.

“Insane about you.”

Yellow sundress, loosely tied at the waist. A pencil tucked behind one ear, hair pulled up like you’d done it without a mirror and hadn’t bothered to fix it. You were balancing a textbook with one hand, your phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, laughing at something someone said on the other end of the line.

The laugh got him first.

It was bright. Not loud, not obnoxious, just full. Like you hadn’t learned yet that the world could make you quieter.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing cupcakes, you absolute tyrant,” you said into the phone, rolling your eyes fondly. “No, they won’t be store bought. I have standards. Okay, love you, bye.”

You hung up, finally looked up at the chalkboard menu, and groaned.

“Why are there twelve different kinds of latte?” You muttered. “Just pick a personality and commit.”

Bucky’s mouth almost twitched.

The barista smiled and called your name. “Same as always?”

“Please,” you said, slapping your card onto the counter. “Large vanilla latte, extra shot, no whip, and one of those—” you pointed at the display of muffins, “—the blueberry one that’s probably past its prime but still pretending.”

He watched you. He didn’t mean to. It was just… easy.

The girl in front of him who ordered like you’d known the barista your whole life, who joked about stale muffins and tyrant siblings, who waited off to the side and leaned against the counter, eyes drifting out the window as if you were always looking toward something bright.

He shouldn’t have remembered your name.

But he did anyway. 

You turned as you waited, scanning the menu again, and your gaze brushed over him, just for a second. Your eyes flicked to his dog tags, to his metal fingers where they peeked out of his glove, to the lines of tension around his mouth.

You smiled at him.

Not pitying. Not nervous.

Just… warm. Simple.

“Hey,” you said, like you knew each other.

His throat closed up. “Hey.”

He thought about you for the rest of the week.

He came back the next day, and the next, and the next, and you weren’t there. Life spun out: missions, nightmares, therapy appointments, Tony’s sarcastic commentary, Sam’s relentless needling. Years layered themselves over that moment like dust over a favorite book.

But he never forgot the way your name sounded when the barista said it.

Never forgot the flash of yellow and sunlight and easy laughter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When he heard your name again, it was in the Avengers’ kitchen, and Tony was talking with his hands.

“—so she’s this ridiculous genius, and if you break her, I’m not getting another one,” Tony said, pointing a spatula at Bruce. “She could be working anywhere and she said yes to us, so everyone be on your best behavior. No trauma, no explosions in her lab, no—”

“Who is this?” Sam asked, leaning against the island, nursing his coffee.

Tony opened his mouth, but the answer came from the doorway as you said your name lightly. “Ridiculous genius, at your service. Hi.”

Bucky turned.

The mug in his hand went weightless.

It was you. 

No yellow sundress this time. Instead, worn jeans, white sneakers, an oversized sweatshirt with the logo of some hospital he vaguely recognized. Hair pulled half up, half down. Same pencil behind your ear.

Same eyes.

Same laugh, when Tony dramatically clutched his chest like you’d wounded him by parroting his words.

“That’s my line,” Tony said. “You can’t just steal my material on day one. It’s rude.”

“I’m setting expectations,” you said, moving into the room with an easy confidence that made his chest ache. You held out your hand to Bruce, then Sam, casually introducing yourself. “I brought donuts because I heard you people respond well to sugar and chaos.”

Bucky stayed still.

The world narrowed to the shape of you as you crossed the kitchen. You smelled like coffee and something sweet, something floral and bright. Not heavy perfume, more like a lotion you’d slapped on without thinking.

You turned to him last.

“Hi,” you said again, softer this time, as if you’d noticed the way quiet clung to him. “You must be Bucky.”

His prosthetic buzzed faintly as his nerves spiked.

“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s me.”

You smiled. “Nice to finally meet you. Tony won’t shut up about you.”

He glanced at Stark, who was very pointedly biting into a donut and looking anywhere but at them.

“Good things?” Bucky asked, before his brain could tackle his mouth and drag it down.

Your smile tilted, slow and fond and secret. “The best things.”

He fell in love with you in that moment all over again and this time… he knew it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It wasn’t sudden, not really.

It was a thousand small things stacked on top of that first memory.

Bucky learned your schedule without meaning to. When you liked to work late in the lab. When you went for runs around the compound trails. When you’d come into the common room and flop down on the couch with a groan, complaining about stubborn data and overprotective attending physicians at your old hospital.

He learned that you hated black coffee and loved tea: chamomile to sleep, peppermint when you were nauseous, and a particular jasmine blend when you needed to focus. He stocked every flavor you liked in the kitchen cabinet, restocking quietly when it ran low.

He learned that thunderstorms scared you a little, not the sound, but the sudden power outages. So he made sure the backup generator checks near your labs were always up to date. Every test run. No exceptions.

He learned that you called your mom every Sunday evening, that your little brother was in college out west, that you’d wanted to be a singer once but decided you could help people more as a nurse, then a researcher.

He learned that you liked fairy lights.

He filed it all away, a catalog of brightness.

If Gatsby had his green light across the bay, Bucky had the soft glow of your desk lamp bleeding under your half-open door in the dead of night, the sound of you humming along to some playlist as you typed. He’d walk past, coffee in hand, pretending he was just stretching his legs.

He’d always glance in, just once.

Just to make sure you were okay.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The party was Tony’s idea, but Bucky made it good.

“End-of-quarter team bonding,” Tony had declared. “There will be food, there will be music, there will be questionable decisions and even more questionable karaoke. Attendance is mandatory. That means you, Barnes.”

Bucky had rolled his eyes, but he’d been at every planning meeting.

Casual, he told himself.

Not casual at all.

You had a rough month. Long hours, failed trial runs, a near-miss incident in the lab that left you shaking for hours afterward. Bucky had sat with you in the med bay, your fingers curled warm and tight around his flesh hand, eyes glossy but stubborn.

“I’m okay,” you’d said, voice wobbling. “Just… scared myself, that’s all.”

“You’re allowed to be scared, sunshine,” he’d said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Doesn’t make you weak.”

You had looked at him like he’d handed you something important. “Stay?”

He’d stayed until you fell asleep.

So when Tony said party, Bucky thought: She needs a night where everything feels easy.

He suggested the string lights out by the lake. He helped Steve set up the bonfire pit. He talked Sam into handling the playlist because apparently Bucky’s taste was “old man tragic,” but he still slipped a few songs he knew you liked onto the list.

He made sure there were non-alcoholic options for when you decided you didn’t feel like drinking… and your favorite cider for when you did.

By the time sunset rolled around, the lawn behind the compound glowed with soft light. Fairy lights draped between trees, paper lanterns bobbing gently in the breeze, long tables set with mismatched chairs. The lake reflected the sky, streaked with pink and gold.

Bucky stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon swallow the sun.

“Hey.”

He’d know your voice anywhere.

He turned.

You stood a few feet away, barefoot in the grass, heels dangling from one hand. Your dress was a soft blue that made you look like you’d stepped out of dusk itself. The color made his chest hurt.

“You okay?” You asked, tipping your head. “You look like a man about to bolt.”

He huffed a laugh. “Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous hobby,” you teased, then moved to stand beside him, toes curling in the cool grass. You followed his gaze out toward the water. “This looks… really beautiful, Buck.”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bumped your shoulder softly against his. “Thank you for convincing Tony to go full Pinterest wedding out here.”

He blinked. “How do you know that was me?”

You smiled. “Because Tony’s idea of a party is neon lights and EDM that makes your ears bleed. This is…” you looked around, eyes tracing the fairy lights reflected on the lake. “Soft.”

Soft, he thought, looking at your profile. Yeah. That’s about right.

He didn’t say, I did all of this because I wanted you to have one perfect night.

He didn’t say, I’ve been building around you for years and you don’t even know.

Instead, he said, “You deserve it.”

Your eyes flicked to his, something warm and startled moving through them. Before either of them could say more, Sam called your name, waving a skewered marshmallow like a flag.

“Sunshine! Come save me from Stark’s attempts at s’mores!”

You laughed. “Duty calls.” You squeezed Bucky’s arm once, fingers lingering just long enough to burn. “Come join us when you’re done thinking dangerous thoughts, okay?”

He watched you go, light barefoot steps through the grass, the hem of your dress swaying around your knees.

Sam slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the circle around the fire. Your laughter floated back across the lawn. You looked like you belonged there, at the heart of everything, lit from within.

Bucky stayed where he was, a shadow at the edge of the glow.

He was content to orbit you. 

He’d convinced himself that was enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found the box by accident.

It was a few weeks after the party, during one of those cold snaps that made the compound’s ventilation system work overtime. The heating in your room was glitchy again and FRIDAY regrettably informed you that maintenance would get to it “first thing in the morning.”

Which left you freezing, in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweatshirt, standing in the middle of your room and scowling at the thermostat.

You thought about toughing it out.

Then you thought about Bucky.

His room was just down the hall. He was on a late mission with Sam and Natasha, not due back until dawn. He’d told you before that you could borrow movies, books, “whatever you want, sunshine, make yourself at home”, and you assumed that extended to warm clothing in an emergency.

You padded out into the hallway, hugging your arms around yourself, and knocked lightly on his door even though you knew he wasn’t there.

“Sorry, Barnes,” you muttered as you let yourself in. “Desperate times.”

His room was neat in a way that felt deliberate rather than obsessive. Bed made, corners sharp. A stack of books on the nightstand. A small plant on the windowsill that you definitely guilted him into keeping alive.

His closet yielded one of his henleys, soft with age, smelling faintly of detergent and something that was just him. You pulled it on over your sweatshirt, reveling in the instant warmth.

As you turned to leave, your foot caught on something under the bed.

“Oof—” you stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the mattress.

You crouched, frowning, and reached under.

Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You dragged the box out, thinking it might be weapons, extra gear, or something you should not be snooping in. You fully intended to shove it back and pretend you’d never seen it.

Then you saw your own name written in careful, looping script on the lid.

Your stomach dipped.

“That’s—okay,” you told the empty room under your breath. “That’s not weird at all.”

It was probably something practical, you told yourself. Mission files that involved you. Medical notes you’d given him. Something boring and clinical.

Your fingers trembled anyway as you lifted the lid.

It wasn’t clinical.

On top lay a folded napkin from the Brooklyn coffee shop where you used to study years ago, the logo smudged. Tucked into the napkin was a crinkled receipt you recognized by layout alone.

Your name – Lg. Vanilla Latte, Extra Shot / Blueberry Muffin.

The date was from three years before you’d ever set foot in the compound.

Your breath caught.

Beneath that was a photo, one you didn’t know existed. Taken from across the compound lawn during movie night. You were on a blanket, head tipped back as you laughed at something Sam had said, plastic cup in hand. Fireflies glowed in the background.

You looked… happy.

On the back, in Bucky’s uneven scrawl, was written: June 18 – she laughed so hard she cried.

Your heart thudded.

There were more.

Ticket stubs from the outdoor concert you’d dragged the team to last summer. A small, flat stone from the lake shore, painted with a tiny yellow sun, one of those crafts you did on anxious nights and left scattered, thinking no one noticed.

A dried daisy pressed between two pieces of wax paper. You’d worn that flower behind your ear to a mission briefing once as a joke after Sam told you you were “too sunshiney for 0600 meetings.”

Taped to the inside of the lid was a scrap of paper in Tony’s handwriting: DR. SUNSHINE – PROJECT LEAD. It was from the time Tony had made nametags for the lab and accidentally grabbed the wrong pen.

Below that, in Bucky’s handwriting, circled: sunshine.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the box in your lap, throat tight.

This wasn’t casual.

This wasn’t a crush that came and went.

This was years. Layers. A quiet, steady devotion built in the spaces you hadn’t been looking.

You reached deeper and found a small notebook. The cover was worn at the edges.

Your fingers hesitated, then slipped it open.

Inside were lists.

What she likes:

– jasmine tea when stressed

– thunderstorms, but not blackouts

– fairy lights

– that stupid song Sam hates (I don’t hate it)

– calling home on Sundays, even when she’s tired

– when people remember her coffee order

What she hates:

– being talked over

– people touching her patients without asking

– cold hallways

There were notes from missions:

– Hands shook after the explosion but she pretended they didn’t. Stayed in the med tent anyway. Brave.

– Laughed for the first time in three days when I told her about the cat on the rooftop. Worth it.

There were… words scattered between the lists, like he’d tried to start sentences and abandoned them.

She’s—

I don’t know how to—

If this was another life—

Your vision blurred.

The air felt too thick.

You hadn’t been wrong, then. About the way he watched you sometimes, like you were something he was afraid to touch and couldn’t stop reaching for. About the softness in the way he said your name.

He’d never pushed. Never angled for more. Just… placed himself in your orbit and quietly shaped his world around you. 

Like Gatsby and his damn green light, you thought, breath hitching.

Except Gatsby had built his life around a fantasy of a girl he no longer knew.

Bucky had been there for every bruise, every panic attack, every bad day. He knew the ugliest parts of you and still…

Still.

The door clicked.

You jolted, snapping the notebook shut.

Bucky stepped inside, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, hair mussed from the wind, tactical jacket hanging open. He froze the second he saw you. 

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

His gaze dropped to the box in your lap, the open lid, the spill of mementos. You watched the color drain from his face.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He shut the door slowly behind him, as if sudden movement might cause the whole room to collapse.

“How long’ve you been in here?” he asked and you could hear the effort he put into keeping his tone even.

“Not long,” you said. “Your heating’s working. Mine’s being dramatic.”

He huffed a humorless sound. “Figures.”

Silence stretched between them, humming.

You glanced down at the box, then back up at him. “You labeled it,” you said softly. “You know that’s the part that’s really incriminating, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were still wide, bright with something like panic. “Yeah. Didn’t really think that one through.”

You shifted the box to the side, turning to face him fully on the bed. “Bucky… what is this?”

He stayed where he was, just inside the door, like crossing the room might be crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… stuff. I keep things. Helps me remember—”

“Me,” you said. Not a question.

His jaw flexed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Helps me remember you.”

Your chest went sore and sweet all at once.

“How long?” You asked.

He laughed then, a broken little sound as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Since before I knew your last name,” he said. “Since that coffee shop in Brooklyn, with the stale blueberry muffins and the barista who kept spelling your name wrong.”

Your breath left you. 

“You… remember that?” You whispered.

“Remember?” His eyes finally met yours, and the sheer weight of feeling in them hit you like a wave. “Doll, that moment got me through some of the worst nights of my life. You stood there in front of me in this yellow dress, laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew you up yet, and you smiled at me like I wasn’t some… monster hiding in plain sight.” His throat worked. “Yeah. I remember.”

Your vision blurred again, this time with tears that burned hot.

He took a shaky breath, words spilling like they’d been held back for years and now the dam had cracked.

“I saw you again here and I thought… god, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe the universe was screwing with me. That maybe it was a second chance I had no business wanting. I told myself I’d keep it quiet, that I’d just… be your friend. Make sure you had what you needed. Keep the heating working in your room and stock your tea and walk you back from the lab and… that it would be enough.” His hands curled at his sides. “Because you deserve someone whose whole life isn’t a patchwork of broken pieces. Someone who isn’t constantly scared of what he might do if he loses control.”

“Bucky—”

“I built all this around you in my head,” he said, voice cracking. “This idea of what your life could be if you wanted me in it. Not because I felt entitled to you, but because… it made it easier to breathe. To have something good to hold on to.” He laughed again, bitter. “Pathetic, huh?”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You kept your distance,” you said slowly, trying to reconcile the contents of the box with the reality of the man in front of you. “You never… pushed. You never made me feel like I owed you anything.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t,” he said. “Last thing I ever want is for you to feel trapped. So I stayed in the shadows, where I’m used to being. Thought maybe if I loved you quiet enough, it wouldn’t spill over.” He gestured helplessly at the box. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I hoped.”

You looked down at the notebook again, at the care in each item, each line. It wasn’t obsessive in the way that made your skin crawl. It was… reverent. Careful. Like he was afraid to touch and even more afraid not to.

You thought about the nights he’d sat with you through panic attacks, wordless and steady. About the way he remembered your mom’s name, your brother’s exams, the dates that were hard for you and always made sure you weren’t alone for them.

You thought about the way your pulse tripped whenever he walked into a room. About the way safety and want had blurred together in your chest months ago and never untangled.

“Do you really think I don’t get a say?” You asked softly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You keep talking like… like you decided the whole story already. Like you loving me is something that has to stay in your head because that’s safer for me.” You rose from the bed, the hem of his borrowed henley brushing your thighs. “You never asked what I wanted, Buck.”

He went very still.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice raw.

You crossed the small space between the two of you until you were chest to chest, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple. Up close, you could see every line of strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled faintly where they hung at his sides.

You reached for one, threading your fingers through his, metal cool against your palm. His hand tightened instinctively around yours, afraid you might disappear.

“I want you,” you said simply.

His eyes searched yours, like he was sure he was mishearing. 

“I have for a while,” you went on, words tumbling out now that you’d started. “I just… I thought I was reading into things. I thought you were being kind, and protective, and that if I pushed for more I’d ruin the best thing in my life. I kept telling myself we were better off as we are than not at all.”

He made a sound then, punched out of him. His free hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch.

“You’re not—” He swallowed hard. “You’re not scared?”

“Of you?” Your lips tilted. “No, Bucky. Of losing you? Constantly.”

His forehead dropped gently to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know how to do this without loving you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered,” he confessed, voice shaking. “I won’t know how to… dial it back. I don’t think there’s a version where I’m not all in.”

You smiled through the tears, lifting your free hand to smooth a stray piece of hair back from his face.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want half of you. I want all of it. The quiet devotion. The serial killer box of mementos. The way you plan parties to make sure I smile.” Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “Be as Gatsby-level devoted as you want, Buck. Just… don’t stand on the other side of the bay and watch. Come inside. Be in it with me.”

His eyes opened, blue and flooded and disbelieving.

“You sure?” he asked. “Because once I step over that line, sweetheart, I’m not crossing back. I’m not good at loving halfway.”

You rose onto your toes, closing the last whisper of space between you. 

“James,” you murmured, using his first name like a vow, “I’m counting on it.”

He kissed you like a man who’d spent years rehearsing the moment in his head and was terrified of getting it wrong, and then forgot to be scared at all.

His mouth was warm and desperate, reverent and hungry all at once. One hand splayed at the small of your back, pulling you in, the other cradling the back of your head like you were breakable. You curled your fingers into the front of his jacket, holding on as the world tilted and righted itself around them.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, he rested his forehead against yours again, laughing softly, incredulously.

“Okay,” he said, sounding wrecked and radiant all at once. “Okay. You asked for it.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Gatsby?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t die in a pool over me,” you teased gently. “We can just… build a life. Together. No tragic literary ending required.”

He huffed a laugh that turned into something painfully tender.

“Deal,” he said. “I’ll just spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to doubt for a second how loved you are. How about that?”

Your chest ached in the best way.

“That,” you said, tugging him down for another kiss, “sounds perfect.”

Outside, the compound hummed on. Missions, headlines, the chaos of the world.

Inside Bucky’s room, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, a box of carefully hoarded memories sat open on the floor, no longer a shrine to a love he’d only dared to hold in secret, but the first chapter of something real.

He’d still keep the napkin from the coffee shop. The ticket stubs. The painted stone.

He’d just start filling the box with new things too.

Not as a man watching from a distance, asking the universe for a second chance he didn’t think he deserved.

Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”

You looked toward the bonfire.

You saw Sam first.

You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.

Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.

Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.

He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.

And then he smiled.

Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.

This one hit him before he could hide it.

Open. Warm. Relieved.

Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.

“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”

“Behave,” Lena murmured.

“I am observing.”

Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”

Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”

You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.

Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.

For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.

The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.

When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”

His mouth closed.

You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”

That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.

“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”

Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.

His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.

“You must be the protective friends,” he said.

Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”

Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”

“Fair.”

Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”

Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”

Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”

Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.

Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”

It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.

Progress.

Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”

“Sure.”

He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.

You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around yours.

It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.

Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.

Jess’s eyebrows went up.

Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.

Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.

Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.

Sam spotted you first.

“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”

You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”

“I warned you.”

Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”

“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.

“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”

“No one voted.”

“Because they trusted my leadership.”

Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”

“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.

Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”

Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”

“I was told.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”

Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.

And then there was Natasha.

She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.

Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.

“Smart,” Natasha said.

Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.

Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.

The evening opened around you after that.

Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.

Bucky stayed close, but not too close.

That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.

When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.

“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”

“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”

You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.

“What is he mixing?”

“Confidence and poor judgment.”

You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.

Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.

A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.

“Can I?”

The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He stepped behind you.

For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.

Your breath caught despite your best effort.

Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”

You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”

His gaze softened.

From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”

Bucky’s eyes closed.

You bit your lip, smiling.

“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.

Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”

“Sam,” Bucky warned.

“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”

Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”

Tori beamed. “We love community service.”

Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”

Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.

You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.

He was watching you laugh.

Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.

Watching you.

As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.

Your laughter faded slowly.

The fire popped between you.

Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”

“Making you laugh like that.”

Oh.

You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.

He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.

Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”

His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”

You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.

“Noted.”

The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.

You roasted marshmallows badly.

Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.

“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.

“It’s a marshmallow.”

“It’s suspicious.”

“Everything is suspicious to your group.”

“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”

His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”

“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”

“That going in my file?”

“Jess is probably keeping one.”

Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”

Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”

You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.

The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.

Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.

He asked you questions.

Real ones.

Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.

You told him more than you meant to.

That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.

He listened like every answer mattered.

And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.

He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”

Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.

You laughed until your side hurt.

He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.

“To bonfires?” you asked.

“To people,” he said.

The answer quieted you.

Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.

“Is that hard?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.

“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”

You understood that more than you wanted to.

“Safer,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.

But it didn’t fully break. Not really.

It lingered.

In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.

In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.

In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.

And you were.

That was the frightening part.

You were so with him.

At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.

Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.

Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.

Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked.

Your heartbeat changed.

Not in alarm. Not exactly.

But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.

Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

There it was again. The room to say no.

The space.

You glanced toward your friends automatically.

Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.

She lifted her brows in a silent question.

You nodded once.

She nodded back.

Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.

Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.

You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”

“I respect her methods.”

“That will help your file.”

“Good.”

You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.

You took it.

The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

It was not uncomfortable.

The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.

Your hand was still in his.

You were very aware of that.

“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.

You looked over.

He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.

His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

He stopped walking.

So did you.

The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.

Bucky turned to face you fully.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”

“Honest?”

His eyes came back up.

You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.

Bucky’s expression changed at once.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”

“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”

His face softened.

You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”

The confession hung there between you.

Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.

But Bucky did not look triumphant.

He did not look smug.

He looked almost unbearably gentle.

“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.

You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”

“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”

You turned back to him.

His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.

“He may have had a point,” you said.

“He usually does. It’s annoying.”

The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.

Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”

You breathed out slowly.

“Maybe.”

“I know you’re hurting.”

Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.

He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”

The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”

You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.

“I’m afraid of that,” you said.

“I figured.”

“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”

Bucky was quiet.

Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”

“You’re not stupid.”

The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.

You looked at him.

Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.

“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”

“Smart women.”

“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”

His mouth twitched. “Good.”

“I thought you respected their methods.”

“I do. Still want to pass.”

Something about that made you smile.

Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.

He definitely noticed.

His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”

That surprised you.

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Of what?”

His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.

“No?”

You shook your head.

The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.

Straight into him.

Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.

You both froze.

His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was low.

You should have stepped back.

You did not.

Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.

The fire was distant now.

The ocean was loud.

Your heart was louder.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Then back.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.

For a second, you couldn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want it.

Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.

And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.

“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”

“Yes.”

The word left you before fear could catch it.

Bucky stilled.

You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”

His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.

Then he leaned in.

Slowly.

So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.

It was something you were choosing.

His mouth touched yours softly at first.

A question.

A warmth.

Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.

Your eyes closed.

Something inside you went quiet.

Not healed. Not erased.

Quiet.

You kissed him back.

That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.

He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.

Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.

The thought nearly undid you.

When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.

Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.

Then he opened them.

Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips. 

His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”

The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.

Almost.

From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”

You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”

Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”

“You should. She’s terrifying.”

“Noted.”

The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.

Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.

You didn’t.

His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.

“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.

You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”

“Trying real hard.”

“And?”

His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”

Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.

This time, you were the one who leaned in.

The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.

When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.

You slipped your hand back into his.

“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.

The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.

But you felt it.

All the way back.

By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.

Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.

But something had changed anyway.

It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.

Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.

Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.

Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.

Jess saw anyway.

Of course she did.

Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.

“You good?” she asked.

You tried for casual. “I’m good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I am.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

Her mouth twitched.

Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.

You gave him a look.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”

“You are.”

“From who?”

“All of them.”

His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.

“Fair,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It was brief. Barely a second.

But you felt it everywhere.

The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.

You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.

“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You said expectations were dangerous.”

“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”

The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.

Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.

Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.

“You’re terrible,” you muttered.

“I’m behaving.”

“Barely.”

“Trying real hard,” he said.

And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.

He knew it too.

You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.

The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.

People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.

Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.

Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.

“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.

“She started timing us before we walked away.”

His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.

Bucky seemed to feel the shift.

His expression gentled.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

The question landed low in your chest.

You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”

“Properly,” he added.

Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”

His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”

You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.

Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”

Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.

You ignored her with great effort.

“A proper date,” you repeated.

“If you want.”

That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.

Always there. Always given.

Your heart folded around it.

“I want,” you said.

Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.

“Good.”

The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.

And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.

You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.

Your lips still felt like they remembered him.

That was the problem.

Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.

You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.

It hadn’t fixed them.

It had simply touched them without hurting.

Your phone buzzed again.

You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”

You froze. “You’re awake?”

“No.”

You looked at your phone.

Bucky: Morning.

Then, a second message.

Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.

Your smile spread before you could stop it.

You: Very respectful. Very restrained.

Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.

Your stomach flipped.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?

You bit your lip.

You: Depends what you have planned.

A pause.

Then:

Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.

Your chest went soft.

Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.

Something chosen.

Something intentional.

You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.

“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”

“He asked me out this afternoon.”

Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”

You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”

That got the room moving.

Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.

“Neither,” you said.

Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”

You threw a pillow at her.

The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.

Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.

Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?

You had already said yes.

“Nervous,” you admitted.

Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”

You thought about it.

The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.

“Mostly,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Then go.”

So you did.

At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.

Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.

He looked up when the elevator doors opened.

The second he saw you, his face changed.

It was beginning to become your favorite thing.

His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.

You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.

Bucky met you halfway.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled. “Hi.”

His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.

“You look beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.

You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”

His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”

“I’m trying to keep you humble.”

“Good luck.”

There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

You looked at it.

Then took it.

“Yes.”

——————

Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.

Bucky had chosen well.

Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.

“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.

“You did?”

“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”

You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”

“Apparently.”

“That sounds incredible.”

Bucky stared at you.

You bit back a smile. “What?”

“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”

“I contain multitudes.”

His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.

Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.

At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.

It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.

The words landed awkwardly.

The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.

Still, a shadow moved through you.

Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.

“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”

Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I believe you.”

That surprised you.

He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”

You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

“It’s stupid,” you whispered.

“No.”

“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”

The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.

You took a slow breath.

“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”

You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”

His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.

An offering.

You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.

“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“This?” you asked.

The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.

This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.

Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”

“Maybe.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“But not bad?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”

After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.

Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.

It was easy with him.

That was what kept surprising you.

The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed and put the hat back.

At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.

Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

You moved on without buying it.

Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.

When he returned, his expression was too neutral.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky.”

“Walked.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Been told that.”

He held out his closed fist.

Your stomach dipped.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.

You stared at it.

“Bucky.”

His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”

“You didn’t have to buy it.”

“I know.”

That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.

Just: I know.

He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”

The words went straight through you.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

Then you held out your wrist.

His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.

You nodded.

He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.

But it felt enormous.

When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.

Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.

The market noise seemed to fade.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”

By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.

Not yet.

The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.

Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.

And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.

He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.

He simply stayed with you.

Fully.

When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.

Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.

Then:

Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.

You smiled and sent back a quick update.

Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”

“They’ve adopted your friends.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”

“Mia too.”

“Good pair.”

You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”

His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.

“Too much?”

You should have teased him.

Instead, you said, “No.”

The honesty startled both of you.

Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”

Dinner happened almost accidentally.

A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.

At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”

The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.

Not because it was unfamiliar.

Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.

After dinner, you walked again.

Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.

The same beach.

The same stretch of sand.

The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.

Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.

You did too.

For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your throat tightened.

You looked at him.

The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.

You reached for his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”

You walked down together.

The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.

Just the two of you.

And the ocean.

You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.

Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.

Or close to it.

You knew because your body remembered.

He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.

“You leave tomorrow,” you said.

Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.

“Yeah.”

“I keep trying not to think about it.”

“Me too.”

The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.

“I had a good day,” he said.

You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”

“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”

Your breath caught.

“That sounds awful.”

“It will be.”

“Bucky.”

His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

You stepped closer.

He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.

You were suddenly tired of restraint.

Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.

Because you trusted the gentleness.

Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.

Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.

You set your sandals down.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.

Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”

He did not need to be asked twice.

Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before. 

It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.

He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.

The sound moved through you like flame.

His hand tightened at your waist.

Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.

You broke away only to breathe.

Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.

“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes opened.

The answer was there before he spoke.

“No.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”

You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.

Your fingers softened at his chest.

“I’m sure.”

Bucky went still.

For a second, all you heard was the ocean.

Then he kissed you again.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air. 

You whispered his name against his mouth.

He answered by kissing you deeper.

It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge. 

His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Until the ocean reminded you it was there.

The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.

His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.

His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”

You should have said yes.

The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.

But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.

So instead, you shook your head.

“No.”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.

You stepped backward.

Not away from him. Not really.

Toward the water.

The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder. 

Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.

But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.

And you wanted to remember all of it.

The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.

You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.

“Come here.”

Bucky stared at you for a long second.

Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”

His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then to the water.

Then back to your face.

Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.

“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

He followed you into the surf.

The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.

You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.

Bucky caught up to you in two strides.

His hands found your waist again

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nearly broke apart right there.

Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.

You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Still okay.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.

Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss hit differently in the water.

Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.

You kissed him harder.

He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.

The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.

Everything in you trembled.

The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.

Here, there was only Bucky.

Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.

Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.

Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”

His breath caught.

“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”

His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.

Into something reverent.

Something careful and starving all at once.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.

You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.

The next wave came in stronger.

You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.

“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep making it hard.”

Your smile faded slowly.

So did his.

The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.

You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His forehead came to rest against yours.

“I know,” he breathed. 

You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”

His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.

“I need you to be sure.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.

At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.

You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”

Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.

For a moment, he only held you there in the surf. 

The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.

Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut. 

The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine. 

He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide. 

Bucky pulled back just enough to look.

Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you. 

His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.

He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.

The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.

As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.

Then he was kissing you.

Not gentle this time. Not tentative.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.

Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.

Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.

His mouth never left yours. 

Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch. 

The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.

By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.

Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.

You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze. 

He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.

You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers. 

He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. 

When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.

At your nod, his mouth found your core.

The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.

He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes. 

One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention. 

The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”

He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing. 

You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.

Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”

You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered.

You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.

The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.

“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.

“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”

At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.

At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

Bucky’s control began to fray.

He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return. 

The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.

You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.

Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.

You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.

Bucky followed you seconds later.

A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.

His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest. 

He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.

You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Steady.

Real.

Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.

You tried not to think about it.

Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said.

Your eyes closed.

There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.

“I know.”

His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.

“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.

“But?” you whispered.

His gaze found yours.

“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”

Your throat tightened.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.

“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not.”

The answer came quickly. Clearly.

His eyes searched yours.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”

Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.

“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”

“You don’t have to not be scared.”

A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”

“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.

You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.

“You barely know me,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze did not waver.

“I know enough to want to know the rest.”

Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.

The kiss was gentle. Devastating.

“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”

Your eyes stung.

“Bucky.”

He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.

The words broke something open in you.

Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.

You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.

Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.

Above you, the stars burned quietly.

Beside you, the ocean kept moving.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.

It felt like a place he might meet you.

Your answering sigh feels petulant even to your own ears.  “My brain won’t shut up.”

“C’mere.”

It isn’t a suggestion. He rolls onto his side, covers the narrow space between you with one languid slide, and pulls you against him so your back meets the furnace of his chest. The weight of the metal arm drapes over your waist, the cool vibranium contrasts deliciously against your overheated skin. His flesh hand splays over your abdomen, thumb stroking tiny half-moons just beneath your navel.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “What’s keepin’ you wired?”

“Tomorrow’s briefing. The paperwork I forgot to file. The way Sam teased you about the coffee mug…” The list tumbles out in a breathless stream.

He chuckles, low and fond. “That mug had it coming. But none of that matters right now.”

His hand drifts lower, lazy, exploratory, until the pad of his thumb grazes the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts. He pauses, waiting. The question hangs in the hush: yes?

You nod. “Please.”

“Good girl,” he praises, voice honey-slow. He curls closer, nuzzling the spot where your neck meets shoulder, breathing you in like home. Then his fingers slip beneath the fabric, into humid warmth.

He starts with feather-light strokes along your inner lips, coaxing slickness with every unhurried pass. You feel the stretch of his grin when your hips buck at the first direct brush over your clit. He doesn’t linger… instead, he sketches broad, soothing circles across your mound, grounding you in the sensation of being touched, owned, adored.

The rhythm builds in increments, fingertips sliding, pressing, withdrawing, then returning with a firmer sweep that drags a gasp from your chest. Your knees draw together on instinct, but his vibranium arm tightens, guiding your top thigh over his, opening you wider.

“There we go,” he croons, pressing a slow kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

His middle finger finds your clit again and begins a pattern, three languid circles, one deliberate tap. Circle, circle, circle… tap. The gentle percussion sends little sparks ricocheting through your belly, each tap a tiny shock that spikes pleasure higher before the soothing circles smooth it flat again. You ride the rise-and-fall, breath hitching on every fourth beat.

The metal arm shifts, cool fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your tank top to cup a breast. His thumb flicks your nipple lightly, syncopating with the rhythm he maintains down below: circle, circle, circle… tap. Pleasure migrates up your spine, meets the heat blooming in your chest, and forks down your thighs in tingling threads.

“Feel how soft you are,” he marvels, kissing the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Could touch you for hours.”

The words unzip something inside you: confidence, hunger, ownership. You press back into him, offering. He takes the invitation, sliding the finger lower to gather more slick, then returning to your clit with exaggerated slowness. This time, after the third circle, the tap is firmer, sharp enough that you whimper.

“That’s it,” he soothes, easing the circles again until your pulse evens. “Gonna do that a few more times, sweetheart. I want your body nice and heavy when you finally drift off.”

And he does. Each set escalates: circle, circle, circle… tap, circle, circle, circle… tap-tap. Your hips jerk, your thighs tremble. He murmurs praise for every twitch, sweet, gravel-rough endearments that settle warm in your chest.

By the fifth repetition, the tap becomes a staccato double beat that sends an electric crackle tearing through you. Your hand shoots out to grip his wrist. “Bucky—”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing your knuckles before guiding your hand away so he can continue. “Trust me.  Let me push a little more.”

His flesh fingers change tempo, circles tightening, taps turning into toe-curling flicks. Your vision whites out with each measured strike, then melts into velvet with the slow swirl that follows. The duality, sharp and soft, tease and balm, drives you higher than relentless pressure ever could.

You pant into the pillow, thighs quivering, nerves humming a single-note plea. He massages the oversensitive nub with tender circles, lets you settle, then taps three quick times. The world tilts.

“Bucky, please… I’m close.”

“I feel it,” he answers, voice reverent. “Come when you’re ready, doll. I’m right here.”

He resumes the pattern until your body bows despite his hold. The coil snaps with a soundless cry, heat pulses outward in concentric rings, gripping his finger where it still moves in steady, grounding circles. He doesn’t stop, eases the rhythm instead, drawing out aftershocks until you sag boneless against him.

But he’s not finished.

While your muscles are still fluttering, he coaxes your shorts down your thighs, leaving them tangled at your knees. Cool air kisses swollen flesh, a delicious counterpoint to the furnace of his body. He drags the flats of two fingers through your slick folds, collecting evidence of your release, then slips those fingers into his mouth with a groan that rattles your bones.

“Taste so good when you’ve just come,” he mutters, hips grinding forward so you feel the hard length of him against the curve of your ass. “One more, sweetheart. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

You whimper, half protest, half need.  He hushes you with kisses along your shoulder blade, then slides wet fingers back to your clit. This time he alternates pressure: firm anchoring presses that make your toes curl, followed by rapid-fire taps you feel in your teeth.

Stimulation skates the edge of too much, but the overwhelming care in his touch steadies you.  He murmurs constant assurances, “I’ve got you”, “So perfect for me”, “Let it wash over you.” The words weave into the rhythm and become another kind of caress.

Your second orgasm hits quick and bright, a burst of stardust that leaves you gasping his name like a prayer. He rides the wave with you, whispering praise, easing the tempo until your tremors subside.

At last he withdraws, pulls the discarded shorts free of your legs, and settles you back against him. His vibranium arm curls protective across your middle while his other hand strokes gentle patterns over the thigh draped across his own.

“Breathe,” he instructs softly, syncing his inhale with yours. The room is silent save for the joint cadence of your breaths and the distant hum of nighttime generators. Your eyelids grow heavy, every limb feels dipped in warm honey.

Somewhere in the haze you sense him press a final kiss to your hairline. “Sleep, doll. Paperwork and mugs’ll still be there tomorrow.”

You manage a sleepy smile. Wrapped in unbreakable metal and unwavering devotion, you yield to gravity, sinking through the mattress into a darkness threaded with fireflies.

“Hey,” you murmur, half-teasing, half-nervous yourself. “You’ve been in your head all night. That movie’s not that deep.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down to your lips, then away. “Sorry, doll. Just… thinkin’.”

“About?” you prompt, because you already know where your brain has been… namely, the way his thumb has been drawing circles on your thigh for the last twenty minutes.

He swallows. His metal hand flexes minutely on your hip.

“You,” he admits finally, eyes dropping to where your fingers are twisted in the fabric of his henley. “Us.”

Heat blooms in your chest. “Is that a bad thing?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. God, no. Just…” His jaw works, and for a guy who’s faced aliens and killer robots, he suddenly looks weirdly… shy.

You shift, climbing more fully into his lap so you’re straddling him. His hands fly to your hips automatically, grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You smooth a palm over his chest, feeling his heart punch against your hand.

“Bucky,” you say softly. “Talk to me.”

He looks everywhere but your face. Over your shoulder. At the TV. At the lamp. Finally, reluctantly, back at you.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “You know I’m… old-fashioned.”

You grin. “I’ve seen your music playlist, yeah.”

He huffs again, but there’s no real humor in it. “Not just that. Just… things were different. Back then.”

You nod slowly, not sure where he’s going, but giving him the space to get there.

His grip on your hips tightens, metal fingers cool through your shirt. “And I know this is stupid. I know it doesn’t really matter. But every time things start to… get further, I get stuck thinkin’ about it instead of just bein’ with you.”

You soften immediately. “About what?”

He exhales harshly through his nose, cheeks flushing in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable.

“About me bein’… different,” he mutters. “You know. Down there.”

Your brows knit. “Different how?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts exasperated and mortified. “You really gonna make me say it, doll?”

“Yes,” you say, because if he’s brave enough to bring it up, you’re not going to dance around it like it’s shameful.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, then finally forces the words out in a rush. “I’m not circumcised.”

You blink.

“Oh,” you say, because it’s… not shocking. Just information. “Okay.”

He stares at you, like he’s waiting for the flinch. For the awkward laugh. For you to scramble off his lap with some excuse about being tired.

When you don’t move, he swallows. “It was still normal when I was born,” he says quietly. “Nobody thought twice. But now… everything’s different. The magazines, the movies, the way people talk—” He cuts himself off, looking away again like he’s ashamed of even bringing it up. “Last thing I want is for you to get there and be disappointed or… surprised in a bad way. I don’t ever wanna see that look on your face, y’know?”

Something in your chest twists.

You slide your hands up, framing his face so he has no choice but to look at you. His lashes are ridiculously long, his eyes wary and uncertain in a way that guts you.

“Bucky,” you say firmly. “Listen to me. One: there is nothing wrong with your body. Nothing. Two: this?” You lean in, punctuating each word with a soft kiss. “Is. Not. A. Dealbreaker.”

He searches your eyes, like he’s trying to catch the lie.

“You say that now,” he mutters. “But when it’s your first time with someone, you wanna make a good impression, doll. You should get… y’know. Modern.”

You almost laugh, but his insecurity is so real you bite it back.

“Modern is overrated,” you say instead. “I like you. All of you. The parts that are old-fashioned, the parts that have trauma, the parts that don’t match some weird, narrow idea of what’s ‘normal’ now.”

You let your thumb brush over his bottom lip again, your voice softening.

“And for the record? I already thought about it.”

His brows shoot up. “You… what?”

You flush a little but keep your gaze steady. “Call it curiosity. Call it being attracted to you and having a brain. You’re from the ‘40s, Buck. Statistically it made sense. And I promise you, the thought I had was not ‘ew.’ It was more like… ‘okay, that’s kinda hot.’”

His jaw actually drops.

“Kinda—” He breaks off, brow furrowing. “Hot?”

You hum. “Mhm. It’s you. And I already think you’re gorgeous. So however you come is a bonus.”

His cheeks darken a deeper shade of red, eyes flicking to your mouth again like he’s not sure if he should kiss you or hide under a blanket.

“You’re not just sayin’ that to make me feel better?” he asks quietly.

“Boosting your ego is a perk,” you admit, grinning. “But no. I mean it. I like that you’re different. I like that you’re not polished and plastic and ‘magazine perfect.’ You’re real. You’re mine. And I’m very, very excited to see all of you, if you’re okay with that.”

You see it hit him, all at once.

The way his shoulders loosen just a little. The way the tight line of his mouth softens. The way something hungry and hopeful edges into his gaze, pushing the insecurity back.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he murmurs.

“So I’ve heard,” you reply, brushing your nose against his. “Let me prove it.”

You roll your hips, just a little, the tiniest test. His breath stutters. You feel him, solid and unmistakably hard beneath you, and the way he groans under his breath sends heat rushing through your veins. 

“Okay, that’s—” He swallows, hands flexing on your hips. “That’s not playin’ fair, doll.”

“Who says I’m trying to play fair?” you murmur. “I’m trying to show you that I want you, exactly how you are.”

He stares at you for another long moment, like he’s memorizing the look on your face, the certainty in your eyes.

Then he nods once, slow but decisive.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure…”

You lean in, kissing him with all the answer he needs.

It starts slow. It always does with him. He kisses like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d get to have, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. His lips are warm and a little chapped, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that makes you shiver.

You shift closer, pressing your chest to his, fingers slipping into his hair. He makes a sound low in his throat, one hand sliding up your back, the other anchoring you to his lap.

When you break for air, you’re both breathing harder.

“Bedroom?” you whisper, because if you stay on the couch, you’re going to end up half-falling off it and he’ll never forgive himself if you bruise so much as a knee.

His answering smile is crooked and soft. “Yeah, sweetheart. Bedroom.”

He stands with you still in his arms, like you weigh nothing, and you yelp softly, clinging to his shoulders.

“Bucky!”

“What?” he murmurs, amused, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he carries you down the hall. “Gotta show off a little for my girl. Been waitin’ a long time for this, you know.”

Your heart flips at my girl.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed like you’re something precious, something breakable, and for a second you see the nerves creep back in, the way his gaze flicks to the floor, the way his hands hover at the hem of his shirt like he’s not sure if he should go first.

You catch his wrists gently.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He glances up. “Yeah?”

“I’m a little nervous too,” you confess. “Not about you. About… being good. About living up to whatever you’ve imagined in that head of yours.”

He frowns immediately. “Doll, I already told you, you could just look at me and I’d—”

“Exactly,” you interrupt with a grin. “So maybe we stop trying to impress each other and just… be with each other. Yeah?”

Something in him melts at that.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay. Yeah.”

You tug his shirt up, and this time he lets you. You take your time, dragging it over his head, fingertips skimming along warm skin and old scars, over metal that gleams in the low light. He shivers under your touch, muscles jumping beneath your hands.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, because you can’t not say it.

He rolls his eyes, but his ears go pink. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it,” you insist, leaning in to press your mouth to his chest, right over his racing heart. “All of you. Every part. I want to learn it, okay? What you like. What feels good. What makes you lose that careful control you keep pretending you have.”

He exhales shakily, hand sliding into your hair.

“You do that already,” he says hoarsely. “Just by lookin’ at me like that.”

You smile against his skin, then lean back to look him in the eyes.

“Then let me look,” you say softly. “All of you. And if you ever feel weird or insecure or uncomfortable, we stop. No questions. No pressure.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods again, more sure this time.

“Okay,” he repeats. “I trust you.”

You squeeze his hand, your own nerves settling into something warm and steady.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because I promise, Bucky… there’s nothing about you I’m not going to love.”

Your reassurance is still lingering in the air like warm breath against his skin when Bucky swallows, the muscles in his throat working tight. His pupils blow wide, slow, dark, and hungry, like he can finally let himself believe you meant every damn word.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice deeper, rougher, almost unsteady.

He drags you into his lap with a kind of desperate reverence, kissing you so fiercely it’s almost clumsy. Like he can’t decide whether to take his time or devour you whole. His hands roam everywhere, your waist, your ribs, the dip of your lower back, thumbs stroking like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

You grind down against him again, deliberately slow, and the noise he makes? God… it’s wrecked.

“Sweetheart…” His breath falters. “Don’t—don’t do that unless you’re ready for me to lose it. I’m hangin’ on by a thread here.”

“I want you to lose it,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I want you, James. All of you.”

His eyes snap shut for a fraction of a second, and when they open again, they’re molten.

You don’t even get a second to breathe before he’s on his feet again, lifting you once more like you weigh nothing, except this time when he lays you out on the bed, he follows you down immediately, mouth on your throat, kissing, tasting, desperate and careful all at once.

His metal hand stays at your hip like he’s anchoring himself. His flesh hand slides up your inner thigh, trembling just a little as he pushes your legs apart.

“You really… like the way I am?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word, not from insecurity now but from need.

You nod, pulling him down for a kiss. “Show me,” you whisper. “Let me touch you. I want to see all of you.”

He inhales sharply and finally shucks his pants down enough for his cock to spring free. 

And God, he’s beautiful.

Thick. Heavy. Flushed at the tip. That soft, natural roll of skin framing the head, sensitive and warm and so perfectly him.

Your breath catches.

He freezes, his entire body locking. 

“See?” he whispers, his voice threaded with dread. “This is what I was afraid of. You’re surprised, I knew—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, sitting up so fast he startles.

Your hand wraps around him before he can flinch away.

And his entire body jerks.

“Jesus doll—”

You stroke him slow, deliberate, admiring the weight, the softness of the skin gathered at the tip, the way he pulses in your palm like he’s about to come just from being touched.

“This,” you breathe, leaning in, pressing your lips to his jaw, “is beautiful.”

His mouth falls open.

“This is so fucking hot,” you whisper, stroking him again, tighter this time.

He whimpers.

Actually whimpers.

“Sweetheart please, don’t tease—don’t—oh God—”

“I’m not teasing,” you say, kissing his jaw, his neck, stroking him with smooth, steady pressure. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second I realized how it would be. You’re perfect. You hear me? Perfect.”

He mutters something in 1940s Brooklynese that sounds like a prayer and a curse tangled together.

“Lay back for me,” you breathe.

He drops back immediately, obedience effortless, instinctive.

You climb over him, straddling his thighs, still stroking him, watching the way his head tilts back, exposing his throat. His chest rises and falls like he just sprinted a mile.

The sight of him, this strong, impossible man undone by nothing more than your hand, sends molten heat straight through your belly.

“Tell me what feels good,” you whisper.

His hand finds your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold onto his sanity.

“Like that,” he pants. “God, sweetheart—just like that. You’re gonna make me—”

His voice fractures, the sound torn from somewhere deep. “Haven’t even been inside you and I’m losin’ it.”

Your thighs squeeze around him at that, desire punching through your belly like a spark catching flame.

“Come back to me,” you whisper, leaning over him, kissing him slow even as your hand keeps working him, slow twists, firm strokes, your thumb gliding over the sensitive head. “It’s your first time in this century, Buck. I want you to feel good.”

He grabs your waist suddenly, sitting up, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know.”

“Then let me,” you whisper, moving your hips so the head of his cock nudges against your slick.

His entire body goes rigid.

“Sweetheart, please—I don’t know if I can—”

You guide the head through your folds, slick and slow, just enough to punch a broken groan out of him.

“Baby,” you whisper against his ear, “let me ride you.”

He drags his metal hand up your spine, the coolness making you shiver, the other gripping your hip like he’s the one holding onto reality.

“You’re sure?” he rasps. “You want—me? Like this? All of me?”

You sink down, just the tip, enough to make both of you inhale sharply.

“James,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Something in him shatters. 

He surges up, kissing you like he’s drowning, kissing you like you’re oxygen. His hands lock on your hips, guiding, grounding, begging.

You ease down onto him inch by inch, slow, deliberate torture, feeling him stretch you open, fill you, claim space inside you that no one’s ever touched.

He watches every second with wide eyes, almost disbelieving as you take him deeper… deeper…

“Sweetheart—oh God—you’re—” His voice breaks on a sound that’s pure, ragged pleasure. “You feel—Jesus—”

When your hips finally meet his, he grabs you like he’s afraid gravity might tear you away from him.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He does.

“You’re perfect,” you tell him again. “And I love the way you feel.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, wrecked, disbelieving, so full of emotion it twists your heart.

“I’m gonna—doll, I’m not gonna last—”

You roll your hips once, the pressure slow and delicious, and he breaks.

Not by coming.

But by losing every shred of old insecurity, replaced with raw, unfiltered desire.

His grip turns fierce, his voice dropping to something low and desperate.

“Do it again,” he begs. “Ride me, sweetheart. Please. Wanna feel you, wanna see you, wanna remember this for the rest of my damn life.”

You brace your hands on his chest and start to move, slow and deep, and he unravels under you. Soft moans, bitten-off curses, his metal hand guides your hips, steady and firm, while his warm hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your breath catches.

Every thrust draws sound out of him, rough, needy, drowning-in-you sound.

Every roll of your hips makes his eyes flutter.

“You’re incredible,” you whisper, leaning over him, your lips brushing his ear. “So gorgeous. So perfect. Your body is perfect. Your cock is perfect—”

His head falls back. “Sweetheart, if you keep talkin’ like that—”

“Why?” you tease, shifting your hips just right, watching him shudder. “Is it gonna make you come?”

He growls.

Actually growls.

And in one fluid, desperate motion, faster than you can even gasp, Bucky grips your hips, lifts you, and flips you onto your back.

Your breath punches out of you, not from pain, but from how impossibly smooth it is.

How natural.

How practiced his strength is when it’s finally unleashed.

He never slips out, not even for a second.

You land on the mattress with his weight immediately following, his chest crushing against yours, his thighs spreading yours wide as he pushes deeper, as deep as your body will take him.

The first thrust steals your breath.

The second steals your thoughts.

By the third, you’re gone.

Bucky braces his metal hand beside your head, body caging yours completely, while his flesh hand clamps onto your hip hard enough to brand you.

His voice is hot against your ear, already wrecked.

“I’m makin’ you come first,” he pants, thrusting in a rhythm that feels both punishing and impossibly controlled. Each stroke angled perfectly, too perfectly, like he’s been dreaming about this for decades.

You cry out, fingers flying to his back, digging in without thought.

He thrusts again, harder, deeper, and your nails rake down his shoulder blades, scratching, claiming, marking him with red lines he’ll feel for hours.

“Bucky—” your voice cracks.

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Say it again,” he demands, panting against your mouth, his hips slamming forward in a rhythm that’s shockingly steady for how undone he looks. His nose brushes yours, his lips just barely hovering above your own. “Say you like me just how I am.”