#xpressit!

“You should get some rest, sweetheart.” His breath stirs against your hair. “Need a hug or something to get you away from that phone?”

His voice rumbles against your scalp, sending a slow shiver down your spine. The warmth at your side shifts, his solid chest pressing more firmly against you, the heat of his breath tickling your temple.

You blink blearily at the screen, trying to refocus, but your grip on your phone falters for a second. Damn him and his sleep-heavy voice.

"I'm fine," you murmur, though the words come out softer than intended, laced with drowsiness.

Bucky makes a noise—something between a hum and a quiet huff—but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he settles in further, one heavy arm draping loosely over your back where your shirt has slightly rolled up, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin. His nose brushes your ear, and you feel him inhale deeply, like he's grounding himself in your scent.

"Later," you add, shifting slightly but making no real effort to move him off. "Just let me finish this chapter."

"Mm," Bucky acknowledges, but his arm tightens, his body molding against yours as if he's not quite ready to let go. The weight of him is solid, reassuring.

Another minute passes. Then two. Your scrolling slows, words blurring together as your body betrays you, sinking into the comforting heat of his embrace.

You barely realize when your fingers go slack, your phone slipping from your grip onto the mattress. A quiet sigh escapes your lips, and Bucky shifts again, pressing even closer.

"You’re still awake," he murmurs, his voice quieter this time, like he's almost back to sleep.

You swallow. "So are you."

A pause. Then, in a voice rough with something you can’t quite place, he admits, "Had a nightmare."

Your heart squeezes a little at that. Of course he did. You should have known—the way he clings, the way his breathing is a little too measured, like he's trying to calm himself down.

Without thinking, you reach up, your fingers brushing against his arm. A soothing motion. A small comfort.

"Do you need a hug?" you whisper.

For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then, finally, he exhales against your skin.

"Yeah," he says, barely above a breath.

And that’s all it takes.

You turn, pressing your face into the solid warmth of his chest, wrapping an arm around his back as he pulls you in with one slow, deliberate motion. He’s warm—so warm—and the way he holds you feels different this time. Tighter. Closer. Less like a friendly gesture and more like need.

And then—then you feel it.

The realization hits slow, creeping up the back of your neck, settling like a weight in your stomach. Because Bucky—your best friend, your roommate—is holding you too close. His breathing is uneven. And pressed against your thigh is the unmistakable hardness of something definitely not platonic.

Silence.

You don't move.

Neither does he.

The air between you thickens, heavy with something raw and unspoken. The world holds its breath. Until—

A sound. A quiet, almost reluctant groan that escapes from deep in his chest as your body shifts ever so slightly against him.

That’s when it happens.

That’s when you realize—you’re just as affected as he is.

Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading like a slow, consuming fire. You were already wound up from the smut you’d been reading, already feeling that restless ache thrumming beneath your skin—but now?

Now, every inch of you is hyperaware of him.

The solid weight of his body, the heat seeping from his bare skin, the way his fingers tense against your hip, like he’s trying to stop himself from gripping. The air is thick, electric, humming with something you’ve both been too blind—or too stubborn—to acknowledge until now.

And then it happens again.

A barely-there shift, just enough to press you against the unmistakable hardness straining under his sweatpants.

Your breath hitches.

Bucky stills.

Another realization crashes over you both at the exact same time, flooding every nerve ending like a shock to the system.

You’re needy.

He’s needy.

But neither of you wants to move away.

His fingers tighten on your hip. The warmth of his breath fans across your face, heavy and uneven. You don’t know who’s trembling—you or him—but the weight of the moment is crushing, suffocating in the best, most dangerous way.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, begging to be broken.

So you do.

"Need help with that?" Your voice is light—too light, too teasing for the way your pulse pounds in your throat.

Bucky makes a sound, something between a groan and a curse, low and rough, barely restrained. His grip flexes, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his fingers press harder, his body coiling tight with something desperate, something aching.

"You sure?" His voice is wrecked, gravel against silk, the weight of his need unmistakable.

Your body throbs at the sound of it.

And yet, you force yourself to smirk, masking the sheer want clawing up your spine with something playful. Safer.

"Just like we share everything else," you murmur, tilting your chin up just slightly, lips brushing against the scruff of his jaw. "Why not this?"

He exhales sharply through his nose, his whole body going rigid. You swear you can feel the exact moment his restraint snaps.

Bucky doesn’t give you time to second-guess it. Doesn’t leave space for hesitation.

One second, he’s hovering there, like he’s still teetering on the edge of a decision. The next, his mouth is crushing against yours, devouring, famished.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft. It’s not the kind of first kiss that belongs to roommates, to friends.

It’s months of unspoken tension igniting all at once.

His hands find your waist, pressing you against him like he can’t bear a second of space between you. The heat of him, the solid muscle beneath your palms, the sheer force of his need—it makes your head spin.

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss, making your toes curl. Your fingers travel below the hem of his shirt, sinking into the bare skin of his back, nails digging in, pulling him closer, and fuck, the groan that rumbles from his chest makes something inside you clench.

He shifts again, pressing even more into you, against you, and you don’t know who’s chasing who anymore—all you know is that you need.

And he's right there with you.

The next few minutes blur into feverish hands and frantic fumbling—pushing, pulling, eager to rid yourselves of the barriers between you. There’s no finesse, no slow unraveling of tension, no teasing build-up. Just raw, aching need.

Because if either of you stops to think—if you pause, even for a second—it’ll mean facing something bigger, something heavier.

That this isn’t just some casual release.

That it isn’t about a moment of fleeting desperation.

It’s about him. About you. About the way you’ve been craving each other so much for so long it’s almost unbearable.

Bucky doesn’t give you time to process it. Doesn’t give himself time either.

Because that can’t be what this is about.

It can only be about getting off. About helping each other. About making use of what’s already here, right within reach.

And fuck, does Bucky reach.

He takes.

And you let him.

Your breath hitches as his fingers yank at the waistband of your panties, dragging them down in a single, impatient motion. There’s no hesitation, no teasing. You barely have time to kick them off before his flesh hand finds the warmth between your thighs, his fingers dipping past your soaked folds, sliding against your slick entrance.

A sharp gasp shudders from your lips.

Then—his thumb.

A slow, deliberate circle over your clit.

Your hips jolt, a whimper spilling into the space between you, and Bucky grunts—low, guttural, like the sound coming from you alone has his cock twitching against his stomach.

But you’re not just going to let him do all the work.

Your fingers curl around the hard, pulsing weight of him, wrapping around the evidence of his need, and fuck, the way he groans, the way his forehead drops to your shoulder, his entire body tensing at the first stroke—

It’s everything.

There’s nothing practiced about this. No perfect rhythm, no choreographed movements. It’s frantic, messy, like two people making up for lost time. Like a pent-up first time, all rushed hands and ragged breathing and the unmistakable sound of slick heat and aching friction.

It’s clumsy.

It’s reckless.

It’s so fucking good.

Your fingers work him in a tight, steady rhythm, coaxing more wrecked sounds from his throat. His metal arm is braced above your head, elbow digging into the cushion as his flesh hand thrusts against you—two fingers slipping inside, stretching you, filling you in a way that has your whole body tightening around the intrusion.

He groans against your skin, breath hot and heavy.

"So fuckin’ good," he mutters, voice thick with arousal, strained like he’s barely holding himself together.

His admission is ruinous. It crashes over you, sends you spiraling, because you can hear it in his voice—the raw need, the way he’s coming apart just as much as you are.

"Don’t stop," you whisper, rolling your hips into his touch, stroking him just a little tighter, just a little faster, reveling in the way his whole body shudders in response.

His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that has you gasping, thighs squeezing around his hand, and—

Oh, fuck.

You’re so close.

And so is he.

"Bucky—"

His name barely escapes your lips before his fingers curl just right—deep, precise, pressing into that perfect spot inside you, and you snap.

A ragged cry spills from your throat, your body locking up as pleasure rips through you, white-hot and relentless. Your thighs tremble, hips jerking against his hand, riding out every pulse of ecstasy as Bucky works you through it, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from you.

"Fuck!" he grits out, voice wrecked, strained.

Your grip tightens around him, your strokes turning messy, desperate, driven by instinct and the lazy aftershocks still rolling through your limbs.

He shudders.

"Shit, sweetheart—gonna—"

His words dissolve into a groan, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as his whole body tenses—then jerks as he spills over your hand, thick, hot pulses coating your fingers. His breath stutters against your skin, his hips twitching into your touch, every ragged exhale laced with the kind of relief that has you smirking despite your own lingering haze.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your mingled, uneven breathing—the heavy silence of two people still caught in the aftershocks, still tangled together, still feeling each other even as the intensity fades.

The stillness stretches. Then, Bucky huffs out a breathless laugh, the weight of his forehead still resting against your shoulder.

"Well," Bucky murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, amusement curling at the edges. "That’s one way to get you to put your damn phone down."

You huff a breathless laugh, still trying to get your heart rate under control. "Yeah? Gonna start using that tactic every time I get too into a story?"

He smirks, finally lifting his head, eyes still dark with the remnants of pleasure. "If it works, sweetheart, I just might."

Rolling your eyes, you reach for the tissue box on the coffee table, grabbing a few before passing him some. As you clean up, you glance at him, voice turning teasing, but softer. "Did it help?"

His brows furrow slightly. "What?"

You tilt your head, gaze knowing. "The nightmare."

For a second, something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe even a little…fondness. But then, his lips twist into a crooked smile, the moment slipping away before it can settle too deep.

"Yeah," he admits, voice a little hoarse. "Didn’t even remember it ‘til you brought it up, so… guess that’s a win."

You nod, satisfied, and toss your tissues into the wastebasket nearby before tugging your underwear and pants back into place. He follows suit, the two of you moving in sync—like this is normal, like this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed this particular line.

"So," you say, stretching your arms above your head with a lazy grin. "We’re both single, right?"

Bucky raises a brow as he pushes the hem of his shirt back. "Pretty sure."

"Good. Means we can be single together… Should the need arise."

He snorts, shaking his head as he settles back onto the couch. "That’s the dumbest way to say ‘roommates with benefits’ I’ve ever heard."

"Yeah, well," you chuckle, flopping down beside him. "Not my fault you never had the nerve to ask me out."

His hand rests over his chest, eyes flicking to yours, something unreadable flashing there before he huffs a laugh. "Too late now, huh?"

You smirk, nudging his side. "Guess you’ll just have to settle for this instead."

He snorts, shifting lower against the cushions, his body still warm beside yours. "Tragic."

The sleep creeps back into your bones, heavy and insistent, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel Bucky’s fingers brush absently against your arm—nothing deliberate, just a mindless touch, lingering.

Neither of you moves away.

And in the quiet, just before sleep pulls you under, you hear him murmur—so soft you almost miss it...

"Could be worse."

For days after, everything shifts.

Not in some obvious, earth-shattering way. No; that would be too easy. Instead, it’s in the small things. The lingering touches, the glances that last too long, the air between you oppressive with something unsaid—something you both refuse to acknowledge.

It’s in the hesitation when Bucky sits beside you now, his thigh just barely pressing against yours instead of sprawling out like he used to. In the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t. In the split-second glance at your lips when you talk, so fast you almost miss it. Almost.

It’s in the way you catch yourself staring when he’s fresh out of the shower, towel slung around his neck, damp strands of hair curling at the ends. How your breath catches when he stretches, when his shirt rides up, when he runs a hand through his hair with that sleepy, careless ease.

It’s in the moments where you brush past each other in the kitchen, the heat of his body too noticeable. When you hand him a mug, and your fingers touch, and neither of you pulls away immediatly. When you shift to get comfortable on the couch, and instead of scooting over, his arm drapes over the back like it belongs there.

It’s in the loaded silences, the way your conversations don’t flow as effortlessly as before—like you’re both tiptoeing around something huge, something fragile.

But above all, it’s in the restraint. The careful distance. The way you both pull back at the last second, pretending this is still normal. That it’s just what it was before.

Because if either of you acknowledges it, if either of you dares to name it, it’ll be real. And real means risk. It means change. It means no going back.

So you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers skim his when you pass him the remote. You let his knee press against yours and pretend you don’t feel the heat of it seep into your skin, pooling low in your stomach. You bite your tongue when you see him clench his jaw, his grip tightening on whatever he’s holding, like he’s fighting something off.

And when you catch him watching you—when your eyes meet in a moment that stretches too long—you do the only thing you can do.

You look away.

Because if you don’t…

You’re not sure you’ll be able to stop yourself next time.

It happens on a day when you need him.

Not in the way you’ve both been avoiding. Not in the way that comes with tangled sheets and breathless gasps. You just… need him. The way you used to. The steady warmth, the easy comfort, the feeling of knowing there’s someone who has your back no matter what.

So you find him. Seek him out like muscle memory, like instinct, letting your body pull you toward the one place that has always been safe.

And when you reach for him, when your fingers brush against his sleeve, expecting him to fold you into his arms the way he always has...

He flinches.

It’s small. Barely there. Just a fraction of a movement, the slightest pull-back, but you feel it. The space he puts between you, deliberate, careful. Like a closed door.

It stings.

No, it burns.

Like an open wound, like something torn deep inside your chest. You retract your hand like he’s struck you, fingers curling into a fist at your side, something ugly twisting in your stomach.

"You’ve changed." The words are sharp, cutting through the thick, heavy air between you. Frustration bubbles up, mixing with the ache in your ribs, spilling over before you can stop it. "Since when do we not—" You swallow, searching for the right words, something that won’t make this worse. "Since when did we stop reaching out to each other?"

Bucky’s expression tightens, his fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you. "I haven’t changed." His voice is a little louder than it should be, a little too defensive, his jaw clenching as he shakes his head. "Everything’s still the same!"

You snicker. Bitter. Unamused.

Because it’s a lie.

Because you both know everything is different. Nothing has been the same since that night.

The words slip past your lips before you can think better of them. "I wish nothing had happened!"

The moment they’re out, you regret them.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. His stomach plummets. Your heart aches, raw and exposed. Because it’s not really a lie, is it? It’s an admission disguised as a negation. You don’t wish nothing had happened. You just wish it hadn’t changed everything.

His eyes darken, something dangerous flickering behind them as he takes a step closer. "And I just wish it would happen again!"

Your breath catches.

Neither of you moves at first. Stunned by his confession, by the weight of the truth hanging between you.

Until—

The tension snaps.

You crash into each other.

It’s hungry, voracious, a collision of frustration and longing, hands grasping, mouths claiming. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. No pretending.

Because you both know now—this was never just casual.

It never could be.

Once again, it starts with hands.

Grasping. Pulling. Needing.

You collide in a mess of mouths and limbs, desperation threading through every movement. Clothes are in the way, frustrating, barriers you can’t rip off fast enough.

The kitchen counter is suddenly at your back, hard and unyielding, but you don’t care. Not when he’s right there, caging you in, his body a wall of heat and need. His lips are insistent, greedy, dragging over yours before tracing down the column of your throat, teeth scraping as he works his way lower, lower—

By the time he reaches your waistband, his breath is ragged.

And when he does… he grips.

Fingers digging into fabric, ripping at it, dragging your pants and underwear down in one sharp tug. The cold air barely has a chance to hit your skin before his palms are on your thighs, prying them open, his breath hot against sensitive flesh.

"Bucky—"

The sound of his name, breathy, needy, from your lips, has something snapping in him.

He groans, hands tightening, before his mouth descends.

Teeth graze over the soft skin of your inner thigh, nipping, teasing, torturing—

You gasp, hips jerking forward, trying to push him where you need him, but he holds you there, spreading you wider, his fingers pressing into your flesh, his lips moving painfully slow.

"You always taste this sweet, sweetheart?" His voice is wicked, lips brushing over where you’re burning for him, but not quite giving in yet.

You whine.

You fucking whine.

And that does it.

He groans, deep and ravenous.

Before you know it, his tongue lashes against you, hot and wet and precise.

The cry that rips from your throat is immediate. Loud. Unfiltered.

And he doesn’t stop.

He buries himself between your thighs like a man who’s been starving for this—licking, sucking, devouring—his tongue flicking over that sensitive bundle of nerves before circling back, just to make you squirm.

One of your hands flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging, pulling. He groans at that, like he likes it, and the vibration sends a shock wave of pleasure straight through you.

You can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

Your thighs shake, heels digging into his back, hips rocking against his mouth. Chasing the friction, chasing release.

"Bucky—fuck—"

He growls against you, hands tightening, dragging you even closer, like he wants you to fall apart for him, like he won’t let you go until you do.

So he seals his lips around your clit and sucks.

And the pressure breaks you.

Rapture crashes through you in a white-hot wave, ripping you apart at the seams, your body tensing before shattering, a strangled, shameless cry tearing from your lips as you come undone.

But he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, savoring, groaning against your soaked skin like he’s getting drunk off you, only pulling back when your tremors start to ease.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are shiny with you, his pupils blown black, chest heaving.

"Fuckin’ gorgeous," he rasps, hands still holding your thighs open, like he’s not done yet.

And from the way he’s looking at you?

You knows he isn’t.

His mouth doesn’t leave you.

Even as you shudder beneath him, body still trembling from the force of your release, he devours you—kissing his way up your stomach, dragging his lips over the flushed skin of your chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breasts where they spill over your bra.

He savors.

Teeth grazing over your collarbone, tongue flicking against your pulse, feeling it race beneath his lips as he works his way higher.

Until his mouth crashes against yours.

You taste yourself on his tongue, heady and intoxicating, but it isn’t enough. The ache inside you is still there, deep and insistent, clawing at your insides, demanding more.

Your fingers fumble at the waistband of his pants, rapacious, needing to feel him, to have him closer. He groans into your mouth, a deep, desperate sound, before tearing the offending layers away—kicking off his pants, his boxers, until nothing is between you anymore.

Suddenly he’s there, thick and hard against your soaked heat, and—

"Please," you breathe, legs wrapping around his waist, your hands pulling at his back, urging him closer, needing him to just—

He grits his teeth, chest heaving, his control thin, so razor-thin—

In one swift motion, he sinks in.

A deep, guttural moan rips from his throat as he buries himself inside you, stretching you so exquisitely that your breath catches, your nails digging into his skin.

"Jesus—fuck—" His head drops against your shoulder, jaw clenched, body trembling as he stills, giving you time to adjust, to take all of him, because fuck, you feel like heaven, like you were made for him, for this.

It’s overwhelming.

The warmth of you wrapped so tight around him, the way your body clenches in need, the way you shifts, hips rolling impatiently against his—

"Move," you whine, breath hot against his ear, you voice wrecked, needy.

He swears, low and gravelly, his resolve snapping.

And without any warning, he moves.

The first thrust is slow, purposeful, pushing deep before dragging back out, his breath catching at the way you whimpers, at the way your fingers scramble at his back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Faster.

Each movement deeper, more greedy, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, worshiping every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s real.

"Fuck—Buck—"

Your voice is wrecked, breathless, and the way you respond to him, the way you move with him, meeting each thrust like you need it as much as he does—

He can’t keep it in.

"Dreamt of this," he rasps against your throat, his hips rolling, his movements turning more urgent, more hungry. "For so fucking long."

Your breath catches, your nails dig deeper, dragging down his spine, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, grinding into you just right—

"It’s everything," he pants, lips brushing your ear, the words tumbling out unrestrained, raw. "Everything I wanted—everything I needed—and more…"

His rhythm stutters for a beat, his body pressing closer, his forehead dropping against yours as the confession spills from his lips before he can stop it—

"Fuck! I love you."

Silence.

You gasp, a soft, startled sound, your eyes flying open to meet his—

But he doesn’t stop.

"I love you," he breathes again, hips still rocking into you, deep and intentional, his hand cupping the side of your face. "God, I love you so much—"

Something inside you breaks.

Because you feel it—

Every single word, every touch, every movement.

He means it.

Before you can realize it, your lips crash into his.

It’s not just ardent. It’s everything.

The tension snaps again, your bodies moving together in perfect rhythm, in perfect sync, like he was always meant to fit inside you like this.

Like he was always meant to be yours.

Your lips crush against his once more, a messy, heated clash of tongues and teeth, your hands gripping at his shoulders, clawing at his back, pulling him deeper, closer, like you want to consume him whole.

And fuck, he lets you.

Because he’s gone—utterly wrecked, completely undone by you, unraveling in the best way by how you move against him, by how your body clings to his like you never want to let go.

"Say it again," you gasp against his lips, your nails digging into his scalp, your hips arching to meet his every thrust.

His breath catches, his rhythm faltering just slightly as his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek before tilting your chin up—forcing you to look at him.

He swallows hard, his breath coming in ragged pulls before the words slip from his lips.

"I love you."

The words fall from his mouth like a vow, raw and unshakable, and the way you shudder against him, the way your thighs tighten around his waist—fuck, he swears he almost loses it right then and there.

But it isn’t enough.

He needs you to know.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice rough and gravelly, each thrust deliberate, deep, meant to brand his confession into your very bones.

"I love you."

"I fucking love you."

"Always have—"

Your breath stutters, your body trembling, breaking apart against him, and the second he feels you start to tighten, that perfect, fluttering squeeze around him—

He loses it.

His rhythm turns desperate, his jaw going slack, moans pouring freely from his lips as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release as you fall apart against him, his name tumbling from your lips like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

And when you clench around him, when your body pulls him in so perfectly—he follows.

The pleasure slams into him hard, ripping through his limbs like a live wire, his movements stuttering as he buries himself deep, his head dropping to your shoulder once again as he spills into you with a ragged, shuddering groan.

Neither of you move for a long moment.

Just the sound of your heavy breaths, your heartbeats pounding wildly against each other covering the hum of the fridge, his arms trembling where he braces against the countertop, barely keeping himself upright.

Your fingers—soft, slow, tender—trace up his back, slipping into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp. A shiver racks through him, his body melting into yours.

He groans, shifting slightly, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, his breath still ragged, uneven.

"You okay?" he rasps, voice wrecked, rough.

A soft, breathy laugh.

"I think you just made me forget how to breathe," you murmur, fingers still playing lazily with his hair.

That makes him smirk, pulling back just enough to look at you, to drink you in—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair a mess from his hands.

And fuck, you’re gorgeous, breathtaking, an absolute vision.

His heart clenches.

"Good," he murmurs, tilting his head, brushing his nose against yours, his voice softer now. "Because you just made me forget how to do anything but love you."

And the look in your eyes—

That wrecks him more than anything ever could.

For a moment, the world feels suspended.

Just the sound of your breaths, still ragged and uneven, your bodies tangled together, your heartbeats still thudding, frantic and wild.

His arms are trembling, barely keeping himself upright as he stays buried deep inside you, forehead pressed against yours, lips hovering just above your own.

And fuck, he should move—should say something, anything, but he can’t, because you’re looking at him—

Like he’s something precious.

Something you can’t bear to lose.

You take a shaky breath, your hands smoothing down his back, holding him close.

"I love you too, Bucky."

It’s soft, barely above a whisper, but it wrecks him—

Shatters him, undoes him, because—

Fuck.

You mean it.

He can see it, feel it, in the way your fingers brush through his hair, in the way your hands run down his spine, keeping him pressed against you, in the way your lips part, like you wants to say more—

But he doesn’t let you.

Because he’s kissing you before you can even take another breath—deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to make up for all the times he wanted to do this and held back.

Like he never wants to stop.

And maybe—

Maybe he never will.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tags “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for more stories 😁

She didn’t bother to look up.

“If it’s about your playlist, Mr. Stark,” she called, a little dry, “I’m still not giving you clearance to hijack SHIELD servers just to blast AC/DC in the showers.”

Silence.

Then a voice that didn’t belong to Stark—lower, raspier, but with a curious kind of softness too. Like it wasn’t used to being gentle but tried, just for her.

“Wasn’t planning on singing in the showers,” it said, a touch of humor curling around the words, “but now you’ve got me thinking about it.”

Her hands stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head toward the door.

Leaning against the frame, like the space had been made for him to fill it, was James Buchanan Barnes. He had a tablet in one hand, the other casually shoved into the pocket of his jeans. The sleeves of his dark blue Henley were rolled to his elbows, exposing the metal gleam of his left forearm and the soft, warm skin of the right. His hair was messier than usual. Shadows clung to his jaw, under his eyes. He looked tired.

Tired in the way people looked when sleep didn’t come easy. Tired but in that unfairly handsome in the late afternoon light kind of way.

“You're not Stark,” she stated, finally.

He smirked, faint and crooked. “Glad you noticed.”

He lifted the tablet a little, like a peace offering. “I think I broke this. Or it broke me. Not sure which came first. Either way, it’s not working.”

She blinked once, lips twitching despite herself as she gestured for him to hand it over with an extended hand in his direction. “Let me guess. Forgot your password again after the last security update?”

“You change the rules every month. Feels like sabotage... or emotional warfare.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was a glint of mirth in them.

“It’s protocol, Barnes. Not everything’s a conspiracy. And no, you can’t pick ‘password123’ again.”

He stepped into the room like he belonged there, slow and easy, closer than necessary.

Close enough for her to catch that faint mixed scent of leather, metal, and the trace of gunpowder that seemed woven into his skin. But there was something else too, something warm. Something that didn’t belong to the soldier, but to the man underneath. The man who looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

He set the tablet gently in her open hand, fingers faintly brushing against hers, then didn’t move away. He stayed there, hip leaning against the edge, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze lingered on her—quiet, watching, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

“Gotta make sure you keep your job,” he said, voice low and a little too smooth. “Figure if I keep breaking shit, you’ll have to keep fixing it.”

She arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He tilted his head. “Is it working?”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head as she started navigating the menus of the tablet, fingers brushing the screen, tapping through the security prompts.

“You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Lucky me, doll.”

Her hands stopped mid-type.

The word—that word—hit like a knife between her ribs.

The smile she’d almost given him fell away. Her whole body seemed to still, breath caught somewhere just out of reach. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the screen, as if it had turned to stone beneath her hands.

Like she was watching things only she could see. Things replaying in her mind.

Like if she didn’t move, maybe the past wouldn’t catch up.

“Don’t,” she finally said.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s brows knit, confusion creasing the space between his eyes as the teasing ease dropped from his voice. “Sorry?”

Her gaze met his. Steady. Flat. But underneath the emotionless surface was something sharp. Cold steel lined with something rawer, still bleeding.

“Don’t call me that.”

There was silence—thick, uncertain.

He straightened, just barely, but enough to show the shift in the air hadn’t gone unnoticed. He didn’t understand it yet—but he felt it. Like a tremor before a quake.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, quieter this time. Almost careful.

She gave a nod. A small, controlled gesture. But it wasn’t agreement. It was containment. A leash on a storm.

“I’m not a doll, Barnes.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was an edge to it, like glass stuck in an old wound, reopening it from the inside. “I’m not some… pretty thing you can pick up and carry around when you’re bored and drop when you’ve had enough. I’m not yours to name like a toy. So don’t call me that.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched, and for once, James Buchanan Barnes—the man made for war, the ex-assassin, the soldier who never seemed rattled—looked like he realized he’d just stepped into a minefield.

“…Okay,” he said at last. Rough. Honest. A little wrecked around the edges. “Okay. I won’t.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy. Suspended.

Not awkward. Tense. The kind of silence that presses on your chest like guilt. Like grief. Like something fragile had cracked between them and neither knew how to glue it back together.

She didn’t look at him again.

She turned back to her work, face set in lines too still, too clean. No more teasing smirk. No more jokes. Just methodical typing, every keystroke measured like it mattered more than him standing there.

A wall had gone up.

Solid. Impenetrable.

Laced with barbed-wire—built not just to keep him out, but to make sure he felt it if he ever tried to cross.

Bucky lingered there just a heartbeat too long. Long enough to feel the absence of whatever had been there before, curling around them like smoke.

“…Right,” he murmured, shifting his weight like it suddenly didn’t sit right in his own skin. “Thanks for helping.”

No answer. Just the faint tap of her fingers on the cool surface and the cold glow of the screen.

She typed until the lockout cleared, then set the tablet on the desk quietly. No flair. No flourish. Just another problem solved.

“Here. Done.”

Flat. Dismissive.

Already, her hand was moving back to her keyboard. Like he’d never stepped inside. Like his voice, his smirk, his mistake, had never touched the air.

He watched her, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Something that twisted low in his stomach. Coiling like a cold snake.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe a sarcastic you’re welcome, maybe a glare—but this quiet dismissal? It made his skin itch in a way any mission, even the most crazy and suicidal ones, never had.

He picked up the tablet slowly, fingers brushing the spot she’d just touched, like it might give him back a piece of the warmth he’d just lost.

“…Alright. I’ll, uh. See you around.”

Still nothing.

And maybe that was the worst part.

He turned—quiet, always quiet—but it felt different this time. Like he was walking out of a room that had shut him out before he ever left it, like whatever had been forming between them had just died on the operating table.

He reached the door.

Paused.

Something tugged at him—not her, not a sound, just something. Regret maybe. Or the echo of her voice, her words, in his bones.

Hand on the doorframe, he looked back over his shoulder. Just once.

She hadn’t moved. Still typing, still half-hidden, shielded behind her monitors, like they could make her invisible. Like it was safer not to be seen.

“…I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said, softer now. The kind of softness that came from standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t realize was breakable. “I’m sorry.”

Then he left.

The door shut softly behind him.

Only then did she stop typing.

Her fingers hovered uselessly above the keys, shaking, and for a long second, the only thing that moved was the slight fall of her chest as the breath she’d been holding slid out in one long, deflating exhale.

The screen in front of her was still glowing, lines of code sharp and insistent—but she didn’t see any of it.

Instead, her mind replayed every word. Every look. The sound of his voice when he said that word.

And then—after she’d lashed out—how his mouth had tightened. Not anger. Just shock. Confused. Hurt.

Because it wasn’t him she was angry at. Not really.

It was everything else. Everything before.

The way it had hit too close to old wounds, too identical to how she had felt all those years ago. All the names she’d been given without permission, the way she’d once been someone’s possession instead of a person. The way she’d let it happen, because it was what was expected of her. But also just to feel loved. Just to feel seen. Just to feel alive again… not just a fucking walking corpse…

And now Bucky—of all people—had said it, not knowing what it unearthed in her. Not knowing how deep it could cut.

And it wasn’t fair, not to him. He hadn’t deserved the frost she’d wrapped around her voice like a knife.

But the words had come out anyway.

And now all that was left behind was the low, dull throb of guilt.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, the stiff material creaking beneath her, and closed her eyes like that might somehow keep the ache from spreading.

“…Shit,” she whispered, barely audible.

Her eyes lingered on the closed door.

She had overreacted. He probably hadn’t meant it like that. And he deserved more than a sharp silence—sharp enough to slice back. Meant to hurt. Meant to make him feel it. To make him bleed the way his words had. It hadn’t been fair. But in that moment, she’d wanted it. A blade to skin with his name on the steel, deliberate, designed to cut deep.

And then she was moving—almost without thought, her body pulled forward like a string had yanked tight in her chest. She pushed up from the chair like staying still might break her open.

He’d looked hurt. Not wounded like in a fight. Hurt, like he’d been trying and she’d shut the door anyway.

Not defensive. Not cocky.

No.

He looked guilty.

Just sorry.

She stepped into the hallway with quick, urgent strides, rounding the corner like she could still catch him.

And she did.

But he wasn’t alone.

Natasha Romanoff leaned against the wall like she owned it—casual, elegant, unshakable. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, and something he said made her smirk, the kind of smirk that knew things—intimately. Bucky tilted his head toward her, his expression soft. At ease. Like nothing had gone wrong today.

A low, honest laugh escaped him. The kind of laugh she hadn’t heard from him directed at her, ever.

She stopped walking.

Just… stopped.

From this far away, the words were a blur, but the picture was clear enough. Natasha’s hand drifted lightly to his arm, and Bucky didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. His lips tugged into a crooked grin similar to the one he had given her earlier, before she had slammed her armor into his face.

It made something twist sharply in her stomach.

They looked right together.

Easy.

Whole.

And suddenly, she felt like a jagged edge in a world of smooth pieces.

Natasha could take a nickname like “doll” and spin it into something smart and flirty. She could disarm it. Own it. She didn’t carry the same kind of ghosts. She didn’t freeze up. She didn’t bleed out over nothing.

Her jaw clenched. Her hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm like maybe pain would keep the rising tide at bay.

“Never mind,” she muttered, her voice hollow.

She turned.

And this time, she walked slower—like her bones were heavier now, filled with something bitter and sinking. The fight had drained out of her legs. The words she’d meant to say sat unsaid in the back of her throat, sour and sharp.

She didn’t look back again.

But the image of them—smiling, close, fitting—stayed with her, burned into the backs of her eyes.

She returned to her office like she was retreating, not walking. Like the door would protect her from the ache clawing up her spine, in her chest, at her heart.

The code still sat unfinished on her screen. Her chair waited, still turned from when she’d pushed out of it in a rush.

But the warmth was gone.

The quiet playlist felt different now—too quiet. Too cold. Too impersonal.

And the taste in her mouth?

Still there.

Still bitter.

Still lingering.

Bucky was still laughing at Natasha’s comment.

Or at least, it looked like he was.

The sound was there—low, familiar, warm enough to pass. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not the way it should have.

Like his body knew how to go through the motions, but his mind had lagged behind.

Still caught somewhere else.

On someone else.

Like he’d brushed past barbed-wire, and the sting lingered at the back of his mind.

The next laugh came quieter than the one before—softer, thinner, as if whatever had sparked it was already fading from his grasp. A moment, gone before he could hold it.

Just a quick movement.

His gaze drifted, pulled by something he hadn’t meant to notice.

Just a flicker.

The ghost of a shadow at the edge of the hall.

A retreating blur of familiar fabric. The shape of her hair catching the light before vanishing around the corner.

He squinted. Tilted his head. Leaned slightly, like maybe—just maybe—that would call her back into view.

But there was nothing.

The hallway was still.

Silent.

His body—his whole weight—shifted. He turned, instinctive and slow, like his chest was tugged by a thread he didn’t fully understand.

But—

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice cut through the haze, sharp enough to pull him back. “You see a ghost or something?”

He blinked, the mirage fading like smoke, turning his focus back to his friend. “What?”

“You looked like you saw a ghost,” she said, raising one brow. Her gaze flicked toward the hallway, curiosity tugging her attention for half a beat—like she was trying to catch whatever he’d seen—before sliding back to him.

She leaned in, casual and unshakable, crossing one leg over the other like she had all the time in the world. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Too fast. A deflection polished by habit.

He shook his head, like he could physically toss off the tight pull still lingering in his chest. “Thought I saw someone, that’s all.”

“Mmm.” That sound told him exactly what she thought of that answer.

Nat never bought his I’m fine, especially not when he served it up that quickly.

Her eyes flicked to the tablet tucked under his arm, and her mouth curved into a smirk—sharp, knowing, amused.

“Wait… Let me guess.” She pointed at the device like it held a piece of juicy gossip, a secret she was dying to unwrap. “You went to see the tech girl, didn’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw ticked despite himself. A flicker of a reaction, small enough most wouldn’t notice—but Natasha did.

“I needed my password reset,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” she teased, her tone sugar-sweet with a razor underneath. “Password resets and awkward flirting?”

“There wasn’t—” He exhaled hard through his nose, shifting his grip on the tablet. “It wasn’t flirting.”

Natasha gave him a look that practically screamed sure, sweetheart.

“You flirt with her every time you walk into her office,” she said, arms folding. “And she flirts back.”

“She didn’t this time,” Bucky muttered.

Soft. Quieter. Like the words hurt to say out loud.

That paused her.

The teasing faltered, just enough for something else to slip through—curiosity, maybe. Concern. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Tilted. Recalculating. Like she was reevaluating the board mid-game.

She didn’t press.

Just leaned in and tapped the tablet with one perfect nail. “Careful, Barnes. Those quiet ones? They’ll wreck you if you let them.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

His eyes had already wandered back to the hallway.

Back to the place where she’d been.

Or where he thought she’d been.

And the space was empty.

Too empty.

Like something had been there a moment ago—someone—and now it was gone.

Like something delicate had cracked open in his hands—something that had trusted him to hold it gently.

And he'd shattered it, without meaning to.

And now all that was left was the echo.

He didn’t even know what he’d done—how he’d broken it.

Just that it had once been his to protect.

And he hadn’t.

It’d been days, and the moment still lingered like a bitter taste in Bucky's mouth.

Sharp.

Metallic.

Like blood he hadn’t meant to draw.

He’d catch himself thinking about her in the most random moments—mid-mission briefings, quiet breakfasts, even when he was watching something dumb on TV just to fill the silence. It crept in without warning: the way her whole body had changed in an instant. The way her eyes had gone blank. Like a switch had flipped.

One word. That’s all it took.

Doll.

He hadn’t even meant anything by it. It had slipped out, natural as breathing. A soft note in a playful conversation that had felt—up until then—familiar. Safe. Like something they were building, brick by careful brick.

He’d called a hundred women “doll” in his life—before. Before everything. Before he forgot how to be a person. Before he became a weapon, a tool. The Winter Soldier.

But she… she’d looked like he’d hit her, like he’d stabbed her in the chest. Like he’d peeled open something she’d been trying to keep buried.

And he couldn’t stop replaying it. Couldn’t stop feeling it. That flicker in her eyes, the way she pulled inward like she was bracing for a blow.

So that evening, when the compound had gone quiet and her shift technically ended half an hour ago but a soft glow still shone under her office door, Bucky made his way down the hallway.

He carried two glasses and a bottle of honey whiskey he’d picked up days ago. Not for himself. He didn’t even drink much these days.

She’d mentioned it once. A passing comment to one of her colleagues in the cafeteria while stirring sugar into her coffee—something about how she liked to unwind with a glass after a long day. She’d smiled when she said it. Not one of those polite workplace smiles, but a real one. Tired around the edges, but honest.

Unarmored.

It had stuck. Lodged itself somewhere under his ribs, like a fragmented bullet, and refused to leave.

He stopped in front of her door, heart tripping over itself in a rhythm that felt unfamiliar. The light beneath the frame didn’t move. No shadow. No footsteps. Just stillness.

He knocked, soft. Two taps with his knuckles. No metal. Just skin and hesitation.

“Come in,” she called, distracted.

The door slid open, and Bucky stepped inside. The soft click of it closing behind him felt final. Too final. Like walking into something he couldn’t walk back out of.

Her office was dim, lit mostly by the eerie glow of her monitors—three screens reflected in her glasses, alive with what looked like moving lines of code that made no sense to him.

She didn’t look up at first.

He stood there, silent. Just watching. The way her brows knit together, how her lips pressed into a thin line when something didn’t behave the way she wanted. She was always beautiful, but like this? Focused, brilliant, unaware of him?

It made his throat ache.

When he finally took a step forward, she glanced up. And there it was—that beat of hesitation. Too long to ignore. Like she didn’t know who he was to her anymore. Like she didn’t know who she was to him.

Her fingers didn’t stop typing, not completely.

“Locked yourself out of your tablet again?”

Dry. Not cruel. But void of the warmth they used to pass back and forth like a shared cigarette.

Bucky lifted the bottle slightly, the glasses clinking gently in his other hand. “Nope,” he said, voice as easy as he could make it. Like he wasn’t standing there with a fucking apology trembling in his chest. “Thought I’d come bury the hatchet.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. But she didn’t tell him to get out.

“I mean,” he added, moving up to the edge of her desk, “I can’t have my favorite tech person mad at me. Who the hell would I go to next time I need something fixed? Tony? He’d make me do a favor first. Probably something humiliating.”

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it was like watching a smile die in real time. It didn’t land the way he wanted. Not all the way.

His own smile wavered. Just a flicker—but enough. The tightness between his brows gave him away. And she noticed. Of course she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way his shoulders were too stiff beneath the hoodie he wore like armor. The way his fingers curled too tight around the neck of the bottle like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

He was trying. Really trying.

And for a moment, that office wasn’t filled with the hum of computers, or the glow of code—it was just them. Standing in the space between what they had been, and whatever came next.

And it hurt.

Damn, it hurt.

And that nagging thought she’d had since she saw him with Natasha—he’s probably into her, that makes more sense—started to crack just a little.

Because this wasn’t a man who’d brushed it off.

He looked like he’d been carrying the scars he made on her barbed-wired armor around every single day since.

Worn them like a weight. Quiet. Invisible. Heavy.

Licking them like a wounded animal.

When she didn’t immediately reply, Bucky didn’t push. He just set the two glasses down gently on the desk and unscrewed the cap, the scent of honey and oak drifting into the room like a peace offering.

“I, uh… sorry, I didn’t bring ice cubes,” he added quickly, pouring the amber liquid into the glasses without looking at her. “Figured it probably wasn’t the best idea with all this tech stuff around. And, y’know, didn’t have enough hands anyway.”

He let out a breath—short and low—like maybe he'd practiced that line in his head and still hated how it sounded.

He offered a small, sheepish shrug, like he wasn’t sure if he was being charming or just awkward. Maybe both.

Maybe he didn’t know how to be either with her anymore.

The bottle gave a soft clink as he set it aside. He slid one glass toward her without forcing it, without asking if she wanted it. Just… placed it within reach. Like a gesture more than a drink.

A way to say, I’m still here. If you want me to be.

He leaned against the edge of her desk, turning his glass slowly in his hand, eyes down on the rippling whiskey like it might give him the courage to finish the thought.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about the other day,” he said, quieter now. “I know I probably stepped on a landmine without realizing. And I didn’t come here to make you explain it. You don’t owe me that… or anything for that matter.”

He finally looked at her again, blue eyes steady but softer than usual. Still haunted, maybe—but this was a different kind of ghost behind them.

Not the kind that came from bloodshed or war.

The kind that came from hurting someone you care about and not knowing if you’d ever be let close enough to make it right.

“I just… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said simply.

No excuses.

No charm.

Just truth.

And it hung in the air like a thunderbolt.

She sighed. The kind that slipped out before she could catch it, heavy with everything unsaid.

Everything she'd swallowed down for days.

All the old pain she thought she’d buried deep enough to forget.

Bucky glanced up at the sound, gaze searching her face like he was bracing for another verbal grenade. But she didn’t detonate this time.

Instead, she leaned back in her seat, finally dragging her eyes from the screen to him. Her fingers curled around the glass, still warm from his hand, and she stared at the whiskey for a beat before lifting it to her lips.

Just a small sip. Just enough to chase down the lump in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, the edge in her voice softened now. “For this.”

He nodded, barely a shift of his chin, like he was afraid moving too much might make her retreat again.

Like he knew exactly how delicate the moment was.

How close it hovered to unraveling.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, but her voice was steadier. Quieter, too.

“I, uh… I overreacted,” she said. “You didn’t know. It’s just… that word. It reopened something. Old wounds.”

Her fingers tightened a little on the glass, then relaxed again. She still didn’t offer more, didn’t owe him more. But even that sliver of honesty was already a lot.

More than she’d given most people in years.

And Bucky, who’d been holding his breath like a soldier waiting for the next bullet, exhaled.

“Okay,” he said gently. “I get it.”

There was a silence, but it was a softer one now. No tension. Just the space between two people who were cautiously lowering their armor again.

Piece by piece.

Careful. Quiet.

“I won’t call you that again,” he said, voice quiet but steady—an understanding, not a question.

Because yeah, he cared.

And maybe… maybe he always had.

“Good,” she said simply, eyes steady on him now. “Don’t.”

There wasn’t a tremble in her voice, but there was weight.

Years of it, maybe.

A decade buried, folded behind a single word.

And it landed like a stone in his chest.

He nodded once, slow and sure.

“Okay,” he said. No argument, no pushback. “I won’t.”

Another silence bloomed between them. But this time it wasn’t uncomfortable—it just was.

Like static in the room that hadn’t quite found a frequency yet.

Like grief and grace trying to coexist.

And maybe, in that fragile quiet, something had started to mend.

Not fully. Not yet.

But the first stitch had been made.

She sank into her chair a bit more, eyes drifting, unfocused, as if pulled into some memory only she could see. The kind that still had claws, and fangs, and spikes—that still drew blood when she looked too long. Her thumb slowly traced the rim of the glass, absent and automatic—something to do with her hands while the rest of her tried not to splinter under the weight of it.

Bucky didn’t move, just stood there, sipping quietly, like he understood she needed the silence more than the sound. Like he knew how not to crowd someone who was fighting ghosts of their own.

Because he did.

When she blinked herself back to the present, the first thing she noticed was that he was still standing. Still watching. Still there. The sight of it twisted something in her chest—something sharp and untrusting.

She frowned softly. “You’re making me feel like I’m being interviewed by HR.”

He arched a brow, puzzled, until she reached over and tugged a second office chair with her foot. The wheels squeaked softly against the tile, loud in the quiet room, like a tiny protest from the world outside their tension.

“Sit down,” she said, nudging it closer to him. “You’re giving me a neck cramp.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a sigh—like even that simple sound carried a weight he didn’t know what to do with—and took the seat, lowering himself into it like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make himself comfortable here. Like comfort was something he had to earn in her kingdom now.

She watched him over the rim of her glass again as he took another sip. Watched the way his fingers curved around the drink like it was something to hold onto. Watched the crease in his brow that hadn’t left since he walked in. Like he hadn’t let himself breathe since the last time they spoke.

Something about the way he sat, the way his shoulders held tension even now—like he was still waiting for her to push him away—made it harder to dismiss him.

She could feel her brain trying to pick apart the code. To debug the situation. Trying to determine: Is he doing this because he genuinely cares? Because the thought of hurting me kept him up at night?

Or was it just another tactic, another mask? Something polished. Practiced. The way others had smiled at her before they stole something they had no right to.

Or worse—maybe he wasn’t just trying to take something. Maybe he wanted to keep her. Add her to whatever collection he had, like a thing that looked good beside all the others.

Conquests. One-night stands. Girls. Women.

However he was calling it.

His eyes met hers just then—maybe he felt her watching.

Or maybe he was always watching her—just not head-on. Quietly. Like he didn’t want her to notice.

Like a habit he couldn’t shake.

But he didn’t look smug. Didn’t look like a man who thought he was halfway to a victory.

He looked… guilty. And maybe a little sad. Like something inside him was unraveling in slow, silent threads.

That was harder to fake.

She took another sip and quietly asked, “So… why come back? You already said sorry.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Careful. Like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.

He didn’t answer right away.

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge—but not the sharp kind. Not the prove it kind. The kind that said: I want to believe you. Please don’t make me regret it.

Bucky stared at the whiskey in his glass for a beat, rolling it gently in his hand like he was looking for answers in the amber. Then he exhaled through his nose—slow, the kind of breath you let out when you finally stop pretending something doesn’t hurt.

“Because I meant it,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. “And because saying it once didn’t feel like enough.”

She didn’t move, didn’t look away—just let him speak. Let the words fill the spaces left by all the things unsaid.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked that day. Like I’d flipped a switch in you. One word, and you just… shut the door.” His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t have, but I still did it. And I hate that. I hate that I did that to you.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed slowly, but she stayed silent, giving him room.

Maybe because part of her wanted to believe this wasn’t just him trying to make peace for his own gain. That it wasn’t some move to ease his guilt or smooth things over just enough to get what he wanted.

Maybe because something in his voice—the strain of it—sounded like it came from the same kind of broken she knew too well.

He continued, fingers tightening just a little around the glass. Like he needed the sting of it to stay grounded.

“It’s not just guilt. It’s not just wanting to make things right so it doesn’t feel awkward the next time I need something fixed.”

A faint, dry smile tugged at the corner of her lips at that, but she stayed quiet.

Not because she didn’t want to speak—but because if she did, she wasn’t sure what might spill out.

“I kept thinking… if it hurt me that much to see you like that, to know I caused it—then it’s not just some fleeting thing, or whatever.”

He looked up at her again, eyes clearer now, like something inside him had clicked into place.

“I care about you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t come with a grand gesture or heat behind them.

Just quiet truth. The kind that ached in the silence after.

The kind that left no place to hide.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, the drink forgotten in his hands.

“And I know we don’t know each other that well. But I want to. I want to figure this out—whatever this is.”

Her chest tightened, a flutter blooming somewhere between fear and hope—two old ghosts that never showed up alone.

Fear, because she’d been here before.

Hope, because somehow this felt different.

It always feels different, doesn’t it?

But this… this carried a tremble, like her ribs were bracing against something breaking open.

A part of her already wanted to run.

Another part had never wanted someone to stay so badly.

Bucky looked down again, then back at her, softer now.

“So yeah. I brought the whiskey to say sorry. But I stayed because I’m not ready to give up the way you smile at me when you’re in a good mood. Or the way you tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh at something dumb I said.”

His mouth twisted into the faintest smile, but it was lined with something older than regret—like he was letting her see a crack in the armor he always wore.

“I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you, even if I never really had you to begin with.”

She studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Eyes narrowed. Teeth pulling lightly at her lower lip, the rim of her glass cradled like it might hold her together. Still, she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Her gaze was pinned to his like a lifeline, her brain still trying to catch up to the weight of his words.

She was weighing them—each syllable scraping softly against the bruised corners of her trust.

And he didn’t try to smooth over the silence this time. Didn’t offer more to cushion the blow.

Just let her take her time, the flicker of a frown still ghosting between his brows—quiet, pained, like he was already bracing for her to push him away. For her to close the door for good this time.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she gave the faintest little nod, like she’d just negotiated something with her own heart and barely won.

Slowly, she extended her right hand toward his—flesh, not metal. Human.

Trembling, just a little.

Open.

Tentative.

“Apology accepted,” she said, voice soft, brittle at the edges like it had cost her more than he’d ever know.

He blinked, caught off guard—like part of him had already accepted that she wouldn’t.

Then he reached out without hesitation, fingers curling around hers—not possessive, not desperate, but careful. Gentle.

A handshake, yes—but not formal.

It felt like something sacred.

Like a wound being touched for the first time and not flinching.

Like trust.

Then her lips tugged into the faintest smirk as she added, “But next time, I expect ice cubes.”

Bucky gave a quiet huff of a laugh, deep and rough in his chest, and without letting go of her hand, he met her gaze and said, serious and low, “There won’t be a next time. I won’t hurt you again. Not if I can help it.”

And her smirk faltered, melted—softened into something unguarded and warm. Something real.

She held his eyes a second longer, like she was memorizing the way he looked when he promised something with his whole chest and nothing to hide behind.

Then she pulled her hand back gently, the ghost of his touch still clinging to her skin, and leaned into her chair with a slow sigh that carried too much.

Her glass caught the light as she took another sip, something inside her loosening—just a bit. Just enough.

Outside the office, the compound had gone quiet for the night.

Only the low hum of life carried through the halls—voices behind closed doors, footsteps, laughter too distant to reach them.

Everyone else had already folded into comfort and routine.

But in this small pocket off the main hall, in the quiet breath of the tech wing, something else had taken root.

Something raw. Unspoken.

Understanding.

And maybe, the first thread of something that could hold.

It didn’t happen all at once.

But slowly—over shared tech fixes and clinking glasses of whiskey—with the whiskey stones she bought him a week after their little peace talk (“so you don’t have to carry ice around like a caveman,” she’d teased with a grin that caught him off guard and made him stare a beat too long before looking away.)—something shifted.

One afternoon, she helped him pair a Bluetooth speaker. He could’ve figured it out eventually, maybe, but he didn’t try that hard. Not when it meant sitting next to her on the small couch of her office, her leg brushing his every time she leaned forward, her breath close enough to fan over the side of his neck. The speaker crackled to life with one of his playlists—some old blues mixed with newer instrumentals—and she smiled like she hadn’t expected his taste to be so… gentle.

He didn’t say it, but that moment stuck with him. Her presence curling into the corners of his space, not intruding—just being. Like it had always belonged there.

She helped him figure out an app on his phone once too. Something dumb Tony had insisted everyone use to sync schedules across the team. They’d sat side by side on the couch in the common room—half solving the tech issue, half just… talking. Laughing.

And somewhere in the middle of her showing him how to swipe notifications without accidentally opening seventeen windows, she’d leaned into him. Just a little. Unthinking.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. He just… let her.

And it felt nice.

Safe.

Like falling into something warm and steady, that smelled faintly of aftershave and motor oil. A kind of safety that didn’t come from walls or weapons, but from someone.

There was no big declaration. No flashy move. Just a moment—quiet and utterly unspectacular—when he looked at her across her desk one day and asked softly, “You wanna have dinner with me sometime?”

She blinked, unsure she’d heard him right. “Like… dinner dinner?”

He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled beneath the stillness of the room. “Yeah. But not restaurant dinner. Something real. Just you, me, and good food. You don’t have to dress up unless you want to.”

“Do it for yourself,” he said, and his voice had dipped—playful, but still sincere. “Not for me. Though—”his smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, eyes a little darker now, “I’d probably stare either way.”

And now, here she was.

Standing in front of a house he’d texted her the address to, her hands light against the hem of her simple black dress. Something soft. Something that made her feel good. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t a mask. Just her. A version of herself she was still learning to like.

She’d fixed her hair loose around her shoulders, makeup just enough to bring out her features—but nothing too precise. She’d adjusted the neckline three times in the reflection of her car window, cursed her reflection once, and still nearly turned back twice.

But she didn't.

The house wasn’t massive. Wasn’t even particularly Bucky, not at first glance. But there was something lived-in about it. Quiet. Cozy. Like maybe it had belonged to someone kind, once, and he’d borrowed it for the night because he didn’t want dinner to feel like a mission.

Still, her instincts hadn’t shut off entirely.

She’d texted her best friend the address with a joking "If I go missing, tell the Avengers Bucky Barnes killed me. JK. (Probably.)"—just in case. Old habits died hard. Trust didn’t come easy.

Now, she stood at the doorstep, breath catching somewhere between her ribs. She reached up and rang the bell.

The chime echoed inside—too loud, too final. Her heart did a strange little jump, not from fear but from something messier. Like her body was trying to brace itself against how much she might want this. Him.

She smoothed her dress again, hand brushing across her stomach. The nerves were stupid—unfounded. She knew she didn’t have to be nervous with him. He wasn’t the type to judge, not about things that mattered. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He made her want to melt. And she didn’t know how to armor herself against that.

Didn’t know how to be held without flinching.

Not yet. But maybe… tonight.

The door opened with a soft click.

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes, in clothes that straddled the line between effort and ease. Dark slacks. Button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, top buttons open like he couldn’t pretend to be someone else even if he tried. His hair was pulled back, low and neat—but a strand had escaped and brushed his cheek, softening the hard line of his jaw.

He was smiling—until he saw her.

Then he just… stopped, like he hadn’t seen her in years.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to look away.

His expression stilled—unguarded, open—like someone had unplugged his brain. No words. No movement. Just breathless, caught, like she’d just knocked the wind out of him and he didn’t quite remember how to exhale yet.

His gaze moved slowly, almost reverently—from her shoes, up her legs, the curve of her dress, to the exposed line of her collarbone. It paused, just briefly, around her mouth—then snapped up to meet her eyes, like he was afraid he’d lingered too long.

“You’re…” He blinked, shook his head just enough to break the spell. “Stunning.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was a flimsy shield at best. Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, one she didn’t try to hide as heat rose in her cheeks. She stepped past him, lightly brushing his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, smooth talker,” she muttered, but there was no edge in it. Only breathless warmth.

He laughed low in his throat and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. “Just being honest,” he murmured, and something in the way he said it made her feel like maybe he wasn’t just talking about her dress.

Then the scent hit her.

Warm. Inviting. Delicious.

Garlic. Herbs. Something roasted and slow-cooked with care.

It was the kind of smell that clung to the edges of a home—not just a kitchen. The kind that made your shoulders relax without you realizing. Made you forget everything else for a second.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the steps. “Dinner’s upstairs.”

She followed, heels tapping softly on the worn wood, one hand brushing the railing as if grounding herself.

“Just so you know,” she said as they reached the second floor, “I gave the address to a friend. In case you planned to, you know… murder me or something.”

He glanced back at her, amused, and she caught a flicker of something warmer behind it. Not offended—not even really teasing—just… touched. Like he understood exactly why she’d done it, and didn’t blame her.

“Smart move,” he said.

There was a beat of silence. Then that little crooked smirk crept in.

“But I’d have to find someone else to fix my tech if I did. You’re too useful to kill.”

She snorted. “Wow, what a romantic sentiment.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” he tossed over his shoulder, and pushed open the rooftop door.

And it was her turn to stop.

The air shifted—cooler, crisper. It curled around her like a soft breath, brushing past the nerves she hadn’t been able to shake and carrying them off like petals in the wind.

The rooftop was surrounded by half-walls, high enough to offer a sense of privacy but low enough to let glimpses of the city sneak through. But she barely noticed any of that.

Because this… this was all she could see.

Strings of warm LEDs hung overhead, like stars caught in a gentle net. They dipped and arced, soft light pooling like smooth gold over a small table for two. Candles flickered along the low ledge—some in jars, others floating in glasses—casting delicate shadows that swayed with the wind.

The table was already set. A bottle of wine waited.

Two plates. Two chairs.

And from the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker played low, calming music—instrumental, familiar, something soothing that settled into her chest like a lullaby.

She blinked, recognition dawning.

“Wait,” she said, glancing at the speaker. “Is that the one I helped you pair?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish now, the confident version of him slipping just slightly. “Yeah. Thought it’d be better than whatever playlist Stark tries to blast every time someone mentions the word ‘date’.”

She looked around again, her eyes wide—overwhelmed in the way that made your throat ache a little. Like something inside her wanted to reach out and hold the moment still.

“Bucky, this is…”

He scratched his jaw, his nerves suddenly so visible she wanted to cup his face and tell him he didn’t need to try so hard.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s… perfect.”

He smiled, and it was small, unsure—but real. One of those smiles that didn’t quite reach the surface until someone else pulled it out.

“Good. I wanted it to feel right. For you.”

And it did.

Not like some grand, glossy gesture meant to impress.

But like something carved gently out of quiet intention. Thoughtfulness. A space made with his hands—not just for her, but because of her. She hadn’t expected that, but it fit him so well now that she knew what lived under all that armor.

It felt like someone seeing you for who you were and saying, stay anyway.

He pulled out her chair, a little awkwardly, but with both hands—one gloved, one not. That contrast always made her heart stutter a little.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Her fingers brushed his ungloved hand as she sat—warm against warm, skin against skin—and the touch lingered longer than it should’ve.

She met his gaze, something soft and searching behind her eyes, as if she were still trying to convince herself that this wasn’t some dream she’d wake from.

That maybe, this time, she didn’t have to keep running.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Let’s.”

Dinner was amazing.

Not the kind of amazing that called for flashy praise or dramatic sighs—no. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of amazing that lived in the silence between bites, in the small hums of contentment shared without needing words. In the way her eyes kept drifting to him, like she couldn’t quite believe Bucky Barnes had made all this happen. Like something in her chest kept stuttering every time she remembered this was real.

At one point, she teased him—something about bragging over dancing and never following through—and without even thinking, he’d taken her hand. The soft music still whispered from the speaker, and they ended up swaying together, barely more than a slow lean into each other, like gravity had softened just for them. No steps, no rhythm—just the warmth of his chest against hers and the weight of her head resting lightly near his collarbone, like maybe this was the only place in the world where she felt truly still.

Eventually, the dance melted into something quieter.

They’d ended up on the bench near the rooftop’s edge, tucked beneath a soft throw blanket that smelled faintly of fresh laundry. She was curled against him now, shoulder pressed to his side, head leaning on the solid comfort of his arm. He was so warm. So steady. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything—just let her be. And somehow, that silence between them felt more intimate than any kiss.

Each of them held a glass of whiskey, the stones clinking gently when she lifted hers.

He caught the sound and gave her a small, crooked smile. “I still can’t believe you got me whiskey stones,” he said, voice low and rough-edged with amusement.

She tilted her head, giving him a smirk. “Told you I expected ice cubes next time. Had to make sure you’d be ready.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool night. They both took a sip, the amber liquid a soft burn in their throats, grounding them in the now.

A pause settled in—stretching long and quiet beneath the faint twinkle of stars. The city murmured far below, all its noise dimmed by the distance, like they were tucked inside a separate world entirely. A delicate pocket out of time, untouched and safe.

She shifted just slightly, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath her lashes. Her voice came quiet, fragile in its sincerity.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “It was perfect.”

He glanced down, and for a second his smile looked almost bashful, like the compliment hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

“Had help,” he admitted. “Natasha gave me pointers. And I, uh… I watched so many romcoms.”

She laughed into her glass, the sound breathy and light. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. If I see one more Christmas-themed love story with a baking competition in a small town, I swear I’ll lose it.” He grimaced in exaggerated pain. “I think I got diabetes just from the dialogue.”

She giggled, nudging his side with her shoulder. “Worth risking your life for me, huh?”

He didn’t answer with a joke this time. Instead, his smile softened. Quieted.

“Yeah,” he said, without a flicker of doubt. “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart—”

And then he froze. The word still hanging in the air like the tail end of a wish he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. His eyes snapped to hers mid-sentence, wide and uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

“Shit. Uh—sorry, is that okay? I didn’t mean—‘sweetheart,’ I mean. Not like… you know... ‘doll’ or anything.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden stammer, then gave him a look—half amused, half touched. One brow arched just enough to tease, lips tugged into a soft smile.

“Sweetheart’s fine,” she murmured, her voice dipped in warmth. “Actually… I kinda like it.”

And Bucky—God, the relief that washed over him was palpable. His shoulders eased just slightly, like he’d been bracing for rejection and found only kindness waiting.

“Good,” he said, voice soft now. More reverent than relieved. Like it meant something more than she realized.

She turned back, resting her cheek against his shoulder again, and he leaned in, gently tilting his head to touch hers. The stars shimmered faintly above, distant and unbothered, and the whiskey sat cool and heavy in their hands.

She exhaled, slow and deep—only now realizing how long she’d been holding her breath.

“About the ‘doll’ thing…” she said, voice barely louder than the breeze brushing their faces.

He didn’t hesitate. Just turned slightly, watching her with that careful, open steadiness he gave her when she needed space to fall apart.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Not if it’s hard.”

“I do,” she said. There was no waver in it. Just quiet determination. “If we’re gonna go further, you have to understand.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded—slow, steady. And then his flesh hand came to rest on her shoulder. The brush of his thumb was gentle, grounding. Not pushing. Just a tether. A silent I’ve got you. A promise she could feel echo in the bones of her chest.

He knew this was going to hurt. And he was ready to hold space for every word of it.

She stared out at the night for a long moment, then looked down at the amber liquid in her glass before exhaling slowly.

“I’ve never talked about it before,” she admitted quietly. “Not to anyone.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening.

The city pulsed far beneath them, distant and quiet. She didn’t look at him when she began, eyes fixed somewhere past the stars—like the past had curled its fingers around her throat, and she had to look away just to breathe.

“Twenty years ago, I was with someone. We were young, in love. Thought we had all the time in the world. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, in that messy, sweet, figuring-it-out kind of way. We had plans, dreams… For almost five years, it felt like one of those movies you probably tortured yourself with to plan this date.”

He smiled faintly but didn’t interrupt. His presence wrapped around her like quiet armor.

“And then it all just… stopped.”

Her voice caught—just for a second. Just long enough to fracture the air between them.

“There was a car accident. He didn’t make it. I did.”

Bucky's thumb stilled for half a beat, then resumed that slow, soothing motion. Like he was reminding her she was still here. Still breathing. Still held.

“And I had to relearn everything after that. How to be alone. How to breathe when my entire world had been gutted.” She shook her head, lips pressing together like they were holding back a scream. “I was broken. Physically, emotionally. For a while, it felt like I’d died too, just… kept walking.”

The kind of pain that rewrites your bones—that was what clung to her voice. Her eyes. The slump of her shoulders.

A long breath left her lungs, like it had been stored there for years. She swallowed hard, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to say.

“Then, someone stepped in. A mutual friend. We grieved together. He helped me relearn how to laugh. And eventually, I needed to feel something. Alive. Touched. Human. So after six months, we started… sleeping together.”

Her voice was soft, steady now, like she was reciting a memory she’d rehearsed a thousand times in her head. But every word still carried weight, dragging behind it invisible chains.

“It was supposed to be casual. No strings. I just needed to feel alive again. I had just lost the man I thought was the love of my life. I wasn’t ready for anything else. Didn’t know if I ever would be, even. And I thought he got that.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. The stones inside barely moved, held fast despite the tremble in her grip.

“But he didn’t. He’d been in love with me for years—long before the accident. And I didn’t know he saw that moment as his opening.”

She let that settle between them like ash from a long-dead fire.

“He started telling me he loved me. Every time. Over and over. And I didn’t answer, not at first. But after a while… I felt guilty. I was confused. And tired of hurting. So one day, I told him I loved him too.”

She shifted slightly—not to move away, just to ease the tightness in her chest, like the weight of what she carried had started pressing too hard against her ribs.

“It wasn’t a complete lie. I did love him, in a way. Like a friend. Like someone who helped me through hell. And I thought… maybe that could be enough.”

She stared up at the stars now, her voice flat but fragile. Every word like ice pressed to skin.

“Problem was, my parents were moving to another country. I had been staying with them during my recovery, and now I needed to choose. Either go with them to a place where I barely knew the language, or find a place to stay…”

She closed her eyes for a moment, lashes trembling.

“So I moved in with him.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Colder.

“And that’s when the nightmare began.”

Bucky said nothing. His hand hadn’t left her shoulder. But he was coiled beneath it all—tight and still, the kind of stillness that came before a storm. She could feel him tense, holding back—every instinct in him probably screaming to ask what happened, to hunt someone down, to protect her retroactively—but he just waited. Gave her space. Gave her control.

She took another sip of her whiskey, needing the burn this time. Then she looked down at the stones inside and clenched her teeth.

“He got possessive. Intense. I was still grieving. Still tired. But he didn’t care. He always wanted more. And I just… let it happen. Sometimes he’d coax me into things. Other times, I just… lay there. Looking at the ceiling. Making grocery lists in my head while I waited for it to be over.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, just barely—but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move. Just let her talk.

Just let her finally let it out.

“It lasted almost five years,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know how to leave. I had no energy. No will to start again. And society doesn’t exactly hand you a roadmap. I was almost thirty. Everyone else was getting married, having kids. And I thought… maybe this was it. Maybe this was what I was supposed to settle for.”

Her voice broke just slightly, then steadied—like a dam with a thin crack, barely holding back the flood.

“I worked. He didn’t. He drove me to the office and picked me up every day. Always there. Always watching. And then his best friend got married. And I just knew he was going to propose. I could feel it.”

She took another sip of whiskey, like it could burn the memory away—but it didn’t. Nothing ever did.

“I couldn’t breathe at the thought of being trapped like that forever. So I packed what I could carry and left. Moved in with a friend until I could stand on my own again.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Absolute.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes shimmered with tears, with the weight of what she’d shared. They weren’t dramatic tears—they were quiet, the kind that slip down your face when you’ve forgotten how not to hold things in.

“So yeah. That word? It takes me back there. To that grim apartment. Lying on my back. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering if this was all life had left for me.”

She let out a breath—shaky but freeing, like she was finally letting the ghosts out with it.

“I’m not there anymore. But it lingers. Like the bitter taste of ash.”

She let the silence drag for a few seconds, then added, quieter than before—like the words might shatter if she said them too loud:

“And it changed how I saw men.”

He still didn’t move. Still let her talk, knowing it wasn’t over. He didn’t dare rush something that had taken her years to hold together.

“Because before things turned bad, he was sweet. Funny. A good friend. The kind of guy you trust without even thinking about it.”

She exhaled a short sigh through her nose—the kind that sounds like regret. Like someone blaming themselves for not seeing the wolf hiding beneath a familiar smile.

“So now… when someone approaches me, I can’t help it. I overanalyze everything. Every word, every look, every shift in tone. Waiting for something to crack.”

She gave a weak smile—not quite bitter, not quite sad. More like it had just worn out.

“I didn’t do that with you. Not at first. Not until you called me... that. Then I froze... lashed out... to hurt you in return as a defense mechanism. Because it hit a place I thought I’d buried.”

A pause. Then, softly—too softly:

“But I know you’re not him. Or at least… I hope to whatever higher power you’re not.”

That last sentence hung in the air like mist—fragile and trembling. The kind of hope that comes from someone who’s been used too many times to ever trust their own instincts again.

Bucky looked down, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately. Just stared ahead into the night, whiskey untouched now, caught in the weight of everything she’d just given him—everything she'd carried alone for far too long.

And beneath it all, something dark and hot simmered in his chest. A fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It curled in his gut like fire licking at the edges of his restraint. Every word she’d spoken echoed like a wound reopening inside him—but he kept it there, buried. Contained. Because this wasn’t about him. Not now.

He could scream later. Break something later. She didn’t need rage. She needed someone steady. Someone who would hold her pain without adding to it.

So it took a long moment before he shifted, jaw still clenched, eyes burning with emotion as he set his glass down on the small wooden table in front of them.

Then slowly—carefully—he turned toward her.

His vibranium hand came up, gentle in a way that seemed impossible for something made out of such a hard material, and tilted her chin until their eyes met.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Roughened by emotion. Almost breaking.

“You’re safe with me. If you want me.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“I’m not perfect,” he went on, quietly. “Not even close. I still wake up choking on my own nightmares, remembering things I did when I wasn’t even me. I still feel like I’m something broken. A weapon. A relic from a world that should’ve stayed buried.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, soft as a feather—like he was afraid she might vanish if he touched her too hard.

“I don’t feel like I deserve ninety-nine percent of what’s come my way. Including you.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it wasn’t meant for the world to hear.

“But I’d do anything for you. No strings. No expectations. Just whatever you need.”

A long breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers. Like he was anchoring her to this moment, offering her all the steadiness she never got before.

“I wish I could erase all those years. The ones that made you feel like that word could strip you bare. I’ve seen hell too. Lived it. Carried it in my bones.”

A self-deprecating laugh—low and worn, like it had been dragged through the dirt.

“Still do, if I’m being entirely honest.”

His fingers curled slightly at her cheek, as if grounding himself in the present—because if he let go, even for a second, he wasn’t sure where his mind might spiral.

“But you, you made it through your own. You clawed your way out. You’re standing here. Breathing. Laughing. Trusting, even just a little.”

He gave the faintest shake of his head, in awe—but there was grief in his eyes too. For all the years neither of them could get back.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

His voice broke slightly at the edges—too full, too raw.

“And I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone more.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile—small, almost fragile. Not bright, not giddy. But real. The kind of smile that only comes after surviving something you never thought you’d crawl out of.

There were tears in her eyes, unshed but shimmering in the moonlight. And it wasn’t sadness, not really. It was something softer. Something quieter. A deep exhale after holding in too much for too long.

Because he hadn’t turned away.

He hadn’t doubted her, or minimized her, or changed how he looked at her.

He’d just been there, listening with his whole heart. And when he spoke—it had been like sunlight through broken glass. Gentle. Honest. Whole.

Her throat tightened, and she had to clear it softly to ease it. Even then, it didn’t help much. Her heart was pressing up against her ribs like it wanted to be seen for once.

She set her whiskey glass down beside his on the small table with a quiet thud, then reached out and rested her palm against his cheek. The cool metal of his arm near her skin steadied her somehow—but the warmth of his flesh cheek beneath her fingers made her chest ache in ways she didn’t have a name for.

Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, and her gaze stayed locked to his—steady despite the emotion shimmering behind it.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His breath hitched—just enough to tell her this meant as much to him as it did to her.

“With the nightmares. With the strings. With everything you are. The good. The bad. The sweet. The bitter.”

Her voice trembled just slightly, like it might break if she tried to hold back anymore.

“All of it.”

And then she leaned in, slowly, her eyes fluttering shut as her forehead brushed his. She felt him lean in too, breath warm against her skin, his own eyes closing as their lips met.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It wasn’t hurried, or rough, or hungry.

It was slow. Deep. A quiet promise shared in silence, sealed with warmth and trembling reverence.

He kissed her like she mattered.

And she kissed him like he was home.

They stayed like that for a long time—lips barely parted, foreheads resting together, breath mingling between them. Like two pieces of something shattered long ago, trying to remember how they once fit.

The world didn’t rush them. The rooftop felt like a quiet sanctuary far above the heartbeat of the city. Somewhere soft and safe, tucked away between constellations and the low, distant hum of life.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

His arm wrapped around her, pulling her gently into his side. Her head came to rest against his shoulder again, her fingers still loosely curled near his chest, like she was holding onto the moment with everything she had.

Their glasses sat forgotten on the small table beside them, amber liquid catching the faint glow of the rooftop lights—a quiet testament to the things they’d let go of tonight.

The stars shimmered above, uncaring and eternal.

Below, the city breathed—cars passed, lights behind windows turned on or off, music drifted faintly from a nearby building—but up here, time had slowed to a hush.

Just the two of them.

A woman who had learned to live again.

A man who never thought he could be wanted.

Two souls stitched back together by quiet strength and patient hands, sharing warmth beneath the endless sky.

From a distance, the rooftop looked like just one more light among millions, glowing gently in the dark.

But for them, it was their own safe little world.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tag “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for more stories 😁

She had chosen this. To be unseen, forgotten, just another part of the mansion’s routine. It was a self-imposed punishment, one she had committed to ever since the accident. She didn’t deserve to be seen. She didn’t deserve to be acknowledged. She was here to help, to keep things in order, and nothing more.

Because being seen meant bringing people closer. And bringing people closer meant risking them getting hurt.

She couldn’t allow that. Not after what had happened before. Not after she had learned how much damage she could cause, even without meaning to.

So she kept to her routine, hidden in the night, cleaning up after the others when no one was looking. It was easier this way, safer. No one noticed the small things she did—the freshly cleaned kitchen, the swept hallways, the empty trash bins in the morning. That’s how it had always been, and that’s how it should remain.

But lately, there was something different in the air. A feeling she couldn’t quite shake.

Sometimes, when she entered a room, she could sense it. A lingering presence, a faint trace of something left behind, like someone had been there just before her. The scent of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood would cling to the space, subtle but undeniable. She told herself it didn’t matter, that it was just one of the mansion’s residents passing through. Nothing more.

And yet, each time she caught that scent, her heart would beat just a little faster, her mind wandering to places it had no business going.

For a while, she tried to ignore it—the subtle shifts in the rooms she worked so hard to maintain. Things were never exactly how she should have find them. Books were suddenly back on their shelves, chairs neatly tucked in, and papers that had been strewn about were organized, as if someone else had stepped in, doing part of her job for her.

At first, she thought it was just her mind playing tricks on her. After all, the mansion was old, and people often wandered in and out without her noticing. But the more it happened, the more it bothered her. She would arrive to clean a room only to find things already in order. She still had work to do—there was dust to sweep, floors to mop, wood to wax—but it was clear that someone had been there before her.

It felt… wrong.

This was her task, her duty. No one was supposed to take that from her. The nights were hers, the work was hers, and the silence was what she needed. Each sweep of the broom, each wipe of the cloth was part of her self-imposed penance—a way to atone for what she had done, for the hurt she had caused. She worked at night, alone and unseen, because that was the way it had to be.

But now, someone was interfering. Not out of malice, she was sure, but because they didn’t know. They had no idea that she was the one doing this, no idea that these small tasks were her way of keeping the weight of guilt from crushing her completely.

And the scent…

That familiar scent lingered in the rooms where things had been rearranged: cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It clung to the air, subtle but unmistakable, as if the person responsible had only just left before she arrived. It annoyed her more than she wanted to admit.

She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much. Maybe it was because this was the only thing she had control over—her work, her routine, her self-punishment—and now it was slipping through her fingers. The idea that someone had unknowingly stepped into her world, cleaning up the messes she needed to fix, unsettled her in a way that made her chest tighten.

Whoever it was, they didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

But it left her feeling like a ghost, more invisible than ever, even in the one place she thought she had carved out for herself. The mansion’s halls remained unchanged, still filled with the distant hum of life that never quite reached her. And now, the only space she truly felt was hers was slowly being taken over by someone who didn’t even realize they were doing it.

And the worst part? There was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t tell them to leave it alone, because that would mean revealing herself, stepping into the light—and that was something she swore she would never do again.

The sky bled with the colors of dusk, deep oranges and purples melting into the horizon. It was the one indulgence she allowed herself—standing on the roof, watching the sun fade into darkness, her own personal ritual. Not for beauty, but for the weight of it. Sunsets reminded her of the things she’d lost, of promises she could never keep, and the pain she had sworn to carry. It was another way to remind herself of the wreckage she’d left behind, of a time that she had destroyed.

The light dimmed, shadows lengthening across the grounds below. From her perch, she could see the mansion in its entirety—the buildings, the gardens, the pathways winding through the estate. And there, on a worn bench under a large oak, sat a familiar figure. Logan. She froze, instinctively stepping back into the shadows, her heart thudding in her chest.

He wasn’t alone. Marie was beside him, speaking with quiet intensity, her hands moving with measured emphasis as she talked, her voice carrying faintly in the evening air. Logan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his head tilted slightly to the side as he listened. He wasn’t saying much, just nodding occasionally, offering a quiet word here and there. But his presence was steady, unshakable, like he was giving the young mutant all the time in the world.

From above, she watched, and despite herself, something twisted inside her. It was subtle, that ache, that yearning, but she couldn’t deny it. The way he listened to Marie, the way he was patient and calm—it was everything she had once craved and everything she had pushed away. Comfort, understanding, warmth. All the things she had decided she could never deserve again.

Her fingers tightened around the cold stone ledge, knuckles white. Logan was kind to Marie, gentle in a way she never allowed herself to imagine anyone could be with her. And it hit her harder than she wanted to admit—how much she longed for someone to listen to her, to be patient with her, to forgive her. But that wasn’t possible. She had made her choice, and it was for the best. No one could get close, not without risking everything.

And yet, as she watched him, that ache in her chest deepened. The way he sat with Marie, his quiet presence, the soft look in his eyes as he listened—it was a painful reminder of what she could never have. A connection. A moment of being seen, being understood.

But she had made her bed. She had chosen this exile, this self-inflicted punishment. She couldn’t allow herself to break that vow. She couldn’t risk getting close to someone like Logan. He was safe, and the safest thing for him was to stay far away from her.

Still, she couldn’t help but watch, even as it hurt.

She pulled herself back into the shadows, forcing her eyes away from the scene below. The night was creeping in now, swallowing the last traces of the sunset, and she let the darkness wrap around her, hiding her away once again. Hidden was where she belonged. In the shadows, unseen, forgotten.

And yet, as she turned to leave the roof, that image of Logan—calm, patient, listening—stayed with her, lingering in her mind like the last fading light of the sun.

The mansion had fallen into its usual stillness, the soft hum of distant voices fading as the night deepened. It had been days since she saw Logan from the roof, days spent trying to push away the lingering thoughts of how deeply he cared once he let someone in—how fiercely devoted he was to the few he allowed close. But something else gnawed at her now, more tangible than before, replacing Logan’s image in her mind. That scent—the one that clung to the rooms before she arrived, cigars, whiskey, pinewood—it had been creeping into her consciousness since the day she noticed it.

Now, as she swept through the kitchen, the familiar motions of her work provided little comfort. The rooms had been touched again before she got there. Chairs were neatly tucked in, desks mostly cleared, as if someone had been there moments before, always one step ahead. The frustration had dulled to a low, simmering ache—part of her routine now, like the weight of the broom in her hands.

She didn’t mind the work. It wasn’t about the labor. But whoever was doing this was robbing her of her punishment. Without it, what was left? The empty echoes of guilt, untethered, spinning out of control.

A creak in the floorboards jolted her from her thoughts, and instinct took over. She melted into the shadows by the pantry, her body pressed tightly against the wall. It was second nature by now, the art of disappearing into the background.

Footsteps. Slow and purposeful.

Then, he appeared.

Logan.

His broad frame filled the doorway as he paused, eyes scanning the darkened room. The scent hit her immediately—cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was unmistakable. And in that instant, everything clicked into place. Her breath caught in her throat as realization washed over her. It was him all along. The rooms, the careful touches before she got there—it had been him. Logan.

She pressed herself deeper into the shadows, heart pounding in her chest as Logan stood there, lingering just a few feet away. For a moment, he sniffed the air, his eyes roaming around the darkness, and she thought—no, hoped—he hadn’t noticed her. A brief smile flickered across his lips, so fast she could have imagined it. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, before he crossed the room toward the refrigerator.

Her pulse raced as he moved closer. The scent surrounded her now, stronger, more vivid. It was intoxicating, and for a moment, she found herself holding her breath just to keep from inhaling too deeply. It was him all along.

Logan opened the fridge, its light illuminating his face for a few seconds as he pulled out a soda and a wrapped sandwich. He worked in silence, his movements calm and measured, but there was an ease about him—an assurance in the way he occupied the space that made her chest tighten. She watched from the shadows, muscles tense, every part of her screaming to stay hidden, to not make a sound.

He unscrewed the bottle with a soft hiss, took a long drink, then leaned casually against the counter. As he took a bite of his late night feast, his eyes swept the room again, scanning the shadows, the corners, but not lingering anywhere in particular. He didn’t see her. Or if he did, he wasn’t giving anything away.

The longer he stayed, the heavier the air felt. She shouldn’t be here. Not that close. It was too dangerous. Even as she was part of the shadows, there was a risk of him finding her out. But still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear herself away from the way he moved through the space, the way he seemed so… comfortable.

Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, finishing off the last of his midnight snack. His fingers brushed the counter as he carefully swept away the crumbs, his attention never wavering as he moved in that quiet, efficient way of his. He tossed the sandwich wrapper into the trash with a quick flick, the glass bottle clinking softly as he placed it in the recycling bin. Everything was neat, orderly. Done without a second thought.

She could barely breathe.

Then, just as he was about to leave, Logan paused at the doorway again, his head turning toward something behind him. She could see his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows. He lingered there, one hand on the frame, his eyes closing for a brief moment as if he was listening to something only he could hear.

She held her breath once more, her heart hammering in her chest, knowing he was only a few steps away. His scent hit her again, wrapping around her like the shadows she hid in. The same scent she’d noticed in those tidy rooms. Reminding her it had been him. It had always been him.

For the briefest of moments, another small, barely-there smile tugged at his lips. Or had it? It was so fleeting that she couldn’t be sure if she’d imagined it once more.

Then he opened his eyes, turned away, and continued on, his bare feet thudding softly against the wooden floor as he made his way toward the stairs leading up to his room. She didn’t move until the sound of his footsteps faded completely.

It was only when she was certain he was gone that she finally let out the breath she’d been holding, her chest heaving as if she’d been underwater. She stepped out of the shadows, her legs shaky, her mind spinning with the weight of the realization.

Logan.

He had been the one. All this time.

But why?

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he had stood, her heart still racing. The thought of him doing something for her was unthinkable. No. Of course not. It wasn’t for her. How could he have known? No one knew.

He doesn’t know. She told herself that over and over. But the scent of him lingered in the air, a reminder she couldn’t shake.

The next night, her routine began as it always did, but the night felt heavier than usual. The mansion was quiet, a silence hanging in the air that pressed down on her chest. She moved through the kitchen like clockwork, her hands performing the familiar tasks, but her mind was elsewhere, consumed by what she had realized the night before.

His scent lingered again—Logan's scent. Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It filled the room, clinging to the air, wrapping around her with every step she took.

It had been him all along. He had been the one tidying up before she arrived, sweeping through the spaces like a ghost. Every night, just a step ahead, leaving his mark in ways that were impossible to ignore now that she knew.

Why? Why was Logan doing this?

Did he know?

Had he seen her?

No. He couldn’t have.

Could he?

The questions came faster, tangled and chaotic, driving into her mind like needles. A sudden frustration flared in her chest, hot and sharp. She grabbed the rag, scrubbing the counter harder, harder still, as if she could erase the thought of him entirely.

And why did it have to be him?

Why did she care so much?

Her hand slipped, skin scraping painfully along the edge of the counter. The sting hit immediately, sharp and raw, but instead of pulling back, she pressed harder, letting the pain anchor her, letting it bring her the twisted sense of relief she craved.

It’s okay…

The voice came softly, like a breath against her ear, but it wasn’t hers.

It was his.

Logan’s.

It’s okay, his voice whispered again, calm, soothing. You’ve done enough. You’re allowed to let go. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding as the words sank in, seeping into the cracks she’d tried so hard to keep sealed.

No.

She shook her head, gripping the rag tighter, the rough fabric biting into her palm. But Logan’s voice was relentless, slipping past her defenses.

You deserve a break, his voice whispered. You’ve been carrying this weight for too long. It’s okay to rest.

Her chest tightened, a sharp ache spreading through her ribs. His voice was so gentle, so real. It felt like he was standing right behind her, his presence wrapping around her like the scent that clung to the air.

She wanted to push it away, wanted to reject it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop listening.

You did good. You’ve done enough.

No.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, her throat tightening as the words wound their way deeper into her, pulling at something fragile and broken. His voice felt like salvation, offering her something she hadn’t dared think about for so long.

You don’t have to feel the guilt anymore. You’re allowed to let go.

The rag slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud as she braced herself against the counter, her legs trembling. She could almost feel it—the relief, the release, the burden lifting from her shoulders, just for a moment.

It was intoxicating.

You did good.

No, no, no.

A sob caught in her throat, her body shaking as the truth of those words crashed into her. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to sink into that comfort, to let the guilt and the shame slip away, even for just a second.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t deserve it.

The ache in her chest deepened, a twisting, suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe. Logan’s voice was still there, whispering, coaxing, telling her that it was okay, that she was allowed to take a break, that she deserved it.

But if she let herself believe that—if she allowed herself even a moment of relief—then what was the point of all of this? What was the point of the guilt, the endless cycle of penance, the constant weight pressing down on her soul?

She needed it. The guilt. The shame. Without it, she’d be nothing. She’d be… free.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not again. Not after what she’d done.

Logan’s voice grew softer, still there, still pulling at her, but she forced herself to breathe, forced herself to remember.

This was her punishment.

Her penance.

And she couldn’t let herself forget.

I can’t… The words came out broken, barely a whisper, as her hands trembled against the counter.

She pressed her forehead to the cool surface, eyes shut tight as the tears slipped free. The guilt burned through her chest, hot and unforgiving, reminding her that she couldn’t let go, not yet. Not ever.

The weight settled back over her like a familiar shroud, heavy but grounding. She’d won. For now.

But then… something moved.

Just at the edge of her vision, a shadow flickered in the corner of the room. She froze, breath catching in her throat, her body tensing as a cold wave of fear rolled over her.

Had he…?

No.

It was nothing. Just her mind playing tricks on her.

She forced herself to move, forcing the fear away, but the lingering presence of Logan’s scent wrapped around her still, thick and inescapable.

She wasn’t sure if the shadow was real or not, but it didn’t matter. The feeling of being watched, of someone being closer than she realized, stayed with her.

Logan wasn’t here.

She was alone.

But the echo of his voice, the scent of him in the air, remained. Like a ghost, haunting her with the thought of what she could have—if only she were allowed.

But she wasn’t.

And she couldn’t let herself forget that.

The past few nights had been easier. Logan was gone. His scent—the intoxicating mix of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood—had faded from the mansion’s halls, leaving the air feeling lighter. Without him there to tidy the rooms before her, her work became just that: work. Routine. Nothing more. There was no distraction, no lingering thoughts of him creeping into her mind.

Tonight, she cleaned with precision, moving through the infirmary quickly. The sterile smell of antiseptics and medical supplies filled her nose as she wiped down the counters, scrubbed the floors, and organized the equipment. It was just like before—simple, methodical. A rare, fragile sense of peace had settled over her. But even as she worked, a small knot of unease twisted in her chest, as if the quiet wouldn’t last.

Then, from the hallway, the voices came.

She froze, her ears straining toward the sound that reverberated through the walls. The X-Men had returned.

Laughter and groans echoed from the nearby changing rooms, the sounds of victory and exhaustion blending together. She should have kept moving, stayed hidden in the shadows like always, but something held her there.

A mess.

Scott had made a mess. His uniform and gear were scattered across the benches in the changing room, and she heard Logan’s voice, sharp and full of irritation, rise above the others.

The words bounced off the metallic walls, vibrating with an intensity that stopped her cold. "Summers, what the hell is this?" Logan’s voice was rough, echoing through the narrow basement halls, carrying with it that familiar, grounding weight. "You think things clean themselves around here?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She took a step back, pressing herself against the cold, unforgiving wall, the chill seeping into her skin.

"She’s not your damn maid," Logan’s voice thundered again. "Just because you don’t see her doesn’t mean she’s not here. She cleans this place every night. You owe her some goddamn respect."

She felt her breath hitch, every muscle in her body locking in place as the weight of his words crashed over her.

He knows.

Logan knew. He knew about the work she did, about the hours she spent cleaning in silence. And he’d kept the rooms tidy… for her.

Before she could even think to move, she heard Logan again. This time, it wasn’t just his voice. His footsteps echoed through the locker room, and suddenly, as if drawn by some invisible force, he paused.

His nostrils flared.

His head tilted ever so slightly.

And then he turned, sharp and precise, his eyes locking onto hers in an instant.

Her heart skipped a beat. No. No. He couldn’t see her.

But he did.

Time slowed. The world fell away as her eyes met his, and a deep flush spread across her cheeks, hot and overwhelming. The shame, the embarrassment—it hit her all at once, suffocating.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. But she had to get out.

Without a word, she melted into the shadows, pulling herself into the safety of darkness. She moved fast, her heart pounding in her ears as she navigated the winding hallways, desperate to escape before Logan could say anything, before he could confront her.

But Logan was on her heels.

She could hear him. His footsteps, light but deliberate, echoed through the halls. He was following her, and panic flared in her chest. She pushed herself harder, faster, willing herself to disappear, to melt into the night and escape the weight of his gaze.

She slipped through the mansion, her breath coming in ragged gasps, until she reached her room. Her hands trembled as she threw open the door, closed it, and sank to the floor, her back pressed against the wood and her knees pulled tight to her chest.

But it was too late.

Logan was there. Right behind her. His scent, that mix of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood, filled the air again, just as it had the last time. She could feel him on the other side of the door, close enough that his presence was unmistakable, even without seeing him.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Logan spoke, his voice gruff but softer now, still carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She pressed her palms against the floor, the cold seeping into her skin, steadying her. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak. The words stuck in her throat, too tangled in confusion and embarrassment.

Logan sighed, and she heard the faintest sound of him shifting his weight outside the door. “You do too much around here. I see you. Even if no one else does.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them, cutting through the silence like a blade. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to feel the ache his words stirred in her. It was too much. Too raw.

“I’m not doing this for attention,” she finally whispered, barely audible through the door. “I don’t want to be seen.”

Logan’s voice rumbled softly in response, steady, unyielding. “You don’t have to hide. Not from me.”

She shook her head, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I don’t… I don’t deserve to be seen.”

There was a long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, Logan’s voice came again, quieter this time. “That’s not true. You deserve better than this. Better than hiding.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she fought them away, pressing her palms harder against the floor as if the cool surface could ground her, keep her from falling apart. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

The images flashed before her eyes—her sister, the accident, the blood. The guilt that wrapped itself around her like a vice, choking out any hope of escape. She swallowed hard, her voice breaking as she whispered, “I deserve this.”

Logan’s scent enveloped her, not just grounding, but wrapping around her like a hug she didn’t ask for—a soothing presence that was both familiar and unnerving. It was too comforting, too gentle, and it made her chest tighten. She didn’t want comfort. She wasn’t worthy of it.

But his scent lingered, warm and persistent, easing the tension in her muscles despite herself.

His voice, deep and unrelenting, was right there, like a presence that could cut through the fog of her thoughts. “No one deserves to be forgotten. Least of all you.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks despite her best efforts to stop them. “You don’t understand.”

Logan’s voice softened, and she could hear the faintest trace of vulnerability in it. “I understand more than you think. You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Her heart clenched at his words, the raw sincerity in them cutting deeper than she expected. She clenched her fists, her body trembling as she struggled to hold back the overwhelming tide of emotions. “Please… I don’t want to talk about this.”

Logan didn’t press. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, in a voice so gentle it nearly broke her, he said, “I’ll be here. If you ever want to step out into the light. If you ever need someone to see you.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical force.

He lingered there for a few seconds more, his presence unmistakable through the door, before she heard him sigh. “Take your time,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll be around. I ain’t going anywhere.”

And then, slowly, reluctantly, she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. The scent of him lingered, but the weight of his presence began to lift.

Only when his footsteps faded completely did she let herself crumble.

The nights after her conversation with Logan became a quiet whirlwind of emotions. His words, his acknowledgment—they weighed on her like a heavy blanket, both comforting and suffocating at once. She carried on with her routine, moving through the mansion as she always did, but Logan’s presence was everywhere. Even when she didn’t see him, his scent lingered in the air, a constant reminder that he was aware of her now. That he saw her.

It was wrong. It had to be wrong.

She didn’t deserve that.

But even as she told herself this, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle shifts. One night, while cleaning a classroom, something caught her eye. By the corner of one of the desks, a water bottle sat—unassuming, placed as if it had been forgotten. But it hadn’t.

As she approached, her heart sped up. Logan’s scent clung to the bottle like a ghost, wrapping around her, warm and steady. It felt like a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of support. She picked it up, fingers brushing over the smooth surface, and that’s when she noticed the paper wrapped around it. Right under the brand name, there was a small, hastily scribbled note.

Thank you.

Her breath hitched. She stared at the words, unable to process them for a moment.

The warmth from Logan’s presence swirled around her, settling deep in her chest. She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t feel seen, shouldn’t feel appreciated. The work she did was supposed to be penance, not something to be rewarded.

And yet, she held onto the bottle.

A part of her—small but undeniable—welcomed the warmth. She liked it. And that realization sent a jolt of guilt through her, twisting her stomach into knots. It was as if something in the back of her mind, something dark and cold, stirred at her discomfort. That feeling of shame began to grow, like a seed planted in her chest.

No. She didn’t deserve this. She never did.

The next night, there was another token. This time, it was a small cup of tea left on the window ledge of another room she was cleaning. The scent hit her immediately—strong and unmistakable. Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. The warmth of the tea soaked into her fingers as she picked up the cup, the steam swirling up in the cold night air. For a moment, it felt like he was there, his presence wrapping around her again, silent and steady.

It’s okay to feel seen, the thought whispered in her head, the voice unmistakably Logan’s.

Her heart clenched painfully. It wasn’t okay. How could it be okay? She wasn’t supposed to enjoy this. The tea, the note, the water bottle—these were signs of appreciation. Acknowledgment. But her job wasn’t to be acknowledged. She was supposed to stay hidden, to scrub away the mess, to atone in silence.

The warmth in her chest turned sour as guilt washed over her once again. Something in the back of her mind latched onto that feeling, feeding on it, amplifying the shame. She put the cup down quickly, her fingers trembling. The guilt was overwhelming now, making it hard to breathe.

She didn’t deserve this.

But that didn’t stop her from lingering. It didn’t stop her from savoring the warmth of his presence, even as the guilt gnawed at her insides. Every time she found another token—a small gesture, a simple acknowledgment—her emotions tangled in knots.

Each night, Logan’s scent filled the air again. It was like a hug she didn’t deserve but couldn’t help leaning into. She found herself craving it. And that terrified her.

The cycle continued: the appreciation, the warmth, the guilt, and the shame. Each night, she found herself more torn, more conflicted. The small voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her of the darkness she carried, the guilt that was hers to bear. She had to atone. She couldn’t let herself enjoy this. It wasn’t right.

And yet, she couldn’t stop.

Night after night, she found the small tokens of kindness left behind—Logan’s scent clinging to them like a whispered promise. A fresh bottle of water, another warm cup of tea left waiting on the counter, the steam curling faintly into the cold, empty air. Sometimes, a note would appear on the blackboard of a classroom, his handwriting rough, hurried, yet unmistakably his. And each time, as she stumbled upon these simple gestures, something inside her twisted and coiled, tightening until it was hard to breathe.

They should have been easy to brush aside, but they weren't. His presence lingered long after he was gone, like the faintest trace of warmth left in a room, and it gnawed at her. The intentions behind these small acts were too pure, too undeserved. The shame dug deeper into her bones with each passing day, a reminder of what she could never have. She couldn’t allow herself to want this—to want him.

She didn’t deserve him.

Then, one evening, something new appeared—a pebble. Small, smooth, still warm, like it had just been pulled from his pocket. It sat next to his offering, quiet and unassuming, yet it carried a weight she couldn’t explain. She picked it up, the warmth seeping into her palm, and for a brief moment, it was like he was standing beside her. But that warmth was a cruel trick. It only deepened the ache in her chest, the shame curdling in her gut.

A childhood memory flickered in her mind—stories of children leaving pebbles behind to find their way home. The realization hit her harder than she expected. You can find me if you want to. That was his message. The simplicity of it was devastating, and she hated how much it stirred something inside her.

The pebble should have been light—insignificant. But in her hand, it felt impossibly heavy, like it carried the weight of her guilt, her shame. Each night, another pebble appeared. Each one felt heavier than the last, though she knew they hadn’t changed. It wasn’t the pebbles. It was her. She didn’t leave them behind. She couldn’t. Instead, she placed them on her windowsill, stacking them carefully, night after night. She couldn’t get rid of them, couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. No matter how much she wanted to stay in the shadows, she couldn’t let go. Because deep down, some part of her wanted to give in.

Logan's persistence was a knife, cutting through the walls she’d built around herself. He was relentless, his kindness unwavering, and it only made the ache worse. She wanted to hide, to disappear into the shadows where she belonged, where she couldn’t hurt anyone else. It was the only way to protect him, to protect anyone. The shadows were where she was safe—safe to carry the weight of her guilt and shame, and safe to keep others from the danger she posed. She couldn’t be allowed to crawl out. But Logan refused to let her. His quiet, stubborn presence was a constant, pulling at her, even as she tried to bury herself in the darkness.

The flashes came more frequently now. The accident. The blood. The way everything had unraveled in an instant. The guilt of it had carved a hollow space inside her, one that she had filled with shadows and silence. She had hurt someone. She could never be forgiven for that. The weight of that truth was a burden she carried every day, every night. It was the punishment she had accepted, the one she deserved. But Logan—he kept pushing against it, against the darkness that had claimed her.

His scent lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what she couldn’t allow herself to feel. Cigars. Whiskey. Pinewood. It wrapped around her like a ghost, stirring something deep within that she fought to suppress. It was a comfort she wasn’t allowed, a warmth that only made the cold inside her more unbearable. If she gave in, even for a moment, she knew she’d never be able to crawl back into the shadows again.

But the shadows were where she belonged. They were the only place where she could keep the world safe from her. If she stepped into the light, if she let Logan pull her out, everything would unravel. She would unravel. And the thought of that—of being exposed, of letting him see the broken parts of her—was more terrifying than the darkness itself.

The guilt twisted inside her, sharper with each pebble left behind. His kindness was both a lifeline and a curse, pulling her closer to something she couldn’t have. She didn’t deserve him. And yet, every night, the pebbles appeared, a silent plea that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she tried.

The pile on the windowsill grew, and with it, the weight on her chest. Each pebble felt like another nail in the coffin of her guilt, a burden that would crush her if she let it. She was losing herself to it, slipping further into the shadows with every passing night. But Logan—he wouldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t leave her to drown in the darkness, no matter how much she wanted him to.

And every night, the pebble was waiting.

The next few nights were suffocating.

It began with whispers, barely perceptible, like a trick of the mind. She dismissed them at first, blaming the silence of the empty mansion and her own exhaustion. But the whispers grew. Low, fragmented voices—like conversations she couldn’t quite catch, always just beyond the edge of her hearing. She would pause, trying to make sense of the sound, but every time she focused, they vanished.

The darkness around her started to feel… different. Shadows moved more freely, quicker, darting in the corners of her vision, gone before she could even turn her head. But she could feel them—cold, heavy, like they were watching her.

Waiting.

And then there were the gaps.

She’d find herself somewhere without remembering how she got there. Her hand would be mid-swipe with a rag, scrubbing down a counter or a desk, and she’d suddenly realize she hadn’t been paying attention. Minutes lost, wiped from her memory like they were never hers to keep.

The disorientation gnawed at her, dragging her thoughts into a muddled fog. She tried to tie herself to reality, to keep herself focused. But even when she was fully aware, the mansion itself felt warped.

Too quiet. Too empty. Like it was swallowing her whole.

She pressed on. She had to. It was her burden to carry. But the more she pushed, the more everything blurred together.

She was slipping.

The shadows were always there now, lurking in the corners, stretching longer than they should, moving when she wasn’t looking. She’d snap her head to the side, expecting to see something—anything—but there was only darkness. It wrapped itself around her like a second skin, thick and suffocating.

And the whispers… they followed her everywhere.

Sometimes, it sounded like her own voice, crawling out from the pit of her mind. Other times, it was nothing more than fragments, taunts she couldn’t ignore.

You don’t deserve peace. You never did.

The shame, already festering deep inside her, began to bloom. What was she even doing? Why was she still fighting it? This was her punishment. This madness—this slow unraveling—it was exactly what she deserved.

She started moving faster through the mansion, each room blending into the next.

It didn’t matter. Nothing felt real. Nothing felt right. She was losing her grip...

And then, the scent hit her.

Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. Logan.

It swept over her like a wave, crashing into her, filling her senses. She inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of it settle around her, tethering her, wrapping her in an unspoken comfort. Her hand instinctively gripped the pebble resting in her pocket, the one she had found earlier that night. For a second, just a second, she felt… safe.

But then the guilt surged.

How could she want this? How could she allow herself to be soothed by it? She didn’t deserve this warmth, this fleeting comfort. The shame twisted in her gut, sharper than before. Logan’s scent wasn’t meant for her. She shouldn’t need it. She should be embracing the darkness, not fleeing from it.

Let go, the voices whispered again, louder this time, more insistent. This is it. The punishment you seek. Give in. Fall.

Her legs felt weak. The world tilted. Her vision blurred, shadows curling at the edges of her sight, threatening to consume everything. The mansion walls seemed to bend, the halls stretching into a distorted abyss.

She stumbled, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her pulse a frantic drum in her ears. The shadows flickered—too fast, too alive—swarming around her, closing in like hands, cold and clawing.

She tried to ground herself, reaching out for something, anything. But even the scent that had once offered comfort now felt like a noose tightening around her throat.

You don’t deserve him.

She heard the thought as if it were whispered directly into her ear. The shame and guilt crushed her, unbearable, choking. She couldn’t escape this. It was always going to end this way.

Her knees gave out.

The floor was hard beneath her, the waxed wood biting into her skin. Her body trembled, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The darkness, the whispers, they were all-consuming. Wrapping tighter, pulling her down, down into the abyss.

And then… her name.

It echoed through the haze, distant but firm. A voice she recognized, deep and rough, cutting through the fog like salvation. It was calling for her. But it sounded so far away, like it was reaching for her through the murky waters of her mind.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, her breath shallow.

Warmth. Strong arms wrapping around her. A brief, fleeting moment of safety before everything faded to black.

She woke with a start, heart still racing, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to her like a heavy fog. The mansion was quiet, the soft morning light filtering through the window. Everything was as it should be.

She was in her bed. In her room. She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples. The long nightmare had felt like it spanned weeks, so vivid and consuming. The shadows, the darkness, the guilt—it had felt real. Too real. But now, it was gone, and the world had returned to its normal rhythm.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood, stretching out the stiffness in her body. A faint scent hit her—cigars, whiskey, pinewood—Logan. She paused, frowning. That scent had been there in the dream too, wrapping around her like a safety net.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the nightmare’s grip. It didn’t matter now. She was awake. She was fine.

The mansion was already coming to life as she made her way downstairs. A few students passed her in the hallway, offering friendly nods or smiles. It was strange, but she couldn’t shake the odd sense of distance between her and them, like she was observing them through glass. She brushed the feeling off. It was just the lingering unease from the dream.

In the classroom, she went about her day as usual, teaching a class on mutant ethics, helping students navigate the complex moral dilemmas of their powers. As she spoke, they listened, engaged—but something was wrong. Their faces were… off. Not at first, but gradually, subtly. Their eyes seemed too bright, their expressions too static, like they were wearing masks. She blinked, trying to focus, but the feeling gnawed at her, eating away at her concentration.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was stuck. The minute hand hadn’t moved since she started class.

Clearing her throat, she forced a smile. “Has anyone noticed anything strange today?”

One of the students, a girl sitting in the front row, looked up. “No, Professor. Everything’s fine.”

But her voice—something was wrong with her voice. It was too flat, too empty. And the way she was staring… it wasn’t right.

She tried to shake it off, but as the minutes dragged on, the sense of wrongness grew. The students’ faces became more distorted, their features bending and warping, smudged around the edges until they were barely recognizable as human.

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

She left the classroom in a rush, heart pounding in her chest. Something was very wrong. She searched for someone—anyone—who could explain this. But the hallways were empty now, eerily so. The normal bustle of the mansion had vanished. The walls seemed to close in, shadows growing longer, darker, pressing against her from every side.

No, she told herself, trying to stay calm. You’re awake. This is real.

But the scent was back. That familiar, grounding scent of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood.

It was stronger now, like it was following her, wrapping around her. She inhaled deeply, trying to use it to steady herself. But instead of comforting her, the scent made her heart race. Why was it here?

She hurried down the hallway, her footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. Turning a corner, she found herself in the mansion’s kitchen. The air was thick, oppressive, but nothing was out of place. A cup of hot tea sat on the counter, steam still rising from it, and beside it rested a small, smooth pebble, warm to the touch.

She didn’t remember making tea.

Her eyes darted around the room, and that’s when she saw it—a photograph on the table. Her sister. The same photo she kept in her nighstand, now sitting in the middle of the kitchen like it belonged there.

She reached for it, but as her fingers brushed the frame, the world around her seemed to distort, warping at the edges. The walls of the kitchen twisted, the light flickering like it was struggling to stay on. The photograph melted away in her hand, turning to black liquid that dripped onto the floor, disappearing into the shadows.

Panic surged in her chest.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

She stumbled back, clutching the pebble, her pulse roaring in her ears. As she turned to flee, the whispers returned. Faint at first, almost imperceptible, but growing louder with every step. They echoed in the air around her, overlapping, a cacophony of voices.

You never left. You’re still there. Still trapped.

The mansion warped around her, the hallways stretching into impossible lengths. The walls bent and twisted like they were alive, closing in. The air thickened, suffocating, shadows pressing against her skin like cold, clammy hands.

“Stop it!” she shouted, clutching her head, trying to drown out the voices.

But there was one voice—one familiar voice—that cut through the madness, calling her name. Deep, rough, and steady. His voice.

She gasped, hands shaking. Logan.

His scent was overwhelming now, wrapping around her like an anchor: cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was suffocating, smothering, and yet… it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

That and the pebble.

The whispers grew louder, frantic, fighting to keep her there, to pull her deeper into the nightmare.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real!

His voice called her name again, breaking through the chaos, pulling her toward it. She followed it, clinging to the sound, pushing through the suffocating darkness.

Then everything cracked. The world shattered, and she felt herself falling, spinning, her mind reeling as the nightmare crumbled.

And then—she woke up.

Cold sweat drenched her skin, chest heaving as she gasped for breath, her fingers clenched tightly around the pebble. The room was dimly lit, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. She was in the infirmary.

Soft murmurs filled the room—voices she recognized. Charles, Jean, Hank. And then, his voice again. Rough, steady, pulling her back into reality.

She turned her head, vision still blurry, but she saw them there, standing over her. Logan’s scent was strongest of all, wrapping around her like an lifeline.

“Easy now, bub,” he said, voice low, steady. And in that moment, the weight of the dream lifted, if only slightly, as reality pulled her back into its embrace.

The infirmary was bathed in a faint, almost ethereal light, soft enough to avoid blinding her but bright enough to keep the shadows at bay. It felt wrong. The shadows had always been there, always a safe haven—except now, she knew better. Charles’ words hung in the air, heavier than any weight she’d ever carried.

“You can’t hide in the darkness anymore, my dear,” Charles said gently, his voice like a calm breeze trying to soothe a raging storm. “Not for now. Something is feeding off you from within it. That’s why the urge to stay hidden, to punish yourself, has been so strong lately.”

She swallowed hard, the air in her lungs suddenly thick. The guilt was still there, the shame gnawing at her edges, but this… this thing lurking in the shadows… it was deeper now, darker than anything she could name.

“I’m relieving you from your duties,” Charles continued, his eyes kind but unyielding. “Until we figure out how to destroy it, or at the very least, subdue it, you cannot risk feeding it more. That means no more using the shadows to hide.”

The words twisted in her chest. The shadows had been her refuge. It was where she felt least seen, least exposed. Now, they were forbidden.

“We’ll keep the light on,” Charles added, “just faint enough to give you peace, but bright enough to push back whatever lurks in the dark.”

She nodded, though something inside her recoiled at the thought of staying in the light. It felt wrong, foreign. Like the dark was a familiar, vicious circle, but at least it was hers. What did it mean to step outside of it? To be seen and not hidden?

Charles' voice softened. “Someone will be with you at all times. We can’t risk this happening again. It was difficult enough to break the hold it had over you. You need rest—physical, mental. But most of all, you need to stay in the light.”

She nodded again, not trusting her voice. The comfort of shadows had been a constant companion, and without them, she felt exposed. Raw. Like a nerve left out in the open air.

The others—Jean, Hank, and Charles—exchanged quiet words as they prepared to leave, their faces soft with concern. They didn’t linger too long, sensing that too much attention was already overwhelming. One by one, they slipped out, leaving only Logan behind.

He settled into a chair a few feet away, not too close but enough to stay within arm’s reach if necessary. His presence, though rough around the edges, was anchoring. He didn’t look directly at her, instead keeping her in his peripheral vision as though trying to offer her some privacy despite staying vigilant.

He exhaled deeply, the sound almost like a sigh, his body sinking into the chair with a quiet creak. “You scared the hell outta me, bub,” he muttered, his gruff voice tinged with something softer—something closer to worry. “One minute you’re there, the next…”

He trailed off, his fingers twitching slightly, as though wrestling with something he wouldn’t say. The silence stretched between them, and the guilt flared again. She hadn’t meant to scare him. She hadn’t meant to collapse. But the world had spun out of control, slipping from her grasp faster than she could hold onto it.

She didn’t respond at first, her voice caught in her throat. She made herself small, curling into the bed, trying not to be seen, even though it felt impossible now. The dim light flickered faintly, and every instinct screamed at her to run—to melt into the darkness like she always had. But she couldn’t.

“Y’know,” Logan started again, his voice low but steady, “this whole thing… It’s gonna take some time to get used to. But you’re not alone in it.”

She blinked, staring at the edge of the blanket, her free hand tracing the pattern to keep her focus while the other clutched tightly around her pebble. Something inside her stirred—a small flicker of warmth—but it was quickly smothered by the rising shame. How could she want that warmth when she didn’t deserve it?

“I know it doesn’t make much sense right now,” Logan continued, still not looking directly at her. His voice was rough, but there was an odd tenderness underneath, like he was trying to handle something fragile without breaking it. “But you’re gonna be alright. You got people here. And I’m right here.”

She turned slightly toward him, but still didn’t meet his gaze. Her throat was tight, and she couldn’t trust herself to speak. But she didn’t need to. The silence felt full, not empty.

Logan shifted in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. “You should try to sleep,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna get to you with me sittin’ here, bub.”

The reassurance hit harder than it should have. It wasn’t about safety from the outside world—it was about safety from her own mind. From the guilt, the shame, the shadows that lurked just beyond the light. Logan didn’t need to say more. His presence was enough to keep her tethered, if only by a thin thread.

“I’ll be here,” he added, his voice softer now, more like a promise. “When you wake up, I’ll still be here.”

She nodded, trying to push down the fear, the guilt, the crushing weight of it all. Logan was here. That should’ve been enough to keep the darkness away. But deep inside, something still gnawed at her, whispering that it wouldn’t be enough. That she didn’t deserve it.

Still, she closed her eyes, clutching the pebble harder as she tried to let the faint warmth of Logan’s presence and his scent settle over her, while the dim light fought to keep the darkness at bay.

She woke with a start, her breath sharp, eyes darting around the dimly lit infirmary. The unfamiliarity of it gnawed at her for a moment until she caught the scent in the air—cigars, whiskey, pinewood. It was grounding, familiar, and steady.

“You’re alright, bub,” Logan’s voice rumbled low, just enough to pull her fully into the present. “Take it easy. You’re safe.”

The reassurance hit deeper than she expected. Her fingers loosened their grip on the pebble, though she didn’t release it entirely. The small stone, so simple and unassuming, felt like the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment—to Logan’s presence.

She exhaled slowly, her pulse gradually slowing as the panic ebbed away. Logan’s steady breathing was the only sound in the room for a while, the weight of his watchful eyes never too heavy, just… there.

After what felt like forever, she finally found her voice, though it was quiet and hoarse from the turmoil of the night. “Thank you,” she murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

Logan’s brow furrowed, and his gaze flickered to her, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited, giving her space to say what she needed.

“For… everything,” she continued, her voice a little stronger now. “And…” Her fingers tightened around the small stone still clutched in her hand. “For the pebbles…” She could feel how strongly her heart was hammering inside her chest. “I kept them.”

Logan blinked, surprised for a beat before his expression softened. “Yeah? Well, you knew they were there. That’s what matters.”

She hesitated, staring at the tiny rock in her hand. “I didn’t think I could… I didn’t think I should follow them. I didn’t deserve to.”

Logan shifted slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a bit, but not in anger—more like concern. “Bub, you gotta stop thinkin’ that way. It’s not about deserve or not. It’s about what you need.”

His words sank into her like stones, guilt gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. What she needed. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Every time she tried to let herself feel anything good, anything warm, something in the back of her mind twisted it into guilt, into shame. Like she wasn’t allowed to need anything other than punishment.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” she admitted softly, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

Logan didn’t answer right away. No quick fixes, no rushed advice. Instead, he stood up slowly, boots heavy on the floor, and moved closer, sitting at the edge of her bed. Close, but not overwhelming. His scent—cigars, whiskey, pinewood—washed over her again, stronger and warm, like a steadying hand on her shoulder keeping her tethered.

“You’re not gonna fix it overnight,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But you ain’t gotta do it alone. You got people here, bub. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Her breath hitched slightly, something unfamiliar stirring in her chest—something that wasn’t guilt or shame. She didn’t deserve his patience or care, but he was here, offering it anyway.

“That’s why I left the pebbles,” Logan added, his voice softer. “Wasn’t expectin’ you to come chasin’ after me, but… figured you oughta know you could if you wanted to.”

She stared at him for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in deeper, the knot in her chest tightening. “Why?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Why did you do it?” The question had been eating at her. Why had he bothered with her?

Logan’s gaze dropped for a moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was rough but honest. “’Cause I’ve been there, bub. More times than I’d like to admit.”

She blinked, surprised by the admission. She didn’t know him, not really, but if there was something she had picked up from all her time hiding in the shadows of the mansion, it was that Logan rarely talked about himself, especially not about something so personal.

“I know what it’s like,” he continued, his words slow, careful. “Feelin’ like you deserve every bit of crap that comes your way. Thinkin’ you’re better off stayin’ in the dark ‘cause that’s where you belong.”

His gaze flicked to her then, softer, but serious. “Saw you doin’ the same thing, hidin’ away. So I figured… maybe you needed somethin’ else. Wasn’t about what you deserved. Just about what I could do. And I just… wanted to help. Even if it was in small ways, tidyin’ up rooms and leaving little rocks.”

Her throat tightened, a mess of emotions swirling inside—guilt, gratitude, shame. And something else, something she couldn’t name. She hadn’t followed the pebbles, hadn’t gone to him, even though she’d wanted to. Instead, she’d clung to the dark, the thing that had been eating her inside out.

“I didn’t…” her voice trembled as she insisted. “I didn’t follow them.”

Logan shook his head gently. “Didn’t have to,” he said, his voice softer now. “You kept ‘em. That’s what matters.”

Her gaze dropped to the pebble still clutched in her hand, its smooth surface warm from her touch. It wasn’t much—just a small stone—but it felt heavier than anything else in her life. The weight of it, the meaning behind it, was something she wasn’t sure how to carry.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice barely steady.

Logan gave a small shrug, not making a big deal of it. “Ain’t gotta say nothin’. Just rest. Chuck’ll be back with a plan soon. Until then, you’re safe.”

She nodded, her chest tight but something inside loosening, just a bit. Logan’s words settled into her, like anchors keeping her from drifting too far into that darkness again. Safe. It felt foreign, like something she hadn’t let herself feel in so long, but the man’s presence at her side, his scent, were starting to give it meaning.

“I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. For not following the pebbles? For being too scared to ask for help? For clinging to the darkness when she should’ve let it go?

Logan’s eyes softened, his gruff exterior melting for just a moment. “Don’t be,” he said quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.”

She nodded, expecting him to move back to his chair, but instead, he shifted more comfortably, settling at the foot of her bed, his back against the wall. His presence wasn’t overwhelming, just steady, solid, and comforting. He wasn’t watching her closely, but she knew he was there, keeping guard.

The room fell into a peaceful quiet. Not awkward, just… still. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to take in Logan’s face. Really take it in. The lines, the ruggedness, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t putting up his usual walls.

She stole quick glances, not wanting to seem rude by staring. But of course, Logan noticed. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned to catch her eye. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her, really looked, like he hadn’t done before.

Before the moment could stretch too long, the door to the infirmary slid open, and Jean walked in, carrying a tray of food and water. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

“Thought you both could use something to eat,” Jean said softly, setting the tray down on the table beside the bed.

Logan gave a nod of thanks, accepting one of the bottles of water she handed him before passing the second to the younger woman lying in the bed he was sitting on. She nodded in return, fingers curling around the bottle before she opened it and took a slow sip, releasing a small sigh.

“How’re you feeling?” Jean asked, her concern evident in her soft tone.

“Better,” the woman whispered, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t completely left. But there was something else now—something steadier, thanks to Logan and the small stone still pressed into her palm, grounding her in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

Logan took a sip of water as well, his gaze flicking back to her. “Told ya,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. You’re not alone anymore.”

Once Jean had left the room, time passed lazily. Logan remained at the end of the bed, keeping watch as they both finished the food that had been brought. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it settled like a soft blanket, a quiet understanding stretching through the minutes. Every now and then, she caught Logan’s gaze, and her heart would do that little flutter it had grown used to around his scent. He didn’t talk much, just watched, and somehow, that felt more like protection than anything else.

There wasn’t much to say, anyway. They had both been through enough in the past few days to know that words weren’t needed. So, they ate quietly together, their eyes meeting every so often, and that was enough.

Then, the door slid open, and Charles wheeled in, his expression as calm as ever, though a certain heaviness clung to his presence.

“Jean has informed me that she checked on you, my dear,” Charles began, his tone gentle but clear as he entered the room, his eyes sweeping the space before resting on her. “We are continuing to search for a solution to your… situation. Unfortunately, we have yet to make significant progress.” His voice carried its usual steady calm, but the brief flicker of a frown at his lips betrayed his concern. At the foot of the bed, Logan shifted slightly, his attention sharpening.

“But,” Charles continued, his voice softening a touch, “we have come to the conclusion that keeping you confined here, despite the safety it offers, is not ideal. You are not a prisoner, and we believe some freedom will benefit you.” His eyes met hers with a reassuring warmth, though the gravity of his words remained unmistakable.

She nodded as he went on. “As for your previous quarters,” he said, “I’m afraid they are no longer suitable for habitation.” The weight of what had happened there hung unspoken between them. The darkness that had clung to her had left its mark, and the thought of stepping back into that space sent a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.

“We’ve made arrangements for a new room, closer to the others, where we can ensure your safety.” Charles’s gaze flickered to Logan, who remained silent but watchful, his presence as steady as ever.

Logan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll help you move,” he said simply, his voice gruff and final, leaving no room for debate. “Ain’t lettin’ ya do this on your own.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes shut her down before she could get the words out. There was a quiet intensity in them, an unspoken promise that went beyond just keeping her safe from the shadows that lurked around her.

“Thanks. But really… I can handle it,” she still tried, feeling embarrassed to drag him into something so trivial.

He shook his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “It ain’t about whether you can handle it. It’s about what happens if that thing shows up again. I don’t trust anyone else to deal with it but me.”

That was Logan—blunt, to the point, and impossible to argue with. And somehow, even with the roughness of his words, something about them made her heart do that strange, warm flutter again.

Charles glanced between the two of them, nodded once, then turned to leave. “Take your time, my dear. We’ll have everything ready when you’re settled in.”

She nodded in thanks, and as she watched him leave the room, she shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her shoes. Logan waited for her to finish before standing as well. She glanced up at him with a tight-lipped smile, still feeling awkward about dragging him into something so mundane, but he just gave her a small, encouraging nod before walking to the door.

She followed him out of the infirmary, and as they made their way through the mansion—every hallway buzzing with life—she felt uneasy. The place looked different in the daylight, strange and unfamiliar. She had spent so much time moving through its corridors under the cover of darkness that seeing it like this felt almost wrong. It reminded her of her nightmare and a shiver run down her spine.

But no matter the odd looks people gave her, no one approached as she walked alongside Logan, heading toward the upper floors, to one of the furthest wings of the vast old building.

When they finally reached her old room, it felt even smaller than usual as Logan stepped inside with her. There wasn’t much to gather—just the few things she had kept over the years: some clothes, three books, an old notebook, two pencils, a photograph of her sister, and a metal tea box where she stored tiny treasures. Logan lingered near the door, his gaze scanning the space, pausing at the window where a small stack of pebbles sat.

For the briefest second, something like a smile flickered at the corner of his lips before vanishing just as quickly. He knew what they were—the small, smooth stones he had left behind for her while she had hidden herself away in the dark. She hadn’t lied. She had kept every single one of them.

There were seven pebbles on the windowsill now, and as she moved to collect them, she felt Logan’s eyes following her movements closely. She took her time, brushing her fingers over their cool, smooth surfaces, making sure they weren’t dirty or damaged. She knew exactly why she had kept them. At the time, she hadn’t been able to follow them back to him, but the thought of leaving them behind had been unbearable.

When she picked up the first pebble, Logan’s expression shifted slightly, something unreadable crossing his face. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. She had told him she had kept them, but seeing it for himself made him realize just how much those little stones had meant to her.

After carefully inspecting each one, she placed them into the small metal tea box, settling them among the other trinkets inside—a smooth piece of glass, a little old key that no longer opened anything, a few old coins, a faded stamp. Logan’s eyes never left her hands, watching as she arranged them with quiet care.

“You’re takin’ those with ya?” His voice was low, rougher than usual, but there was something softer beneath it.

She nodded, glancing up at him for a moment before turning back to the window. “They… remind me that I’m not alone.”

Logan grunted, the sound carrying something like understanding. And when she finally turned to face him, the way he looked at her—his eyes softer, his shoulders relaxed—made something stir deep inside her. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet knowing.

And with that, she was done packing. Logan slung her small bag over his shoulder, and she tucked the tea box under her arm, feeling its familiar weight—a silent reminder of all that had passed between them without words.

The walk down the hallway was silent, Logan’s presence steady beside her. Her new room was only a few doors away from his, and though she didn’t say it out loud, the thought of being so close to him made her feel… safer. But it was a different kind of safe—less about hiding, more about something steady, something real. His quiet strength kept at bay the shame and guilt that had followed her for so long.

He hadn’t needed to offer, but he had. And as she stepped into her new room, small but comfortable, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were shifting. Slowly, quietly, but surely.

Logan placed her bag on the bed, turning back to her with that same serious look he always wore, but there was a new softness in his eyes.

“I’ll be close by,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “If ya need anythin’, knock.”

She nodded, warmth rising in her chest. “Thanks, Logan.”

He paused for a second, his gaze lingering on her before he turned toward the door. “Anytime, kid.”

And as the door clicked shut behind him, she found herself smiling. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel alone. And it felt good.

The days in the mansion passed slowly, like a soft rhythm, one beat after the other, as she tried to adjust to living in the light again. It felt strange at first, stepping into the daylight with eyes still trained for the shadows, moving through halls that had always been empty and silent in the night. Now, she passed students, teachers, people living their lives in the day—something she had forgotten how to do.

Each step felt like a reminder of something lost, a strange ache in her chest that she couldn’t quite place. But Logan was always there, hovering nearby, a silent sentinel. He never crowded her, but his presence was constant, a shadow in the sunlight, always just out of sight but close enough to make her feel… grounded.

The mansion, full of bustling life during the day, took some getting used to. She returned to her duties, cleaning during daylight hours now, though every so often, when the unease crept up on her, she found herself lingering in a room a little too long, ensuring that every light was properly lit. There was something about the brightness, about making sure the darkness couldn’t crawl in around her, that gave her peace of mind.

And in her pocket, there was always a pebble. One of those little rocks that had tied her to Logan in the first place. It was a quiet reminder, something she could reach for when the world felt too bright, too exposed. She could run her thumb over its smooth surface, tether herself, remind herself that she wasn’t alone.

As the days turned into a week, she started to find her footing again. The library became one of her favorite places—quiet, familiar. She spent hours there, helping the younger students with their homework when they came looking for books. They quickly learned that she knew the library’s layout like the back of her hand. She’d been putting books back on shelves for so long that she could tell them exactly where each one belonged without a second thought. They trusted her with that, and she found a strange comfort in the small interactions.

Outside, the world was bright and wide. At first, she’d stand on the edges, watching from afar as the sun painted the sky during its rise and fall. She didn’t join the others, preferring the quiet solitude as she observed from her usual spot, high up on the mansion’s rooftop or perched near the old garden. But, over time, Logan started showing up too. In the beginning, he kept his distance, respecting the silence she had made for herself.

She could feel his eyes on her sometimes, the quiet comfort of knowing he was there but not intruding. He’d stay just far enough away that she didn’t feel watched, but close enough that she knew he was nearby.

And then one evening, as the sky started turning gold and the first traces of purple and pink began to streak across the horizon, he sat down next to her. He didn’t say anything, just settled down beside her with a quiet grunt, his presence as solid as the bricks beneath them. There was no need for words. The silence stretched between them, comfortable now in a way it hadn’t been before. It felt like something had shifted.

The sunsets became a routine. Each evening, she found herself looking forward to that quiet time spent together. Sometimes, Logan would speak, his deep voice rumbling softly as he talked about his day or the things he’d seen. Other times, he was silent, just there, a warm, steady presence at her side.

And every once in a while, her hand would slip into her pocket, her fingers brushing over the pebble, a reminder that the light wasn’t as terrifying as it once was—not with him beside her.

It had been a little more than a week since she started living in the daylight again, and for a while, she had held onto the hope that maybe Charles, Hank, and the others would have found a solution by now—something that could finally rid her of that thing feeding on her. But the parasite was elusive, and with every day that passed without a breakthrough, the knot of anxiety in her chest only tightened further.

That’s why, when she was called to Charles’ office that afternoon, her stomach dropped. She didn’t know what to expect, but the moment she reached his door, her ears caught the tail end of a heated argument.

“I’m telling you, Charles, it’s too risky!” Logan’s voice, low and rough, carried through the door, sharp with anger. “We don’t know how strong this thing is. She could get hurt!”

She froze just outside the door, heart pounding in her chest. She’d never heard Logan sound like that before. He was always so calm, even in the worst moments—but now, there was something different in his voice. Something raw.

“We don’t have a choice, Logan,” Charles’ reply was quieter, more controlled, but there was an edge of tension in his voice as well. “It’s the only way to learn more about this creature. We’ve exhausted every other option.”

She took a breath to steady herself, then knocked lightly before pushing the door open.

Logan was standing, fists clenched at his sides, his whole body taut like a spring about to snap. Charles, seated behind his desk, maintained his usual calm, though there was a heaviness to the air between them. The moment she stepped inside, Logan cut himself off mid-sentence, his jaw tightening as he looked her way. For a moment, his gaze softened, but the frustration in his expression was unmistakable.

Charles gave her a small nod. “I’m sorry to call you in like this, my dear,” he said gently, casting a glance toward Logan before continuing. “But we need to discuss something important.”

She remained standing, unsure of what to say, the tension pressing down on her chest. Logan hadn’t looked away from her, and she could feel the full weight of his worry—how thick it hung in the air around him.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Charles said again, this time addressing Logan, his voice heavy with regret. “But we have no other choice.”

Logan let out a low, frustrated growl, clearly not liking where this conversation was going, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he turned away and ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly.

Charles turned his focus back to her. “We still don’t know enough about the parasite that’s been… feeding off of you,” he began, his tone measured and soft. “Despite our best efforts, Hank and I haven’t been able to find a solution. Not yet.”

Her heart sank, dread curling tight in her chest.

Her heart sank at his words, dread curling its way through her chest, tightening like a snake in her gut. But Charles wasn’t done.

“We believe,” he continued, “that the best way to understand what we’re dealing with is to make the parasite reveal itself. To do that, we need you to reconnect with it, to put yourself in the environment where it thrives.”

It took a moment for the words to truly land. But when they did, her breath caught.

The darkest darkness.

They wanted her to go back into it.

Logan’s frustration boiled over at that. “You want to throw her back into that darkness and hope for the best? That’s your plan?” he snapped, voice rough.

His words made her blood run cold, her mind spiraling with the implications of what Charles was asking her to do. The thought of returning to that place—of standing in the heart of the shadows that had fed on her for so long—it made her skin crawl.

But Charles didn’t flinch beneath Logan’s anger. “It’s not ideal,” he admitted, voice still even, “but it’s the only way we can learn what we’re truly dealing with. Without knowing more, we can’t fight it.”

Then Logan turned to her, eyes blazing with frustration… and something else—something softer. Concern.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If you don’t want to… you don’t have to.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Both of them were watching her now, and while Logan’s words were meant to reassure her, the fear gnawing at the edges of her mind made it hard to breathe. The mere idea of stepping back into that darkness… it terrified her.

She had barely managed to escape it before, and now they were asking her to willingly go back into its grasp.

But as scared as she was deep down, she knew Charles was right. There was no other way. They needed to understand the parasite if they had any hope of stopping it. And she couldn’t keep living like this—haunted by shadows, waiting for the inevitable, knowing it could return at any moment.

She took a slow breath, heart hammering in her chest as she met their eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, voice steady even as fear kept coiling inside her like a living thing.

Logan’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching as he turned his head away, clearly unhappy with her choice, but knowing there was nothing he could do to change it. “Damn it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair again. When he looked at her once more, the anger had dulled into something softer. Still frustrated, but steady. “I’ll be there,” he said, voice gravelly. “I’m not leaving you alone in that darkness again. I’ll be close. Just in case.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words for his presence, even if it wouldn’t be enough to keep the shadows at bay entirely. The thought of him nearby made the idea of facing the parasite a little less terrifying.

Charles nodded as well, his expression solemn. “We’ll proceed with caution,” he promised. Still, doubt flickered behind his eyes—as if he wasn’t entirely sure what caution would even mean in this case. “But it must be done. The moment we learn more, we’ll act.”

She nodded again, even as the whirlwind of emotions inside her swirled and spun. Logan moved at her side, his closeness anchoring her, a quiet reminder that, no matter what came next, she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

The days dragged on, each one darker than the last as the new moon approached. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her, the shadow of what was to come creeping closer with every breath. Charles and Hank had set the date for when she’d step back into the darkness—the next new moon. It made sense, logically. The less light, the easier it would be to reconnect with the parasite.

But that knowledge didn’t make it any easier to sleep at night.

Every time she lay down in her new room, her bedside lamp glowing faintly beside her, the tension coiled tighter in her chest. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to flicker and shift when she wasn’t looking, and sometimes she swore she could feel the parasite stirring, like it was growing impatient.

Hungry.

At first, it was just a faint unease, a weight that settled in her gut as she tried to sleep. But as the days passed and the moon grew smaller, that unease turned into something darker, something colder.

Fear.

One night, as she lay in bed with her lamp still glowing dimly beside her, her eyes felt heavy. The tension that had been gnawing at her chest all day pulled her under, and soon enough, she was asleep.

And that’s when the nightmare began.

She was back in the mansion, but everything was wrong. The hallways twisted and turned in impossible ways, the walls stretching and closing in around her. There were no windows, no light—only endless shadows that slithered along the floor like living things. She could feel them reaching for her, their cold fingers brushing the edge of her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

She ran.

Her feet pounded against the wooden floors, echoing in the silent, empty halls. Every door she tried to open was locked, every path she took seemed to lead deeper into the mansion’s maze. The shadows were getting closer, swallowing the light, and no matter how fast she ran, they were always just behind her, nipping at her heels.

“Logan!” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the walls, but it sounded so small, so far away. “Logan, please!”

But there was no answer. Just the endless sound of her own footsteps, her own ragged breathing as she ran from room to room, desperately searching for him. The shadows closed in, pressing against her skin, wrapping around her like tendrils of cold night. She could feel them dragging her down, pulling her deeper into the dark.

“Logan!” she cried again, but it was like her voice had been swallowed whole by the darkness. The mansion twisted again, and the walls seemed to melt away, revealing a staircase that spiraled down, down into the black.

She couldn’t breathe. The air was too thick, too cold, and the shadows were everywhere, pressing in from all sides, suffocating her. She stumbled, falling to her knees as the darkness crept over her, clawing at her skin.

The cold fingers of the shadows wrapped around her throat, and she gasped for breath, her vision blurring as they tightened their grip. She tried to scream for Logan one last time, but the sound wouldn’t come. The darkness was too thick, too heavy.

It was going to pull her under.

And then—

She woke up screaming.

Her body jerked upright, drenched in cold sweat, her heart pounding so hard in her chest it felt like it might burst. The room spun around her, and for a terrifying moment, she couldn’t tell if she was still dreaming or not.

“Hey, hey! You’re alright, bub. You’re awake.”

Logan’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline, rough but steady. His hands were on her shoulders, firm and warm, grounding her back into reality. He was kneeling beside her bed, his brows furrowed in concern, his expression more serious than she had ever seen it.

She was still shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to focus on his face, on the solid presence of him beside her. The darkness was gone, replaced by the soft glow of her bedside lamp, and the warmth of Logan’s hands on her skin.

“I… I thought—” she stammered, her voice trembling as the tears welled up in her eyes.

Logan’s expression softened as he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “It was just a nightmare,” he said quietly, his voice low and reassuring. “I heard you from my room, but I couldn’t wake you up.”

The tears came then, hot and heavy as they spilled down her cheeks. She buried her face in his shoulder, the sobs wracking her body as she clung to him like a lifeline. The fear, the exhaustion, the overwhelming weight of everything she had been carrying finally broke free, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out between sobs. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Logan’s arms tightened around her, his voice rough but gentle. “You ain’t a bother, bub,” he said firmly. “Don’t even think that.”

He didn’t let go, didn’t pull away as she cried into his chest, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a quiet rumble in the dimly lit room. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in his warmth, until the tears finally slowed and her breathing evened out again. Her body was still trembling, but the fear had begun to fade, replaced by the steady beat of Logan’s heart beneath her ear.

Eventually, Logan shifted, leaning back slightly so he could look at her. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his eyes soft in the lamplight. “You good now?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”

Logan stayed beside her, sitting on top of the covers, his presence a steady comfort as she lay back down. “Get some sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

And for the first time in days, she actually felt safe again.

The mansion was eerily quiet that night, suffocating in its stillness. No moon, no lights—just a vast, endless darkness pressing in from all sides. It felt as though the world had ceased to exist outside these walls, and all that remained was her… and it. The next step was supposed to be simple. Do everything the way she had before. Go through the motions. Clean the rooms. Act as if the darkness hadn’t nearly swallowed her whole once.

But this time, it was different. She could feel it.

Her shaking fingers clenched the cloth in her hands tighter than necessary, the tension winding through her muscles. She’d barely made it halfway through the room, but already, every nerve in her body was taut. Logan’s scent was everywhere, the soothing blend of cigars, whiskey, and pinewood lingering on the surfaces he’d tidied earlier. It grounded her, barely. But it wasn’t enough. Something… something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Her heart beat faster with each passing second, the air thickening, almost tangible with the weight of the shadows. The pebble in her pocket pressed against her palm, the only anchor she had to keep herself from floating away. She clung to it, gripping it like it might somehow pull her back from the brink. But the guilt… it was still there. It hadn’t gone away, even after those days in the light. The shame clung to her like a second skin, an ever-present whisper reminding her of her failures. Like an old toxic friend, feeding on her mistakes.

It was her fault, wasn’t it? All of it. The accident. The pain. The shadows she had invited into her life.

The room twisted, stretched, like it was mocking her. The shadows—her constant companions, weren’t they? She tried to ignore the way they moved when she wasn’t looking, flickering just beyond her vision. But every time her eyes darted in their direction, they were still again. It was like the world was playing a cruel joke on her, and she was the punchline.

She stopped, trembling as the pebble and her nails dug harder into her palm, leaving small indents. A lifeline. But how much longer could she hold on? The air itself felt alive, thick with a creeping dread that crawled beneath her skin, snaking its way into her chest. Every breath was an effort, and each one felt like it filled her lungs a little less.

And in the deepest part of her, she could feel it. It. The parasite. Not just lurking anymore. It was awake. Growing. Watching. She’d been foolish to think she could face it. That she could walk back into its den and survive. She wasn’t the same person she had been before, but neither was it. It was hungry. Stronger. And she… she was nothing but prey in the dark.

The walls around her shifted again, distorting, bending. Her eyes darted to the nearest door, desperate for an escape. She reached for it, stumbling toward it, but her hand passed through empty space.

There was no door. There was nothing.

Just shadows.

Her breath quickened, the sound of it too loud in her ears. She couldn’t stop the panic swelling, taking root in the pit of her stomach and clawing its way up. It was taking her. It’s going to take me, like it had before. She tried to think of Logan, of the others waiting somewhere in the mansion, hidden. Just out of sight. Ready. They’d save her. They’d stop it. But what if they couldn’t? What if she’d dragged them into this with her, into a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from?

She pressed her back against the wall, desperate for something solid, something real. Her fingers grazed the doorframe, and for a split second, she thought maybe she was safe. Maybe she could escape.

But then she felt it—icy hands, invisible, pressing down on her shoulders.

And that voice.

“Saved once…”

Cold terror ran through her veins as it slithered into her mind, so many voices tangled together that they lost meaning. She could barely make out the words over the cacophony, but the intent was clear.

“But now, who will save you again? Who are you to think you deserve it? You’ve always been a very bad girl… and now, you’ll regret stepping out of the shadows.”

The voices pierced through her thoughts, sinking their teeth into her fears. Her vision blurred as she felt the thing move closer, its breath hot and rancid on her neck. She gagged as the sickening stench of decay filled her lungs, choking her.

It’s going to kill me.

She slid down the door frame, body trembling as her knees buckled. The strength she had thought she regained felt like a distant memory, fading fast beneath the weight of her terror. She was just a puppet, a vessel, a meat suit, waiting for it to wear it.

But then, through the fog, she saw her—Jean, stepping into view, her arm outstretched, fingers rigid. She could feel her mind reaching out, her telekinetic grip latching onto the creature behind her.

“I think I got it!” Jean’s strained voice cut through the haze, a life jacket she barely had the strength to grasp. “Damn it’s slippery, hurry!”

She didn’t have time to think before Bobby’s voice rang out, sharp with urgency. “Stay still!” Ice shot past her, followed by the blinding heat of Scott’s laser, both aiming directly at the thing clinging to her. But the creature twitched, flickering just out of reach. She could feel it behind her, hovering, waiting, like a predator toying with its prey.

“Give up.”

It brushed its shape against her head like a messed-up cat, enjoying her scent, her warmth. And the words in her mind grew louder, pressing harder, filling the empty spaces inside her. “They can’t help you. They’ll die trying.”

More shots passed her, but the parasite evaded them once more, glitching, like a broken image, it shifted just out of the way, inches from the blast, slipping through the darkness like a phantom.

It twisted, pulling tighter, feeding on the fear coursing through her. And then, just as she was about to lose hope, she smelled it.

Cigars, whiskey, pinewood. Logan.

Logan was there, his claws ripping into the thing with a sickening squelch. The creature screeched, and she could feel it—feel the pain of it deep inside her, ripping through her body like a shockwave.

The sound. The agony. It was unbearable.

A horrible, keening screech that tore through her mind, like a million nails scraping against a blackboard, shredding through her soul, leaving jagged, raw edges in its wake.

She screamed, doubling over, her hands flying to her head, the pebble in her hand falling to the ground as she tried to drown out the sound, but it was too loud. Too overwhelming. She could feel herself unraveling, piece by piece, the parasite clawing at the core of who she was, pulling everything apart.

It wasn’t just pain. It was her very being being torn apart. Her body started convulsing violently, no longer her own, each spasm tearing her apart from the inside.

Logan’s voice, raw with desperation, barely broke through the crushing noise in her head, his words distant and distorted, like echoes lost in a storm. “Stop! Stop, we’re hurting her! Hank, turn on the lights!”

Tears poured from her eyes, blood from her ears, warm and thick, running in slick trails down her neck. Her senses were betraying her, overwhelmed by the parasite's relentless grip. Snot clogged her nose, mixing with the drool that dripped uncontrollably from her lips, as if her body had become a grotesque puppet under the creature’s psychic attack.

The edge of her vision darkened, blurring as her consciousness slipped further away with each second until there was nothing left… but darkness.

She woke to the low hum of machinery and the sterile smell of the infirmary. The light was dim—probably the lowest it could be—but even then, it stabbed at her eyes like needles, aggravating the headache throbbing behind her temples. Her body felt heavy, like she’d been submerged underwater for days, each movement sluggish and painful. But at least she was alive.

Barely opening her eyes, she took in the room. Jean sat nearby, studying the monitors that displayed her patient’s vitals, her gaze occasionally flicking to the woman. Hank was further away, hunched over something—his broad back blocking her view, but she could hear the quiet clinks of lab equipment, his concentration unwavering. And then there was Logan.

He was there, in the chair not far from her, his face etched with worry that softened only when he saw her stirring. In an instant, he was at her side, his rough hand gently pressing against her arm. “Jean, she’s awake.”

Her throat felt raw, voice nothing more than a croak. “Hey…”

He leaned in closer, concern laced in his voice. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” she rasped, grimacing as the brightness intensified the pounding in her head. “And this light…”

Logan’s brow furrowed, his thumb grazing over her wrist. “Yeah… We can’t dim it more. Gotta keep those shadows away.”

Jean appeared beside him with a painkiller and a glass of water. “Here, this should help.” Her voice was gentle but professional, her empathy held behind the mask of control she always wore in times like these.

Logan helped his protégée sit up, his arms supporting her weight as she struggled to pull herself upright. The motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, but she pushed through it, taking the pill from Jean and downing it with the water.

“We’ve still got a few tests to run,” Jean continued, “we waited until you were awake. But once we’re done, you can go back to your room.”

The woman barely nodded, too tired to even ask what tests. It didn’t matter. All she wanted was to crawl back into bed and disappear beneath the covers. But she knew there was no avoiding it, so she endured the prodding, the pricks as Jean drew blood, the cold glare of a flashlight as the redhead checked her eyes. Logan was there the whole time, hovering like a shadow, his presence a strange comfort despite the way his worry seemed to seep into every glance.

She wobbled on her feet as Jean tested her balance, making her stand on one foot, then the other. The world tilted and swayed, and only Logan’s steady grip kept her from falling. When Jean snapped her fingers near her ears to check her hearing, her patient flinched, the sound echoing through her aching skull.

“I think that’s enough for now, she’s exhausted,” Logan finally interjected, his voice a low growl, the edge of impatience seeping through. “If you got more tests, they can wait. She’s done for now.”

Jean hesitated, but after a moment, she sighed, relenting. “Alright. Everything seems rather normal anyway.” She offered a small, reassuring smile. “Need anything before we let you go?”

“I just want to take a shower and sleep for a week,” she mumbled, trying and failing to suppress a yawn.

Jean’s lips twitched in amusement, though Logan remained unamused, his concern deepening. “Come on. Let’s get you to your room, kid,” he said, offering his arm.

The woman couldn’t help the tired smile that tugged at her lips at the way he called her "kid"—even if she was in her thirties.

Despite the painkiller starting to take the edge off, every step sent fresh waves of ache through her muscles. The walk back to her room was slow, but Logan kept pace with her, his arm steady and unyielding as she leaned on him. A few students passed by, their faces lined with worry, offering her quiet smiles of concern. She nodded weakly in acknowledgment, grateful but too tired to do much else.

When she finally reached her room, she felt like she’d run a marathon. Logan led her straight to the bathroom, his voice low and gentle. “You gonna be alright in there?”

She nodded, feeling the exhaustion pull at every fiber of her being. “Yeah… thanks.”

“I’ll be in the next room. Just call if you need anything,” he told her, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of uncertainty.

She smiled faintly. “I will. Thanks, Logan.”

His gruff reply was almost reflexive, his eyes softening as he stepped away. “Don’t mention it, kid.”

Once the door was ajar, she stripped out of her ruined clothes, wincing at the stains of blood and grime that clung to her skin. As she met her reflection in the bathroom mirror she couldn’t help but flinch. That thing had really done a number on her. With a heavy sigh she turned her head away from her worn out twin in the looking glass and stepped into the shower.

The hot water from the stream was a balm, washing away the remnants of the battle, the stench of death, and the lingering weight of fear. She stood there, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak into her bones. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was grateful to still be alive.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in towels, she peeked out from the bathroom, careful to keep herself modestly hidden. Logan was sitting at her desk, flipping through one of her books, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sight brought a tired smile to her lips.

“Logan?” she called softly, her voice hoarse but steady. “Could you grab my pajamas? Under the pillow.”

His head snapped up, and for a brief moment, surprise crossed his features before he broke into a small smile of his own. “Yeah, sure.” He fetched them, handing them to her with a gentle nod. She thanked him quietly before retreating to the bathroom to change, still leaving the door ajar just in case.

By the time she stepped out in her pajamas, feeling a little more human, she heard the familiar creak of the chair as Logan settled back into it. The painkiller had finally kicked in, numbing the aches that had tormented her body.

“Do you want me to leave?” Logan asked, his voice softer than usual, as if he was afraid of disturbing the peace that had finally settled over the room.

She hesitated, the words hanging on her tongue. “You can stay… if you want. I feel… safer with you around. But if you need to go, it’s okay. Either way.”

Logan gave her a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere. “Alright,” he murmured, picking up the book again, his eyes scanning the pages though you could tell his focus wasn’t entirely on the words.

As she climbed into bed, she could almost feel his gaze on her, the weight of his worry palpable in the air. She shifted slightly, trying to reassure him, and started the conversation she knew he needed.

“What happened after I passed out?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Logan closed the book, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover. “Hank cranked up the lights, and the thing ran… jumped into the shadows that were left. I carried you to the infirmary. When Hank caught up, he said whatever it was left some residue. He’s still running tests on it.”

“At least something good came out of it,” she mused, though the smile that followed was faint, lacking its usual spark.

Logan returned the smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, but…”

“I’m okay, Logan. Really. I just need some sleep in a real bed.”

He nodded, but the worry never left his face. When she patted the bed beside her, inviting him to lie down, a soft smile tugged at his lips. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, settling in on the covers beside her, the book back in his hands.

She curled up on her side, her back brushing against his shape through the blankets, feeling the comforting warmth of him close by. The slow rustle of the pages and his steady breathing lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber, knowing that, for now, she was safe once more.

She stirred from sleep slowly, the softness of the bed beneath her feeling unfamiliar after the chaos of the previous night. It took a moment for her to realize where she was—her room. The pain from earlier had dulled to a manageable throb, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the curtains, she became aware of a comforting warmth beside her.

Logan.

He was still lying next to her, on top of the covers, his presence a quiet reassurance. She turned her head slightly, taking a moment to study him. He looked different when he slept. The hard lines of his face were softened, his usual stern expression gone, replaced by a rare peacefulness. His chest rose and fell steadily, the book he had been reading now forgotten, lying open against him. A few stray locks of hair had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking, she reached out, her fingers lightly grazing his hair.

The moment her touch met his skin, his hand shot out like a reflex, fingers curling around her wrist in an unyielding grip. His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, scanning the room for threats. But when he realized it was only her, his expression softened, and he quickly let go of her wrist.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Didn’t mean to grab ya like that.”

She shook her head, offering a small smile. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have… I just—”

I just couldn’t help it, was what she wanted to say, but she caught herself in time, afraid of how her words would make him feel.

He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised slightly in question, but didn’t push. “No harm done,” he said, before sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. As he moved, the hem of his shirt rode up, revealing a glimpse of toned muscles. She quickly averted her eyes, a flush creeping up her throat. She didn’t need him catching her staring.

Logan smirked as he caught her reaction anyway, but didn’t comment. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, scratching the back of his neck as she slipped out of the covers, her stomach rumbling in protest.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, heading for the bathroom. After quickly changing into fresh clothes, she rejoined Logan, and the two of them made their way down to the kitchen. The mansion was quieter than usual, the aftermath of last night’s events hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

Once in the kitchen, they both grabbed something to eat, the smell of food awakening her appetite. Logan was quiet as usual, but his presence was grounding, even comforting, as she sat across from him.

A few minutes into their meal, Bobby walked into the room. “Hey, how’re you feeling?” he asked, grabbing a snack from the counter.

“Better,” she replied with a small smile, “now that I’m about to eat my weight in food.”

Bobby grinned at her joke. “Glad to hear it. By the way, Hank and the Professor are looking for you two. They’re in his office.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment. “We’ll be up after we’re done here.”

“Got it,” Bobby said, offering a two-fingered salute before heading out.

The rest of their meal passed in comfortable silence, Logan finishing his food with quick efficiency. When she was done, they both stood, cleaned behind them and made their way to the people waiting for them, her muscles still aching but the pain manageable.

When they arrived, Hank stood near the far wall, a data pad in hand, while Charles sat behind his desk, his expression thoughtful as she and Logan entered.

“Glad to see you’re up and about,” Charles greeted, his tone warm. “We’ve made some progress regarding last night.”

Logan stood behind her, tense, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened.

Hank glanced up from the data pad. “The residue from the wound you inflicted, Logan—it’s reacting to blue light in a way we’ve seen with certain bacterial organisms. It’s as if the parasite weakens or becomes vulnerable when exposed to the right frequency of light.”

Charles steepled his fingers, looking at her. “We wanted to ask, my dear, do you feel comfortable trying to draw the parasite out again? This time, we may have an advantage.”

The weight of his question settled over her like a blanket. Before she could respond, Logan cut in, his voice gruff and laced with concern. “It’s too soon. She just got out of the infirmary, Chuck.”

Charles held up a hand to calm Logan. “I understand your concerns, my friend. It wouldn’t be immediate. We’d plan for next month, on the next new moon.”

She hesitated. The thought of facing that thing again… she wasn’t sure she was ready for it, even if they had a potential weapon.

“I have to think about it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’ll need some time.”

Charles nodded, his gaze soft. “Take all the time you need, my dear. It’s important that you feel prepared. If not next month, then the one after—or whenever you’re ready.”

Hank chimed in, “It’s a monthly occurrence anyway, so there’s no rush. We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

She gave a small nod, appreciating the space they were giving her. As much as she wanted this nightmare to be over, she also knew she needed to be in the right headspace before confronting the parasite again.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” she said.

Logan, who had been silent since his earlier protest, spoke up. “In the meantime, I’ll train ya,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You’ll need to be ready to defend yourself, for whenever you decide to face that thing again.”

She looked at him, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes clear. She knew he wasn’t going to let her stand against anything unprepared again.

Charles smiled gently, sensing the conversation had run its course. “Very well. We’ll keep preparing on our end. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

With that, the meeting ended, and she and Logan left the office, heading back to the mansion’s main corridors to continue their day, the weight of what lay ahead heavy but manageable, knowing she wouldn’t face it alone.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊

More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Cross-legged, half-leaning on one elbow, your phone in hand, in that worn-out T-shirt slouched off one shoulder. And I know it’s just your sleep shirt, but Christ, it’s the kind of thing that rewires my whole nervous system.

Your hair is a little messy, half-dry, curling slightly at the ends, glowing in the pool of lamplight like you were meant to be lit only in warm gold.

The glow settles against your cheekbone, outlines your collarbone, catches the glint of the rings you forgot to take off. The screen lights up your face, makes your eyes flicker with life.

Warm skin, soft laughter, no idea what you’re doing to me.

You giggle at something stupid on your screen, and it punches right through the quiet like a knife wrapped in silk.

Not loud. Just… real.

You’ve got no idea how good you look like this. How good you always look when you’re not trying. No armor. No act. Just… you. Breathing. Smiling. Existing in a way I forgot people could.

Carelessly divine.

It’s not the kind of beauty that blinds. It’s the kind that stays. The kind that gets under your skin and lives there, quiet and warm and dangerous.

The kind of beauty that poets used to die for.

My hands curl a little tighter around the edge of my coat. I want to touch you. Just to remind myself I can. But I don’t. I stay put, afraid the moment might vanish if I move too fast. Afraid I’ll ruin it.

And then Alpine jumps onto the bed like a queen with no hurry, like she owns the place—which, let’s be honest, she kind of does.

You light up when you see her.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, your phone’s already forgotten, dropped somewhere on the blanket like it never mattered.

Your voice changes. Softer. Lower. In that baby-talk voice you swear you don’t use, but I’ve heard it enough to know better. The one only she gets to receive.

“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and I swear I feel something shift in my chest.

You move, making space for something precious, and Alpine drops onto the mattress, curling up, her head pressing against your knee like she belongs there. And you fold around her without thinking. Like it’s muscle memory. Like softness is your default setting. Like touch was made to soothe. Like love was something instinctive—not a thing that had to be earned with blood and pain and silence.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated a cat more. Or loved her more, because she’s the reason I get to see this part of you.

You curl into her and press your face into that ridiculous white fur, like she’s the center of the goddamn universe and you’re orbiting her like she's the sun. You whisper something—nonsense only she understands—lips brushing the top of her head, and she purrs like she’s trying to shake the walls apart. Loud. So damn loud it makes me laugh under my breath despite myself. Sounds like a damn Harley revving up.

And you giggle.

And I swear to God, it feels like sunlight through broken stained glass. Warm. Fragile. Sacred.

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling into the fur. “That’s my girl. You’re so spoiled.”

It’s like something… breaks inside of me. Not painfully. Not sharply. Just a gentle kind of cracking, like an old house settling.

And in that moment, you have no idea how still I have to be just to keep from falling to my knees.

But I don’t.

I hold my breath.

I stay where I am, right on the edge of this life. Half in the doorway. Half in the dark.

My shadow stretches toward you, but I don’t move.

Because this? This is the part I don’t get to touch. The quiet. The good. The easy.

This is what I get to see from afar. What I get to have, somehow. A woman soft enough to melt ice, kind enough to love and make the angry little beast I dragged in off the street feel safe—and kind enough to love the one who came with her. A woman with laughter in her throat and love in her hands. In my apartment. In my bed. Like you didn’t walk straight into the arms of a man with a body count and stayed.

This is what I get to come back to. Quiet and lamplight and a woman who coos to my damn cat like she’s never known anything sharper than tenderness.

You don’t see me yet. And some twisted part of me is thankful. Because—it’s fucking stupid, really, but—I feel like I’m spying. Trespassing. Like this is something private, innocent and untouched and too pure for me to even get a glimpse of, and me just glancing at it is some kind of sin—like I’m stealing something holy just by looking at you. Something I shouldn’t be allowed to witness.

Feels like I don’t deserve to see you like this. Not when my hands have done the things they’ve done. Not with my past. Not with the blood I’ve got dried into my bones.

You’ve got no idea what I bring home with me. The grime under my nails may not be fresh anymore, but it never really washes off. I carry the worst of the world under my skin, in the seams of my clothes, and somehow, this is what I come home to.

You.

Lamplight. Soft giggles. A cat who doesn’t care what I’ve done. A woman who acts like I deserve any of it. Even when I forget how to be anything but steel and silence.

It feels like peeking into a life that was never meant to be mine. A life that should’ve belonged to someone with clean hands and a lighter soul.

But fuck, I can’t look away.

Because you’re here. In my bed. With my cat. In my life. And somehow—God knows how—you’ve stayed. You’ve seen the scars. The silences. The nights I wake up sweating, shaking, not quite sure who I am. And you haven’t run.

You should’ve.

But you didn’t.

Because you’re not just softness in a hard world. You’re the proof that softness can survive it.

And for just a second, I let myself believe I can too.

That maybe I do belong in this picture.

That maybe I’m not just a shadow curled around the edge of your light.

Maybe I’m something else.

Maybe I’m almost human again.

And you?

You sigh quietly, running your fingers through Alpine’s fur, one hand resting over her belly like this is the only thing keeping you tethered. She’s on her back now, paws in the air, smug as hell, and you just keep cooing. Slow. Gentle. Like if you get the rhythm just right, the world might stay quiet a little longer.

Your lips brush her ear. You whisper something to her, low and secret, like the kind of thing you only say when nobody’s supposed to hear—little things I can’t quite get, but I know the melody of your voice by heart.

And something inside me—something ugly and aching—wants to trade places with that damn cat. Wants to feel your hands smoothing down my chest like that. Your lips brushing my shoulder with kisses that mean nothing and everything. I want to lay my head in your lap and forget for one second who I used to be.

I don’t think I’ve ever envied a cat so bitterly in my life.

You shift on the bed again. Alpine’s purring turns into a soft mewl of protest, and you hush her with a kiss to the head.

“I know,” you say gently. “I know, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur. “Promise.”

I swallow hard.

Neither am I.

You don’t even know I heard you.

You weren’t talking to me. But God, I felt it. Like it was stitched into my ribs.

I think of all the people who did go. Who left, or died, or ran, because being too close to me was too heavy, too sharp, too haunted. And you? You’re just here. Sitting in my bed with my cat and making it all look so damn easy.

And I want to believe you.

I want to believe I can hold this—hold you—without ruining it. Without smearing my history all over your peace. But some nights, I still feel like I’m holding onto a dream I wasn’t meant to wake up into.

And Alpine keeps purring, like she’s mocking me. Because—the truth is—I’m jealous.

I’m jealous of a cat.

Of a cat.

That damn cat, who gets to curl against you and be touched and kissed and loved with no shame and no fear. Who gets to take up space in your arms without flinching. Who doesn’t feel like a weapon. Who doesn’t remember dark rooms and trigger words and every time my hands were used to take, not give.

And then comes the other truth—the worse one.

I stained the air around me so long I forgot what clean felt like—and now here you are, all warm skin and sleepy kisses, and some days I don’t know how to exist in the same room without ruining it.

How the hell did I find someone like you? How did you see me, through the scars and the broken code and the metal arm, and decide I was worth your time? How do you look at me like I’m not dangerous? Like I’m not a ghost trying to pass as a man?

And then—

You stop.

It’s small. Just a shift in your breath. A pause in your hand.

Then you lift your head, slow and certain, like you already know what you’re going to find.

And there I am.

Still in the doorway. Still watching you like I’ve forgotten how to look away.

You see me.

And you don’t flinch.

There’s no gasp. No startled sound. Just that soft little curve at the corner of your mouth. That look that says I knew you were there. That knowing, quiet kind of smile you always give me like I’m not a man dragging the weight of too many years—but something worth looking at.

Your gaze travels over me, boots to coat, and lands on my face. You hold it there, like you’re reading something only you can see. And for a second, I want to hide. I want to look down. I want to pretend I’m not standing here soaked in the kind of silence that comes after a fight, even when there’s no blood.

But you don’t look away.

You see me.

And then—you reach.

You stretch your hand across the space between us. No words. No pressure. Just fingers open, steady. Not asking.

Inviting.

Not to come closer.

To come in.

To come home.

You don’t say it out loud, but I hear it in every shift. Every breath.

And something in me cracks. Quietly. Like old ice finally giving way under the sun.

And I go.

I take a step before I know I’m moving. Not because I should. Not because I have to.

Because you’re there. And that’s all it takes.

I cross the room like I’m sleepwalking.

My hand finds yours, and your fingers wrap around mine like you never even doubted I’d reach back.

“How long were you here?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Didn’t wanna scare you off,” I rasp.

“You couldn’t,” you say, and I know you mean it.

You tug—just a little—and I follow. I always do. The mattress gives under my weight, and Alpine makes a grumpy noise, flicks her tail, but she doesn’t move. She just shifts, like she knows this part already.

Like it’s routine.

You press a kiss to my temple. Light. Unassuming. A kiss that doesn't demand anything back.

“I like the way you watch me,” you whisper, tone warm and dreamy. “You always look like you’re trying to memorize me.”

I blink, throat thick.

Because I am.

I’ve been trying to memorize you since the first time you smiled at me like I wasn’t a weapon. Like I was worth knowing. Like I was someone you could let close.

Because some part of me still thinks I’ll blink one day, and you’ll be gone.

Like you were never real.

Just a dream I made up to survive the war in my head.

You press another kiss—this one to the corner of my mouth. “You always look so sad when I’m not touching you,” you murmur.

You lean into my side without hesitation, your head finding that place on my shoulder like it belongs there. Like you belong there.

And it feels like for the first time all day, I really let the air out of my lungs.

I let my guard slip.

Just for you.

You take my hand again, lift it to your lips, and kiss my knuckles.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not dramatic. Just simple.

Deliberate.

And something about it makes the floor under my heart steady again.

Because for the first time in a long damn while, I don’t feel like a loaded gun.

I don’t feel like a warning sign.

I don’t feel like a man one step from ruin.

I feel like yours.

Held.

Wanted.

Not because you need something from me. Not because you’re trying to fix me.

But because somehow, in spite of everything I’ve done and everything I’ve been, you still want me here.

And that’s enough to keep me breathing.

You don’t say a word when I move closer to you.

You don’t ask where I’ve been, or why I smell like rain and city grime and the kind of tension that clings to skin like smoke. You don’t need to. You just look at me—really look—and I swear to god, it’s like the rest of the day falls off me without a fight.

And then your hand leaves mine.

Not to push me away.

To start.

You reach for the buttons of my coat. Careful. Slow. Fingers gentle like you’re handling something that might break—or maybe already has. You don’t rush. You don’t strip it off like it’s nothing. You peel it back like it’s a second skin I’ve worn too long. Something heavy I didn’t know I could put down.

You ease it away, slow and sure, like a bandage on scarring skin.

Like it’s something wounded.

Like I am something wounded.

And you know exactly how to touch it.

With grace.

With love disguised as routine.

And you—you—just take it from me like it’s easy.

Like loving me isn’t work.

The coat hits the floor, soft and quiet, and your hands come right back like they belong there. You go for my shirt next, fingers brushing my collar, undoing the buttons one at a time like you're unwrapping something sacred.

It’s not a performance. It’s not even really romantic.

It’s… honest.

And it wrecks me.

Maybe this is what healing feels like.

Not all at once. Not loud or dramatic.

Just this.

A slow, quiet undoing under your hands.

Your knuckles skim my chest, and something behind my ribs fucking aches. I’m not used to being touched like this. Not for comfort. Not for care.

I’ve been handled before—by fists, by orders, by hands that wanted something. But you? You don’t take. You give. Quietly. Without asking anything back.

You slide my shirt down my arms, and I don’t even think about stopping you. Your fingers pass over metal and skin like they’re no different. Like both belong to you. You press a kiss to my shoulder—not to prove something. Just because you wanted to.

You don’t care which part of me is flesh and which part isn’t.

To you, it’s all just me.

And that… that gets me more than anything else ever has.

I don’t speak. Don’t trust my voice not to break.

Because how the hell do you explain what it feels like to be unmade so gently?

You let the shirt fall, and your eyes take me in. Not like you’re searching for damage. Not like you’re checking for cracks. You just see me.

And you stay.

Your fingers brush the seam where metal meets scar, tracing it like a line of poetry. Something painful. Something permanent.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

I don’t mean to whisper when I answer, but I do. “Don’t wanna ruin this.”

You brush your nose along my cheek like you're trying to coax a smile out of stone. Like I’m some ancient statue carved hollow by the years, and you’re the only thing that still makes me feel.

“You don’t have to be so quiet, Bucks.”

I swallow, voice rough this time. “You’re so soft.”

My heart twists. “And I’m not.”

You hum like that’s a compliment.

“You don’t have to be soft,” you say, quiet but sure. “You just have to let me be.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to break.

Because it’s not just what you said. It’s how you said it. Like your softness is enough for both of us. Like you’ll cradle all the hard, unlovable parts of me in your hands and never once think they make me less worthy.

You reach for my belt next. No hesitation. No heat—not like that. Just this steady, grounding motion, like you’re undoing something that was never meant to hold me so tight. The buckle comes free, and I let you take it all—the leather, the tension, the weight.

You press a kiss to the edge of my jaw, soft and slow, and it undoes me more than any gunfire or bloodshed ever could.

One piece at a time, you strip me down until it’s just skin and old ghosts and all the parts of me I try to bury.

And still, you don’t look away.

You see me in ways that terrify me. You peel back every layer I thought I’d buried deep enough to never find again. And instead of recoiling, you just… stay.

You stay.

Even when I can’t look at myself in the mirror.

Even when I wake up in the middle of the night with blood in my mouth that isn’t real and names in my throat I don’t want to remember.

You stay.

You kneel on the bed, straddling my lap, and wrap your arms around me like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Like this is just another part of the evening. Like holding me is a habit.

Your forehead rests against mine.

“You’re safe,” you whisper.

Like it’s a promise.

Like it’s a truth I’ve forgotten how to believe.

But I believe you.

God, I believe you.

My arms slide around your waist, pulling you closer until I can bury my face in your throat and breathe you in. You don’t smell like perfume. You smell like home. Like sheets warmed by your skin. Like something I’ll never deserve—but I’ll never stop needing. Something steady in a world that never stays still.

And when you pull us down into the mattress, bringing the blanket up around our shoulders, curling into me like you’ve always belonged there—my body follows without question.

Like it was built to fit beside yours.

Alpine settles at our heads, spreading herself above both our pillows like she owns both of us.

You press your palm flat to my chest, like you’re reminding yourself I’m still here.

Like you’re anchoring me.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur.

And fuck, it hits me right in the gut.

Because you do.

You always have.

This isn’t redemption. It’s not penance. It’s just life.

God, how did I ever live without this?

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tag “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for more stories 😁

Maybe that was why, as he came out of the elevator onto their floor, his steps were heavier than usual. Why his breath came out slow and quiet, like he was bracing for something.

And then—

Melodious laughter.

Muffled, soft. Warmth carried through the door.

Angeliki’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, followed by Sam’s deep, rolling voice, too low to make out the words.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

His fingers curled around the strap of his duffel bag, his throat tight.

That sound—God, that sound—it wrapped around him, loosened something in his chest even as it ached.

He was home.

And yet…

If they were here, if they had time to sit and talk and laugh, they could have picked him up. They could have spared him an hour, a few minutes, something.

His jaw clenched.

But before that feeling could settle, before it could fester into something uglier, another sound filtered through the door—the unmistakable clatter of pots, the scrape of metal against glass.

Cooking.

And the smell—rich, deep, layered—

Bucky frowned.

That wasn’t takeout. That was home-cooked. And not just any home-cooked meal, but something Greek. He recognized it now, the familiar scent of cinnamon, eggplant, something roasting in the oven.

Something Angeliki had spent hours making.

Her grandma’s recipe.

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip on his bag loosening.

Maybe he was an idiot.

Maybe they had been busy.

And maybe—just maybe—they had been waiting for him all along.

He sighed, ran a hand through his short hair, and finally turned his key in the lock.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit him full force—rich, savory, mouthwatering. His stomach clenched in protest, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, nudging his boots off with his toes, his duffel bag landing in the usual spot by the entrance—forgotten the second it left his grip.

From the kitchen, a faint rhythm drifted through the apartment. Slow beats, a languid melody—exactly the kind of music Angeliki liked. She always had something playing when she cooked or handled chores. And if she didn’t, she’d hum, sometimes sing under her breath, like music was stitched into her very being.

But right now, she was laughing.

The sound was clear, chiming like a bell, warm and sweet in a way that curled around him, pressing against the parts of himself still wound tight from the trip. It pulled at something deep in his chest—memories of evenings spent just like this, of meals shared, of Sam’s teasing and Angeliki’s exasperated fondness.

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders as he rolled his neck, following the scent and the soft hum of conversation that grew clearer with each step.

Bucky smirked as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

The sight that greeted him was one he never would have imagined for himself a few years ago—Sam Wilson, Captain America himself, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour, a toothy grin on his face, looking far too pleased with himself. Next to him, Angeliki stood with her dark hair tied up in a messy bun, hands on her hips, exasperated but fond. A streak of flour ran across her cheek, and Bucky had the sudden urge to brush it off with his thumb.

The kitchen was a mess. Fine white powder dusted the counter, a measuring cup teetered on the edge of the sink, a bowl full of slices of caramelized plums, and an open bag of flour sat dangerously close to disaster. The moussaka was in the oven, its rich scent filling the air, but right now, they were focused on the pancake batter.

“—Not that much sugar, Méli mou!” Angeliki’s voice rang out, firm but amused. “We’re making pancakes, not trying to put him in a food coma.”

“Hey, I know what I’m doin’.” Sam sounded defensive, but Bucky could already see the smug grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, these are birthday pancakes. Gotta put some love in it.”

“Love, yes. A whole bucket of sugar? No.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, drawing their attention. “You let him near the sugar again? Rookie mistake.”

Angeliki’s head snapped toward him, and for a split second, surprise and flecks of gold flickered in her storm-gray eyes before warmth took over, making them dance. “Bucky.”

His name came out soft, like a sigh of relief, like maybe she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Then she was moving, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing the space between them in two swift strides. She didn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. The scent of perfume from her hair—roses and argan oil, sweet and spicy—and something distinctly her curled around him.

A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left his lungs.

“You’re home,” she exhaled in a sigh.

Sam, ever the instigator, grinned at them over Angeliki’s head. “Damn, Buck. Took you long enough.”

Bucky huffed but didn’t pull away. “Would’ve been here sooner if someone picked me up from the airport.”

Angeliki pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “If we did, you wouldn’t have had a surprise waiting, gliké mou.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider it. “Still sounds like an excuse.”

Sam scoffed. “You’re complainin’, but I see you eatin’ those pancakes the second they’re done.”

Bucky smirked. “Damn right I will.”

Angeliki rolled her eyes but tugged him by the wrist toward the kitchen. “C’mon, birthday boy. If you’re gonna complain, you might as well help.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, but there was no real frustration behind it. Instead, he let himself be pulled in. He stepped up behind her, looping an arm around her waist and pressing his lips to her temple, feeling the last of his travel-worn exhaustion melt away.

Angeliki leaned into him, instinctively, chuckling and Sam watched the exchange, his brown eyes filled with an unmistakable fondness.

This warmth, this laughter, this love.

Yeah.

This was home.

And it might be his birthday, but this was the best gift he could ask for.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tags “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for more stories 😁

It hadn’t been like this a few days ago. But it built, hour by hour, slow and cruel, until she felt like her limbs were all coiled up inside, like her muscles had turned to steel cables strung too tight, pulled taut and ready to snap.

Except they wouldn’t. That’s not how her body worked—or any human one for that matter.

So she kept stretching, adjusting, trying to ease the pressure before it drove her insane.

But it was no use. The storm wasn’t just outside anymore. It was inside her, too.

She sat at her desk, in her little corner of the infirmary, tucked between the supply closet and the diagnostic bed that no one ever used unless someone was actively bleeding—which happened more than it should have.

The neon lights were off, only a small lamp casting a soft, golden pool of light around her table, and the book in her lap.

That book had been opened to the same page for almost fifteen minutes, her thumb stuck between chapters. She wasn’t reading. Just… existing. Rocking gently side to side in her chair, slow little sways that helped more than they should. Her legs were propped up on the overturned waste bin—not glamorous, but better than nothing. It helped her hip some.

But the ache was still there. Deep. Gnawing. The kind of pain that wasn’t loud, but persistent. Insistent.

She’d fractured it nearly twenty years ago in an accident, and on days like today, it reminded her of every painstaking damage.

The thunder hadn’t broken yet. The sky outside was a sickly yellow-gray, air so thick it pressed down on her skin like a coat. Even the walls of the newly rebuilt tower seemed to groan.

She winced as another sharp jolt pulsed through her arm until it reached the tip of her pinky. She stretched her limb out again, rotating her wrist, trying to twist the sensation away. She must’ve looked ridiculous, squirming in her chair like a worm on a hook, mouth tight, eyes narrowed, stimming just to keep sane.

She was so focused on the uncomfortable sensation that she didn’t hear the door open. But she felt the shift in the air, heard the boots on tile. A presence like gravity walked into the room.

She glanced up, her chair spun halfway around as she turned expecting anyone but him. Yet there he was.

Bucky Barnes looked like shit.

His hair was slightly damp with sweat, a few dark strands sticking to his forehead. His jaw was clenched so tight she could practically hear it grinding. His right hand was cradling the side of his head, fingers pressed into his temple, like he could physically stop the pain from pulsing there, and the other braced against the doorframe, like the act of standing upright was increasing the pain even more. His dog tags hung low over a black T-shirt that clung to him, evidence of the heat and the weight pressing down on him, too.

"Please tell me you’ve got the good stuff," he muttered, voice gravel-low, eyes pinched nearly shut—squinting against the low light coming from outside through the huge glass panels—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight like he’d walked through hell just to get to the infirmary. "Feels like there’s a jackhammer behind my eyes trying to push my brain out through my eye sockets."

She blinked at him, slowly lifting the book off her thighs and setting it aside to point at the supply closet. “Top drawer. Behind the gloves. Red bottle. The one labeled ‘Headaches & Regrets,’” she still managed to jest.

That earned a soft huff from him—not quite a laugh, but close enough—and a soft thanks, but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, his eyes settled on her. Her arm was halfway raised again, shoulder rolled forward in slow, pained circles. She hadn’t realized she was still doing it.

He frowned. “You good?”

She blinked. “I’m fine.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Her words had been blurted out a little too fast for her to be fine.

The way his gaze searched her face made her feel small. Not in a bad way, but in the way someone feels seen and isn’t used to it. His eyes dropped to her hands, still subtly stretching and twisting at the wrists, then to her legs, propped up awkwardly. The rocking. The subtle winces she’d been trying to hide.

“Storm’s messing with you, too, uh?”

That wasn’t really a question, more like a polite affirmation from someone who got it but didn’t want to assume.

She hesitated, finaly settling for something vague. “Old injury. Messed up my hip and a bunch of my nerve endings. Weather like this… it’s kind of a bitch.”

“I get it,” he said. “My skull’s been ringing like a church bell since yesterday.”

She nodded, huffing, defeated by the weather. “It’s like that storm is turning me into a goddamn barometer.”

Bucky let out a breath that was almost a laugh, tired, strained, but understanding.

“Yeah. I’m getting the deluxe version too. Pressure’s been climbing all week. Think the serum makes it worse. Sensitive to pressure changes or whatever. It’s like I could feel that storm coming an hour before it even got close. Can barely think straight now.”

She gave a tired little shrug. “Bet your barometer doesn’t creak like a haunted house when you stand up, though.”

That made him smirk, just a little. “You’d be surprised.”

She nodded with a faint, weary smile that turned into a grimace as she dropped her arm and the muscles spasmed in protest.

She watched Bucky finally move, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, opening the drawer with his flesh hand while the metal one hung limp at his side. She noticed the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his neck. He moved like every sound in the room was too loud. She knew that feeling. She watched him pull out the bottle she’d pointed to, but he didn’t take the pills right away. His eyes were back on her.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone when you’re hurting,” he said after a second. It wasn’t a command. Just a quiet observation. Gentle, even.

She shrugged… or at least tried to. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. Everyone’s out. Figured it’d pass.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t move. He had that look—the kind people get when they’re watching someone bleed and trying not to show it.

“You know… storm’s not gonna pass for some times,” he said. “And I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

He watched her for a beat more, then nodded at her rocking motion. “You want company, or should I leave you to… whatever pain ritual this is?”

She flushed a bit, shifting in her chair. “It’s a very scientific technique. Ancient. Passed down by physiotherapists everywhere. Rock ‘til it stops hurting.”

He chuckled—low, rough, and real. The sound warmed something in her chest.

Without waiting for permission, he grabbed the chair across from her and dragged it closer, letting it creak beneath him as he sat down. She noticed his movements were slower than usual. Like gravity was heavier today, too.

“You been with us what… three weeks now?” he asked after a second. “Feels longer.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “In a good way, I hope.”

Bucky leaned back, his good hand finally twisting the cap off the pill bottle.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t.”

That brought a smile to her lips, and warmth bloomed in her cheeks as she rocked forward gently in her chair, still swaying a little. She wasn’t used to that kind of attention, and embarrassment crept through her chest, making her eyes drop to a paper cup on her desk. It had gone lukewarm, forgotten long ago. Her mouth turned dry at the thought. She exhaled, slowly unhooking her legs from the upturned bin beneath them.

“I think I’m gonna refill this,” she said, voice light, even as her body protested every motion. She finished the cup before glancing at Bucky. “You want a drink too, or should I keep the top-shelf whiskey to myself?”

His lips curved at the corner. “Tempting. But I don’t think mixing painkillers with bourbon is a good idea.”

“Lightweight,” she muttered playfully as she rose from the chair.

That first movement—rising onto her right leg—was manageable. Not pleasant, but familiar. But as soon as her weight shifted to her left, a sharp clok rang out from deep in her hip joint. Loud. Heavy. And instantly wrong.

She groaned, the pain electric. Hot and sudden and white behind her eyes. She barely had time to grimace before her knee gave way, her whole leg buckling underneath her with no warning.

“Shit–!” She mentally braced for impact. But it never came.

A firm grip caught her wrist before her brain could register what had even happened. Another settled around her waist, solid and grounding. She blinked, heart pounding, and found herself pressed close to Bucky’s chest, the edge of his vibranium hand braced against her spine, holding her steady like she weighed nothing at all.

A scent—a mix of sweat, metal, gunpowder, and leather—so very masculine and intoxicating, wrapped around her.

“Got you.” His words were low, close—so close it made her head spin for a moment.

She realized then: he hadn’t even thought. Hadn’t planned. He’d moved before the sound of her hip had even fully registered. His face was right in front of hers, frown deep, blue eyes flicking between her expression and her legs like he was already scanning for more damage.

“I’m–” She sucked in a breath. “–Fine. That was just… spectacular timing.”

“You’re not fine,” he said, calm but firm. “That sound came from inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, trying to shake the nerves. “It’s just as I said… old injury. It does that sometimes. Storm’s pulling at it worse than usual. It’ll ease up in a second.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” he murmured, not moving his arm from around her, “while you were rocking like a metronome.”

Her cheeks heated, but she hid it under sarcasm. “I didn’t think you noticed.” The tone was playful, masking embarrassment.

“I notice everything,” he said, softer now. Then, after a beat, “Especially pain.”

She swallowed hard. The closeness wasn’t helping her pulse calm down. His body was warm, even through the sweat and the tension, and the way he held her—firm but careful, like she’d break if he wasn’t—was doing something dangerous to her ribcage.

“I just wanted some water,” she whispered jokingly. “Didn’t think I’d trigger a full rescue mission.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he didn’t let go. “You still want it?”

Her eyes lifted to his. “…Yeah.”

He let out a small sigh, then tilted his head toward the chair. “Then sit. I’ll get it.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I know,” he said, already stepping away, guiding her gently back into her seat with one hand before turning toward the fountain.

She fell back into the chair with a quiet grunt, blinking at his retreating form as he walked toward the far wall, refilling her paper cup with cool, clean water. His broad shoulders were tense, the line of his jaw still tight. Whatever headache he was battling, it didn’t stop him from noticing her.

When he came back, he handed her the water with a look she couldn’t quite place. Something cautious. Gentle. Quietly angry, but not at her.

“So… the hip, huh?” he asked, voice soft as he leaned against the edge of the desk.

She nodded, sipping slowly.

“Car accident,” she said after a pause. “Twenty years ago. Fracture never fully healed the right way. Most days it’s manageable.”

“And on days like this?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged, sheepish. “I avoid standing. And maybe do some rocking-chair stimming like a grandma.”

He smiled—really smiled this time. And it wasn’t pity. It was something warmer. Something closer to understanding.

“Tower’s sensors showed the storm should break soon,” he murmured. “When it does, maybe we’ll both get some quiet.”

She gave him a small smile in return. “If we survive until then.”

Bucky nodded, then tapped his fingers lightly against the desk.

“Alright,” he said, like it was a mission briefing. “We keep at it. You stay here, keep doing your magic physio rock moves. I’ll sit here and be your very grumpy weather buddy.”

She looked at him. “That your way of asking if you can keep hanging out here?”

He arched a brow. “I’m not asking.”

And then he sat back. Close enough that her knees almost bumped his. And somehow, that storm outside felt a little further away.

They didn’t talk for a while.

The hum of the building’s vents filled the space, joined by the occasional creak of metal as the storm’s pressure pressed against the tower. The lights in the hallway flickered once—not enough to be alarming, just a reminder that something was still coming. Simmering. Brewing.

Bucky sat in the chair across from her, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on his thighs, the pill bottle now forgotten on the side of her desk. His head hung low like the weight in his skull was still pulling him down, but his eyes occasionally flicked her way, quietly checking on her without drawing attention to it.

She, meanwhile, had resumed her gentle rocking. Barely noticeable to most—just a soft side-to-side sway. It soothed her hip. Her spine. Her nerves. She wasn’t sure if it was helping him too, but he hadn’t moved since sitting down.

She was used to silence in here. But not this kind.

This one had gravity. A pull that was almost impossible to ignore.

She risked a glance at him. His hair had fallen into his face again, slightly damp and dark and sticking to his temple. He didn’t brush it away. He looked tired. And in the quiet, something pulled at her chest—not pity, but that ache of recognition. She wasn’t the only one carrying around old wounds that flared in bad weather.

She opened her mouth– And so did he. “So everyone’s on mission but you?” “How’d you end up working for Valentina?”

Both sentences collided in the air and just… hung there. She blinked. He blinked. Then they both let out a breath of something close to a bashful laugh.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Uh. Sorry. You go first.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, still wearing that look—part curiosity, part caution. “How long have you been doing this… job? You’ve got that… polite vibe still. Like we still didn’t… damage that.”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Yeah, I haven’t been shot at or emotionally traumatized in a briefing room yet, so I guess I’m not fully initiated. I’m still pretty green.”

He gave a soft snort at that, then tilted his head. “So? How’d you end up here? With us?”

She looked down at her cup, rolling the rim between her palms. She wasn’t sure what kind of answer he expected. The truth always sounded so… underwhelming. “I didn’t pick this job because of Valentina,” she said finally. “I picked it despite her.”

That made his brow lift a little.

“I was working in rehab facilities for powered people. Got decent at it. Especially the ones who didn’t trust easily.” She offered a small, wry smile. “Apparently that makes me an asset. When the place got shut down for lack of funds, she made me an offer. Said I’d be working with people who didn’t like to be touched, who didn’t like hospitals, who didn’t believe they could be helped. Thought of it like a challenge.”

She hesitated. “Then she told me it was for the Thunderbolts. And I– I almost said no.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged, then winced as it pulled at her shoulder. “Because something about it felt important. I don’t really know how to explain it. Like maybe if I did this, I’d be helping people who’d never had the chance to heal. People like me. Or…” Her eyes lifted to his. “…People like you.”

His gaze softened. Just a little.

She sat back in her chair again, letting her hip shift carefully. “Alright, your turn,” she said. “You’re not on the mission today?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t need me. It was recon-heavy. Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei have their rhythm for that kind of thing. I’d just be in the way.”

She gave him a look. “You? In the way?”

Bucky shrugged. “Some days I don’t like quiet jobs. Especially not when my head’s pounding like right now. Makes it worse.”

She frowned. “So you came here to… what? Pop painkillers in your system like candies and listen to me creak like an old house?”

He actually smiled at that, and it reached his eyes this time—tired, yes, but real. “You creak,” he agreed. “But it’s not loud.”

She snorted, brow arched. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

He looked at her for a long second, then said softly, “You don’t make the room feel empty. That’s more than I can say for most.”

That shut her up real quick.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense this time. It was… different. Like the pressure in the room had shifted—just slightly. Still heavy. Still storm-laced. But not as lonely.

Outside, thunder still hadn’t come. But it was closer. And inside, maybe something was starting to crack. Not painfully. Just enough to let a little light in.

The silence stretched, low and weighted. She thought he might say something else, but instead, he just let his head fall forward into his hands again, fingers digging into his temples with a frustrated grunt. The tension in his neck had only gotten worse, muscles locked in place like stone.

She winced in sympathy. Her own body still ached, but watching someone else suffer—someone who never really let it show—was a whole other kind of pain.

She set her cup down, grabbed the edge of the desk for leverage, and slowly stood. The dull fire in her hip flared again, but she bit it back and rolled her shoulders, loosening the stiffness in her joints with a few practiced movements. Her neck popped twice, her knuckles once.

The sound made Bucky look up. “What are you doing?”

She rounded behind him slowly, using his chair to avoid losing balance again. “It physically hurts me to see you in this much pain,” she said gently, voice laced with quiet determination. “Let’s see if we can make it better.”

“I’m fine.”

She gave him a flat look. “You’re not. And it’s literally my job. I’ve just been sitting in here, doing nothing, reading a book while on payroll. At least let me try to do something useful.”

He sighed, already half-defeated by the logic. “You sure? You’re the one in pain.”

She huffed softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Cause you’re not? Trust me. I’m better when I’m moving. Sitting still is what kills me.”

He didn’t argue again. Just gave a small grunt and nodded forward, letting her come up behind him.

She gently placed her hands on either side of his neck, over the collar of his shirt, testing the pressure before applying any. His muscles were rock solid, and not in a flattering way. Every inch of his upper back felt like it had been wired for tension.

She pressed slowly, thumbs working small, careful circles through the fabric.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let out a breath through his nose. But she could feel the slight give in his posture. His body had been bracing against touch, against help, and it was starting to loosen, like he was remembering how to receive care.

She kept working along the base of his neck, thumbs brushing the sides of his spine, focused and methodical.

“You don’t have to be so polite about it,” he muttered eventually, voice a little rough. “I’m not a modest teenager anymore.”

She blinked—then realized what he meant. Just as she was about to say something witty in return, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one smooth motion.

The fabric dropped onto the desk beside him.

And she forgot to breathe.

His back was a map of old battles. Long, pale lines of healed wounds, some faded, others still raw-looking. A puckered scar along the metal on his left shoulder, jagged like it had been torn open instead of cut. Bullet holes. Knife marks. Burns. She couldn’t look away, but she also knew better than to linger.

Letting out a small breath through her nose, she turned quickly, busying herself at the small cabinet near the wall.

Two things came out of habit: a bottle of peppermint essential oil and a neutral massage base, unscented. The menthol would help with the tension. The oil would keep her fingers from catching on all that hard-earned damage.

When she turned back, Bucky was sitting still, arms resting on his thighs again, eyes on the far wall. He hadn’t looked back. He wasn’t watching for her reaction. But she knew he was listening.

She said nothing.

Just poured a few drops of the neutral oil blend into her palms, rubbed them warm slowly, and laid her hands gently on his bare shoulders.

His skin was warm. Scarred. Solid beneath her touch. But he didn’t flinch.

“Tell me if it gets too much,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “I trust you.” And Gods—if that wasn’t the heaviest thing anyone had ever said to her in a whisper.

She swallowed, nodded once, and pressed her thumbs into the tight muscles just below his neck. Slow. Steady. Careful not to lean too far, though her arms ached with effort. She worked in practiced patterns—releasing tension around the base of his skull, then down along the traps, across the tops of his shoulder blades.

He was so still.

And it wasn’t until she passed over a knot near his shoulder blade that he let out a shaky breath, like the pain had finally found an exit point.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. She just kept working, quietly watching the tension leave his body drop by drop.

The storm hadn’t broken yet. But this steady silence? It felt like shelter.

Her hands kept moving, slow and sure, working through the worst of the tightness near his spine and the base of his neck. He didn’t speak again, only let out the occasional breath or low grunt when her thumbs found another knot. She kept her pressure firm but careful, not going deeper unless she could feel it was okay to press harder.

And then, without thinking, she started to hum.

Soft. Barely audible. Just enough to fill the silence.

It was instinct, the tune rising quietly into the space between them. The slow, drifting notes of Gymnopédie No.1, that haunting, bittersweet rhythm that steadied her hands, her breath, her focus. Like it had always had for years.

She’d used it in clinics, rehab, even during her own therapy. She barely noticed she was doing it anymore. Until Bucky’s voice broke through.

“What’s that?”

She stilled—hands, humming, everything. Eyes flicked to the back of his head.

“Hm?”

“That tune,” he said, softer now. Less gravel, more curious. “You were humming. What is it?”

Her mouth parted, surprised. “Oh– Oh Gods. Sorry. I didn’t even realize–”

His head tilted slightly. “Didn’t say I minded. Feels familiar, but I can’t place it.”

She hesitated, then gave a small laugh—the kind that said wow, I feel stupid, but also thanks for not making it weird.

“It’s just a… a reflex? Satie. Gymnopédie No.1. Classical. Kind of my go-to when I’m working.”

“Why?”

She smiled faintly, pressing her thumbs back into the space between his shoulders. “The tempo. It’s slow, steady. Helps me match my rhythm. Usually it stays in my head, but sometimes…” She gave a sheepish shrug, even if he couldn’t see it. “…it slips out.”

He was quiet a moment, then said: “It’s nice.”

Her hands faltered again—just a breath. Then she kept going.

“It helps me pace myself,” she added more softly, “otherwise I rush. And my joints don’t like rushing. Neither do my patients.”

A low hum rumbled from his chest, more felt than heard.

“I get that,” he said eventually. “I used to march to rhythm, too. In the war. Had to. Kept the unit together. Still keeps me together, some days.”

She didn’t speak. Just kept working. Gentle. Quiet.

The tension in him was slowly fading—not gone, but enough to loosen the hard lines of his shoulders. Enough to make him breathe differently.

She started humming again, quieter now. Almost just for herself.

And Bucky let it happen. He didn’t interrupt. He just… let her be with him in the stillness.

Eventually, her hands slowed.

The knots in his shoulders had softened, the tension in his neck no longer rigid under her thumbs. He still held a bit of stiffness, the kind that lingered after living with pain for too long, but the worst of it? She’d worked it loose. He hadn’t spoken much during the massage, but his breathing had shifted—longer exhales, shoulders less braced. Like something inside him had finally… let go.

She poured a single drop of peppermint oil onto her fingertip. Just one. Rubbing it between her fingers to warm it, she stepped to his side.

“Close your eyes for me,” she said gently.

Bucky obeyed without a word.

Her touch was featherlight as she brushed the oil across his temples, then between his brows. She didn’t press, didn’t dig—just enough to let the cooling menthol settle over his skin.

He exhaled—deep and low—the kind of sigh that slipped out before he could catch it.

“Is it still there?” she asked quietly.

“The headache?” he murmured. “Yeah. But it’s… getting quiet now. Like someone finally turned down the volume.”

She gave a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”

He kept his eyes closed as she stepped away, walking carefully to the sink. She turned on the water, rinsing her hands and wrists to wash the oil away. The cool water eased her own aching joints for a beat, even if the motion tugged at her hip again.

“Shirt on,” she called over her shoulder. “Muscles need to stay warm if you don’t want them locking back up.”

He chuckled faintly. “Yes, doc.”

When she turned off the faucet and dried her hands, she glanced back just in time to see him tugging the black T-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched across his shoulders, settling over all the old scars she’d just touched with such care. The sight made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the atmospheric pressure.

She turned away, hiding the tiny smile threatening to give her away, and started her slow walk back to her chair. Every step made her hip twinge, and by the halfway point, she winced, letting out a soft breath.

Bucky caught the sound.

He was already on his feet before she reached for the desk. “You good?”

She waved him off halfheartedly. “Just feeling like a fossil today. Happens when your bones think the weather’s a threat. Not ideal when you’re in your late thirties.”

He reached her in two strides, one hand on her arm, the other hovering at her back—not pushing, not forcing, just there in case she needed him.

“You don’t look a day over twenty-five,” he said, brow furrowed but his voice soft, genuine. “Was about to ask you what high school you graduated from.”

She let out a small laugh through her next wince, easing herself carefully into the chair again.

“Oh please. You do realize I’m from the same century as you, right? Just a few… decades later.”

“Still,” he said, watching as she adjusted her legs with a small grunt, “you definitely don’t look like someone with a haunted hip.”

She arched a brow, smirking. “And you don’t look like someone who’s a hundred and ten years old, Barnes. Must be all that clean living.”

He snorted and sat back down across from her, this time leaning on the edge of the desk like he’d meant to stay longer all along.

“Something like that,” he murmured, his tone teasing—but behind his eyes, there was something softer. Something unreadable.

She didn’t press. Just sat back, finally letting herself rest now that her part was done.

For now, the storm still hadn’t broken. But the pressure in the room? It had eased. Like maybe this was the beginning of something quieter. Something that didn’t hurt.

The calm between them lingered.

For a moment, it felt like the air itself was holding its breath—that fragile peace between pain and relief, between the ache and whatever came next.

And that’s when the storm broke.

A sharp, rolling CRACK of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the tower’s windows with a vengeance. It was so sudden, so violent, that her whole body jolted in the chair before she could stop it. Her breath caught. Her hand flew to her chest. And from her lips, involuntarily–

A small, startled yelp.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But too real.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her instantly, eyes wide, alert. “Hey– Hey. You okay?”

She blinked, struggling to calm her pulse as the distant rumble gave way to a constant hiss. The rain had started—not gentle, but fast, like it had been waiting all week to be let loose, to be freed. It splattered against the tall windows, a steady downpour that covered the tower in sound.

She inhaled deeply, held it for three seconds, then exhaled slow. One breath. Then another.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t. Not really. “Loud bangs just… throw me off. Muscle memory. From the… the accident, the... crash.”

Bucky’s expression softened. He didn’t reach for her this time, just stayed where he was, giving her space—but his attention was entirely on her.

“Rain’s good, though,” she said after a moment, trying to settle back into her chair. “Means the pressure’s finally dropping. Storm’s finally moving on.”

He nodded slowly, gaze lingering on her face. “You still hurting?”

She gave a tired smile. “Always. But it’ll get better. That’s something.”

They sat there, listening to the steady drumming of the rain for a few long, quiet seconds.

And then– “Bucky?”

A voice echoed in from the hallway. Not loud, but bright, slightly out of breath.

Bucky sighed, his head turning toward the door just before Robert Reynolds appeared in the frame—tall, chestnut-haired, like a golden retriever looking for his owner, yet clearly trying not to intrude.

“Sorry,” Bob said, giving her a small nod of greeting. “Alexei’s pinged us on comms. Yelena needs an extraction run, and Walker’s got a sprained ankle like an absolute amateur—her words not mine. Mel says Val wants your opinion on rerouting the pickup.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “Course she does.”

He stood up slowly, reaching for the bottle of painkillers he’d set aside earlier, pocketing it with a quiet mutter. Then he turned to face her, pausing just a beat too long.

She met his eyes.

“Go. I’ll be fine,” she said gently, answering the unspoken question. “The world needs its grumpiest strategist.”

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from him.

He hesitated, then nodded. “You sure?”

She smiled, softer now, motioning to the infirmary with a vague wave of her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And there was something in his face when she said it, something that cracked open, just slightly. Like he wasn’t used to people saying that. Let alone meaning it.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice lower. “I’ll be back. Soon.”

Then he turned and followed Bob into the hallway, boots thudding softly against the floor until the door eased shut behind him.

She leaned back slowly, her body still aching but somehow… lighter.

Outside, the rain continued—an insistent but somehow soothing soundtrack. And for the first time in days, the air felt breathable.

It had been a few days since the storm broke.

The skies had cleared. The air was lighter. And true to her word… she hadn’t gone anywhere.

She was always in the infirmary. Reading. Sorting supplies. Stretching stiff joints. Sometimes humming under her breath. And almost always—at some point in the day—Bucky showed up.

Never for anything major.

Once, he asked if she needed help lifting a box from the top shelf. Another time, he offered to walk down to the supply room and fetch extra gauze. Just the other day, he came in with a scraped knuckle that barely needed a bandage.

And some days? He didn’t come in at all. Just walked past. Twice. Three times, maybe. Like he’d forgotten something. Like he needed to be reminded she was still there.

She noticed. Of course she did. But she didn’t call him out for it. Just smiled. Softly. Kept going.

And then—today—came the mission.

She was sorting antiseptic bottles, back turned to the door, when the heavy sound of boots and uneven hurried steps echoed in the hallway.

She barely had time to turn before the door banged open.

“Hey, doc!” Walker’s voice rang out. “Got a situation!”

Her heart jumped before she even saw him. When she did, her stomach dropped.

Bucky was leaning against Walker, pale but upright, one hand clamped around his right side. Blood had soaked through his T-shirt, trailing down his abdomen, glistening against the black fabric. His jaw was set. Eyes steady. Mumbling it was gonna be fine, that he’d lived through worse… but he was clearly in pain.

She gasped. Just once. Then everything snapped into place. Professional mask on. Hands moving.

“Put him on the table—now.” Her voice was steady, controlled, as she swept supplies onto a tray and yanked gloves from the dispenser. “Close the door behind you.”

Walker obeyed without a word. Bucky grunted as he sat down, peeling off his suit with practiced hands, blood smearing over his skin as the fabric tugged against the wound.

She approached with quick, practiced steps, eyes scanning the damage. The shot had hit his side—just below the ribs. Deep enough to bleed like hell, but from what she could see, it hadn’t hit anything fatal and there was an exit wound. Good. It meant the bullet wasn’t still inside anymore.

She let out a quiet breath, mostly for herself.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she said, grabbing gauze. “It missed your lung. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to her face. “I’m not worried,” he said, calm as ever.

She forced a smile, tone a little dry. “Yeah, well. One of us has to be.”

Her hands worked quickly, cleaning the wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

“I’ve stitched worse,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “It’s just another tear. Muscle and skin. That’s all.”

Walker lingered for a moment, but when it was clear she had it under control, he gave Bucky a look and stepped out with a muttered, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

The door clicked shut.

Bucky sat back on the table, watching her as she prepared the suture kit.

She didn’t meet his eyes. She was too focused on the needle. On the antiseptic. On not letting her hands shake.

Only when she leaned closer to him to begin stitching, her face near his side, did she speak again. “You shouldn’t scare people like that,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Didn’t mean to.”

Her fingers paused at his skin, breath caught halfway in her throat. Then she started stitching.

Slow. Steady. Clean.

She worked in silence for a beat too long, trying to keep her hands from trembling, trying to stop her heart from pounding against her ribs like it was her body that had taken the hit.

She cleaned the wound carefully, movements efficient. But she couldn’t keep the mutter under her breath from slipping out. “Always playing heroes… getting yourselves half-killed…”

Her tone was low, bitter. Too honest.

Bucky’s brow twitched with something like amusement. “Didn’t know you’d be this worried, doc.”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Her jaw clenched tight as she tied off the last stitch, breath held. Then finally, she said it—quiet but heavy.

“Well, I am.” Just that. No explanation. No humor. Only concern, raw and stripped bare, bleeding out of her like it had nowhere else to go.

The words hung in the room, still and weighty.

Bucky didn’t respond. Not out loud. But something shifted in the way he looked at her—just slightly. Like maybe he hadn’t expected her to care. Not like that. Not enough for her voice to crack under the pressure of it.

She cleared her throat, blinking away whatever heat had just flooded her chest, and stepped around him.

“The bullet went clean through,” she said, her voice back to clinical, careful. “Exit wound’s low on your waist. Needs closing too.”

He nodded, already bracing himself as she guided him to roll onto his side, careful not to tug at the fresh stitches on his front.

“Hold still,” she murmured, fingers at his hip. “It’s going to sting.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just reached forward and grabbed the edge of the metal table with his hand, knuckles going white.

But his eyes? They were on her. Watching as her brow furrowed, as her hands moved with calm precision. Watching the way her lashes fluttered, the small crease between her brows. The way she breathed through the pain that wasn’t even hers.

She didn’t notice. She was too focused. Too inside her own head, trying to keep it together. Trying not to imagine what would’ve happened if the shot had been a few inches higher. If he hadn’t made it back. If Walker had burst in through that door alone.

So she worked. And Bucky watched.

Letting himself feel it—just a little. Letting himself be cared for. Maybe for the first time in a very long time.

She tied the last stitch on his lower side with a practiced flick, then gently hooked her arm under his to help him sit back. He grunted but didn’t complain, letting her guide him as he eased upright again on the edge of the medical table.

His breath caught slightly as he sat. She was already reaching for clean gauze and the bandage roll from the tray.

“Alright,” she said, voice low, focused. “I’m going to wrap you up, and then you’re on strict no heroics for a few days. No sparring, no training, not even rooftop brooding. You hear me? The serum’ll do the heavy lifting, but the stitches need time.”

He let out a small grunt. “Know that already.”

She nodded, starting to wrap the gauze carefully around his middle. “I know you do.” She adjusted the angle. “But I still have to say it.”

The bandage wrapped snug across his ribs, layer after layer. Her fingers brushed the side of his chest, her hands working around the curve of his back.

“I’ll redo the dressing every day,” she continued. “In the morning. I’ll stop by your room.”

He shifted slightly under her touch. “I can do it myself.”

Her fingers froze. She didn’t look up. But her voice—oh, her voice—tightened, sharp like snapped wire.

“I’m not paid to sit around and read books, Barnes.”

The air between them went still. She kept her eyes on the bandage. Her jaw clenched.

“I’m here to take care of you. All of you. That’s the job. So let me do it.”

He didn’t argue this time. Just went very still under her hands. A beat passed. Then another.

She resumed her work, finishing the bandage in tense silence. But her fingers had lost their rhythm, the pressure off just enough to slip.

That's when it hit—her hand spasming mid-wrap, a sharp jolt of pain shooting from her wrist into her palm.

She hissed through her teeth, pulling her hand back instinctively and clenching it into a fist. The ache flared worse, sharp and hot in the tendons.

Bucky straightened, brow furrowing. “What–”

“It’s fine,” she muttered quickly, cradling her hand with her good one.

But her thumb was trembling. She flexed her fingers, trying to loosen the cramp.

He watched her, frown deepening. “Your hand–”

“I said it’s fine.”

She turned away slightly, embarrassed, massaging her palm and knuckles through the rubber of the glove. The stiffness in her joints made her whole hand feel like it had been turned to stone, and she hated how visible it was—how easily her body betrayed her when emotions ran too hot.

“It does that sometimes,” she said, voice lower now. “When I go too fast. Or get too tense.”

She didn’t say when I worry too much. But it was there. Hanging between the words.

She expected him to joke. To tease. Maybe to grumble that she couldn’t take care of anyone if she couldn’t even take care of herself first.

But he didn’t. He just sat there. Quiet.

And then, softly: “Give it here.”

She kept massaging her palm, stubbornly working her thumb over the tense knot near her wrist. It wasn’t helping much. The muscles were locked tight, the ache refusing to fade. Still, she muttered:

“It’s okay.”

Bucky raised a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah. Sure,” he said, dry as hell, laced with sarcasm. “You say that like I can’t hear your joints begging for mercy from where I sit.”

She scowled faintly, still not looking at him. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know you’ve had worse,” he shot back, more quietly now. “Doesn’t mean you have to tough it out alone.”

She paused.

He shifted slightly, resting his arm on his knee, his voice lowering again. Not teasing anymore—just… steady. “You take care of us. Every damn one of us. Even when we don’t ask for it.”

He glanced at her trembling hand. “But who takes care of you when you need it?”

That hit a little too close.

She let out a sigh, long and quiet, and finally rolled her eyes—not out of annoyance, but resignation. She knew when she’d been caught.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late,” he murmured, corner of his mouth twitching up in the slightest smirk.

She held out her hand—reluctantly, palm up. It felt strange to offer it like that. Like a weakness. Like surrender.

Bucky took it gently, removed the glove, his fingers surprisingly warm, strong but careful. He didn’t rush, didn’t squeeze, just held her like she was made of something worth being gentle with.

He turned her hand slightly in his, examining the lines of tension, the way her thumb curved, the pads of her fingers still curled slightly inward.

“You did this for me the other day,” he said softly. “Let me return the favor.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with her throat that tight.

He hesitated, brow furrowing slightly as he gently pressed into a pressure point at the base of her thumb.

“I’m not as precise as you,” he added. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

She swallowed. “You’re not.” And then a breath. “I can hum the rhythm... if that helps.”

Bucky looked up at her, a little surprised.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice almost fond. “I’ll take it.”

She nodded, hesitating only a second before starting to hum—slow and low—that same Satie piece, Gymnopédie No.1, her voice soft in the sterile quiet of the infirmary.

He followed the pace. Let his hands move in time with the melody. Gentle pressure. Careful circles. He focused like it mattered. Because to him, it did.

And for the first time in a long time, someone held her together.

Not because she asked. But because he noticed. Because he saw right through her. Right through her pushing him away. And he refused to give in.

His fingers worked over hers in slow, practiced rhythm, her quiet humming filling the space between them. The pain in her hand was dulling now—not completely gone, but eased, tamed by the warmth of his touch and the weight of his presence.

It was strange, letting someone do this for her. Stranger still that it was him—especially when she was supposed to be the one taking care of him.

“That tune’s gonna be stuck in my head forever now,” he murmured, still working his thumb in slow, even circles against her palm.

She smiled faintly. “Good. It’s worth knowing.”

His hand stilled for just a moment, holding hers a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I’ll always know how to fix you… if you need it.”

She looked up, caught off guard. His eyes were already on her.

Not flirtatious. Not teasing. Just honest. And it undid something in her.

Before she could answer—or even breathe properly—the door creaked open again.

“Hey, Barnes,” came Walker’s voice, loud and clueless as ever. “You two done with your little therapy hour? Val’s asking for you at the debrief.”

The doc didn’t hide her glare. In fact, she turned to level it at him.

Walker paused, blinking, looking at Bucky to understand what he said that she didn’t like. “…What?”

Bucky sighed, muttering something that might’ve been “You have the subtlety of a brick.”

She took a step back, finally slipping her hand from Bucky’s and finished dressing his wound properly before he moved to ease off the table. Walker stepped in to help, but she cut in with a sharp look first.

“No heroics,” she said firmly, pointing a warning finger from her good hand at Bucky. “I mean it.”

He smirked faintly, which only made her frown deepen.

“I’ll come to your room tomorrow morning,” she added, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. “To redo the dressing.”

“You said that already, doc,” he murmured with a faint smirk.

And even though he didn’t say thank you, the look he gave her—steady, lingering—felt like one.

She didn’t look away until he did. And even then, she could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

The knock on his door was quiet but deliberate. Two short raps. Like she didn’t want to wake him—only, she knew he was awake.

Bucky was halfway through rubbing a towel through his hair when he heard it.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His dog tags glinted faintly against the dark blue fabric of the henley he’d finally settled on. Not his usual black-on-black uniform. Something softer. Maybe intentional. Maybe not.

His eyes drifted to the bed squared from old military habits. The dark red shirt still laying there on its hanger made him grimace. He grabbed it.

“One sec,” he called through the door, tossing the towel through the bathroom door and shoving the spare shirt into his wardrobe like it was the most incriminating piece of evidence in the world. He rubbed a hand down his face, took a breath, and opened the door.

She stood there, already in her white coat over a comfy sweater and old jeans, hair pinned up loosely with a pen like she’d thrown it together on autopilot, med pouch in hand. That familiar tiredness in her eyes.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled.

“Morning,” she returned softly, gaze flicking over the henley with the barest hint of amusement. Then her eyes shifted past him. She noticed the other shirt sticking awkwardly from the wardrobe, askew on its hanger. Smiled, but said nothing.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped aside. “Come in.”

She breezed past him without hesitation and motioned toward the bed. “Sit. Shirt off.”

He raised a brow at the command but obeyed, tugging the fabric over his head with practiced ease and tossing it aside.

The wounds looked clean—no sign of infection, just faint redness around the stitches. Still, she moved with sharp focus, dragging the room’s chair closer and settling in front of him to unwind the gauze she’d wrapped around his waist the day before.

“How was the night?” she asked lightly.

He shrugged. “Had worse.”

Her eyes flicked up briefly. “How’s your side?”

He arched a brow. “How’s your hand?”

She smirked faintly, uncapping the disinfectant. “I’ve had worse.”

Then, pressing the pad gently against his stitched skin, she added flatly: “Two can play this game.”

A small huff of laughter escaped him.

“You know I’m supposed to assess you, right?” she went on. “Not just physically. Mentally, too. The whole team actually. Val’s orders.”

He didn’t flinch, but his voice dropped, blunt and unbothered. “You read my file.” It wasn’t a question.

Her hands slowed slightly. She didn’t deny it. “I did,” she admitted instead. “Because it’s my job.”

She paused, meeting his gaze squarely. “But I don’t pretend to understand what you went through. That would be insulting.”

His jaw flexed subtly, expression unreadable, eyes on her hands.

She shifted, handling the gauze with more care this time. “I just know,” she continued, quieter now, “that sometimes… all it takes is one bad night. One sound. One memory. And old wounds start bleeding like they never healed.”

Her voice stayed steady, but the undercurrent was unmistakable.

She didn’t need to say more. He’d seen it happen the day the storm finally broke. The thunder. The yelp. The way her body locked up like it remembered every metal crunch and shattered glass of that crash twenty years ago.

She finished securing the bandage and leaned back, meeting his gaze again. “I know you can handle pain, Barnes. I know you’ve had worse. But that doesn’t mean you should carry all of it alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her—really looked. Not just the medic. Not just the one who stitched him up and hummed through the pain.

But someone who understood. Not his story, but the cracks left behind. The ones that came with surviving.

His mouth twitched at the corner. Barely a smile. More like a flicker of something softer. “You’re really gonna show up at my door every morning like this?” he asked, voice low and a little rough. Like the idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.

She arched a brow, standing and tucking her hands into her white coat pockets. “Unless you’d prefer Alexei doing your dressing instead,” she replied flatly, the faintest smirk tugging her lips. “I bet he’d enjoy it.”

Bucky actually flinched. “Jesus.”

Her smile turned slow and smug. “Exactly.”

He chuckled—short, warm, genuine—rubbing the back of his head as he reached for his shirt. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til then, Barnes.”

“I’ll try not to.”

And just like that, the doc slipped out, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Bucky sat there for a long moment, shirt in hand, staring at the space she’d just left. His fingers brushed the fresh bandage around his ribs.

She hadn’t sung this time, but the hum of her voice from the previous day still lingered in his memory.

That tune really was going to be stuck in his head forever. But he didn’t mind one bit.

Three mornings. That’s how long the routine lasted. Three quiet visits where she sat him down, re-dressed the wound, checked for signs of infection, and gently, efficiently, peeled back the layers he’d wrapped around himself tighter than the gauze.

And then, just like that, she said the words: “It's ready to come out.”

The stitches. Not him. But damn if part of him didn’t wish otherwise.

He didn't say anything. Just watched her work—her fingers confident and precise, her hum absent again this time, replaced by the occasional quiet question about how it felt. He mumbled answers, too focused on how warm her hands were and the way her brow furrowed when she leaned in close, focused.

When it was done, she packed her things neatly, like always, and said, “You’re clear. Try not to get shot again.”

He had chuckled—maybe a little too fondly—and muttered, “No promises.”

But even after the stitches were gone, he still… wandered. Every day or two, like clockwork, he’d pass by the infirmary under some vague excuse. A sore shoulder. Restocking bandages. Checking on “protocols.” One time, he just stood in the doorway and asked if she had any peppermint oil left—“for Bob.”

No one was fooled.

Yelena was the first to say something.

She caught him loitering outside the medbay one afternoon, arms crossed, pretending to study a poster on proper handwashing techniques like it was sacred scripture.

She raised one dark brow. “You’re like a little stray dog, you know.”

Bucky glanced at her, frowning. “What?”

She smirked. “Someone feeds you once and now you’re hopelessly attached.”

He grumbled something unintelligible and stalked off—but he didn’t deny it.

Later that same day, after he dropped by again to “double-check his tetanus update”—not that the serum wouldn’t take care of it—Alexei grinned from the bench press.

“Nurses weren’t this gentle with me when I was Red Guardian,” he bellowed, flexing with absolutely zero subtlety. “Maybe I should take a bullet again, da?”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look. “If you’re that desperate to see her, just say the word, I’ll go grab my gun.”

That earned him an amused look from the ex-Soviet hero, who clearly took it as a compliment rather than a threat.

Bob, sitting cross-legged nearby with a snack in one hand and a faraway look in his eyes, spoke without even glancing up: “I like her. She’s soft.”

Everyone paused.

Yelena tilted her head. “Like… emotionally?”

Bob blinked. “No. Like… her voice. Or her hands. Or… maybe her soul. I don’t know. She reminds me of something soft.”

John Walker scoffed from across the room. “Are we talking about the same woman?” He gestured with his half-empty water bottle. “She told me, and I quote, ‘If you hurt your shoulder again by being stupid, I’m not going to fix it for you.’ That’s not soft. That’s dry.”

Ava, running on the treadmill, didn’t slow her stride. “She seems quiet,” she said simply. “Haven’t spoken much.”

Everyone looked at Bucky.

Bucky said nothing. He just kept his eyes on the hallway that led to the infirmary.

And—he’d never admit it under torture but—the corner of his mouth twitched up anyway.

The tower was asleep. Mostly.

Bucky had never been a deep sleeper, not before the war, and certainly not after. He’d learned to live in half-rest, always with one ear tuned to trouble. Most nights he slept with the covers half off, his dog tags still around his neck, a blade not far from reach—usually between the mattress and the bed frame. Not because he expected danger, but because it soothed something feral inside him to prepare.

Tonight, though… something different stirred.

A sound. Faint. Muffled. Not mechanical or structural. Human.

He turned his head toward the door, listening. Nothing for a beat. Maybe he imagined it– And there it was again.

A cry. Muffled, choked, like it had clawed its way out of someone’s throat against their will.

Bucky was on his feet before the full adrenaline even hit him. Someone else’s door creaked open down the hall, a startled voice—Yelena, maybe, asking “Did you hear–?”—but he was already moving.

He knew exactly which room.

Her room.

He burst in without knocking, pushing the door so fast it hit the wall with a sounding thud he didn’t even register.

The room was dim, lit only by the sliver of citylight bleeding through the curtains and the polarized glass. But it was enough to see her—twisted in the sheets, arms thrashing, breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat slicking her forehead. Her mouth was open in a cry, her body curled and locked in place like she was bracing for impact.

“No– No– Watch out!”

Instinct, not thought, moved him.

He crossed the room in two strides, half climbing over the mattress, hand hovering over her arm as if afraid to touch her.

“Hey, hey. You’re safe. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

She didn’t hear him. She flinched from his voice, rolled away, her back arching like she was in pain.

“C’mon, doc,” he murmured, softer now, voice barely above a whisper. “Wake up.”

His hand reached for her again in a split second—hesitating at the small of her back.

Then gently, he laid his metal palm there. Cool. Steady. Her body jerked. But his hand didn’t move.

“It’s me,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “It’s Bucky. You’re safe. I swear it.”

Her eyes snapped open like someone had pulled her up from underwater. Wide. Glazed. Breath caught mid-sob.

She gasped, clawing at the air like she still didn’t quite believe it.

“Hey,” he said again, more firmly now, his other hand coming up to cradle her arm. “You’re okay. You’re home. It’s just me.”

For a moment, she just stared at him.

Then her lip trembled. Her eyes filled. And she collapsed forward into his chest.

He caught her easily, one hand slipping behind her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head. She was still shaking. Still struggling to get air through her lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, voice cracked and raw. “I didn’t–”

“Shhh.” He held her tighter. “Don’t.”

Outside, he could hear the others shuffling. A door creaking. Murmurs down the hall.

He didn’t move. Just stayed where he was, wrapped around her in the dark.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes held someone not because he had to—but because he wanted to. Because she needed it. Because someone finally mattered enough for him to burst through a door for.

Her breath was still catching in short, uneven bursts as she pressed her forehead into Bucky’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. She wasn’t fully back yet. Not really. The nightmare still had its claws in her—those seconds between sleep and waking where everything bleeds together. Where the crash and the fire were now, the pain fresh, the helplessness real.

But his hand didn’t leave her back. Didn’t flinch when her fingers curled tightly into his shirt.

The door creaked behind him.

Bucky didn’t turn his head, but his body shifted just slightly—more protective than before.

“Everything alright in here?” Yelena’s voice came softly, quieter than usual, almost cautious.

He answered without looking away. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

A heartbeat.

She could feel the ex-Widow standing there, reading the room like a sniper gauging windspeed. Then her voice again, closer to the door now, protective.

“Walker, don’t even think about it.”

A loud, “What? I wasn’t–”

“Not your scene, idiot.”

Another voice, sluggish with sleep, gentle, curious. “Is everything okay?” That was Bob—he’d recognize it anywhere.

Yelena again, her tone already easing. “Bucky’s got it.”

And then—like someone hit the rewind button on a chaotic movie—doors closing one by one down the hallway. Click. Clack. One after another.

Until it was quiet again.

Just her. Him. The faint hum of the building around them.

Bucky let out a long breath, slow and measured. His hand was still at her back, warm and steady. His other hand moved—slowly, deliberately—to rest at the nape of her neck, fingers threading gently into her hair.

“You’re safe,” he said again, softer now. Almost like a promise.

She nodded against his chest, finally finding her voice. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to–”

He pulled back, just enough to see her face. His expression was all softness now—none of the gruff edges, none of the sarcasm. “Don’t apologize for having scars.”

She blinked, her throat tightening all over again. “I woke the whole team.”

“They’ll live.” His lips twitched, just a little. “Walker could use a little emotional exposure.”

That actually pulled the faintest breath of a laugh from her chest.

Bucky’s thumb brushed her cheek, catching the last trace of a tear. “I’ve been there,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “Woken up like I was still bleeding. Thought I was back somewhere I swore I’d never go again.”

Her breath hitched. “I know the feeling,” she whispered. “Of waking up and… not knowing if it’s real or not.”

He nodded, slow and solemn. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t heavy now—it was thick, like a weighted blanket wrapped tight. She could almost feel it around them both.

“I’m okay,” she said after a while. Not because she felt like she had to—but because it was the truth, and she wanted him to know she was coming back.

“I’ll stay,” he said, just as quiet. “If you want.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. She didn’t answer with words. Just shifted, enough to open the space beside her.

An invitation.

He climbed onto the mattress completely. Slipped under the blanket behind her. Let his arm rest lightly at her waist, not trapping—just there. Like a tether. Like an anchor.

She took a deep breath. And when she exhaled, it was less shaky, heartbeat steadier.

Because he stayed.

She didn’t close her eyes again. Not right away.

Sleep didn’t return easily after dreams like that—not with her blood still buzzing and her mind still holding on to images she didn’t want to remember.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His arm still rested at her waist, gentle but solid. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her back, steadying her more than she wanted to admit.

“…Can I put something on?” she asked softly, not turning around. “Music helps. I just– I can’t stay in the silence right now.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, flicked through her usual post-nightmare playlist until the right one came up—low, slow strings, something heavy with emotion but not overwhelming. Melancholic. Beautiful. Something that filled the cracks in the room without trying to patch them.

She lay back down slowly, turning this time so she could face him in the dim light. He was already watching her. Eyes dark, thoughtful. He didn’t try to hide it. Neither did she.

The silence stretched between them, thick with all the questions they hadn’t dared ask until now. So she just asked one. Ripped it clean, like a bandage.

“What’s this?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. He let the question hang for a moment, like he wanted to respect it.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest. “Not exactly.”

She didn’t look away.

“But I know I want to find out. If you want to.”

She held his eyes. The music faintly swelled behind them, a soft crescendo before it dipped again.

“Bucky…”

He shook his head just a little, the edge of something gentle in the movement. “We don’t have to name it. Not now. Doesn’t have to be anything yet. It doesn’t matter.”

He reached up, not to touch, just to emphasize the words. “The only thing that matters is that there’s something.”

His eyes were so open, so unguarded. She’d read his file—Dr. Raynor’s notes—and knew it didn’t happen. Not like this.

“No matter what shape it takes,” he added, “I’m here. For however long you want me.”

Her throat tightened. “I don’t do halfways,” she said, voice a little hoarse.

“Neither do I.”

The music played on, long and aching between them. Neither of them moved. Not yet.

But something had shifted. The shape wasn’t clear. The edges weren’t defined. But the weight of it? Real. Undeniable.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

When sleep came for her again, it wasn’t the storm that followed. It was calm. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

It was the quiet that woke him. Not the kind that was sterile or empty—but the kind that settled. Heavy. Still. Peaceful.

Bucky hadn’t slept like this in… God. He didn’t know how long. No tossing. No dreams. No waking with his fists clenched, his body tense, jaw locked against memories. Just warmth. And the unmistakable weight of her.

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the window. At first, all he registered was comfort. A kind of warmth he couldn’t name. Then he realized why.

She was pressed to his chest, her forehead tucked beneath his jaw, one hand resting against his sternum like it belonged there. Her legs were tangled between his, the curve of her body fitted perfectly into the line of his. His arm had found its way around her back in sleep, holding her close. Protective. Like it had always been meant to.

He looked down slowly, barely breathing. And there she was.

Lashes fluttering slightly, lips parted just enough to let out soft, steady breaths. Completely out. Oh-so-vulnerable. Her cheek was pressed against him, her hand curled slightly like she’d been clinging to his shirt in her sleep.

There was no space between them. No tension. No hesitation. Just this—the kind of unconscious closeness you didn’t fall into with a stranger. Or even a friend.

This was something else.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, throat tight, heart… weirdly calm. No panic. No guilt. Just that growing, quiet certainty that he couldn’t move without waking her.

So he didn’t.

He stayed right there, still, letting her warmth anchor him to the present. Letting himself look. Really look.

The lines around her mouth were softer in sleep. No tension in her jaw. No trace of the pain she’d been in yesterday. He could still feel it in her body though, in the way her hips tilted slightly to relieve pressure, the faint wince that still lingered in her brow even now. And still… her body had found him. Like it knew. Like it remembered.

His thumb, careful and slow, brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. She didn’t stir.

He closed his eyes again. Not to sleep. Just to stay.

Because for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky Barnes didn’t want to be anywhere else. She sighed in her sleep.

It was soft. Barely audible. But Bucky heard it like a gunshot in the quiet morning.

Then came his name—murmured, half-breathed, like it slipped past her lips without asking permission.

“Bucky…”

He froze. Not because he was afraid. But because he could feel the way her body shifted next—pressing more firmly against his, seeking him out. Like whatever thread her dream self was holding onto, it led straight to him.

And God, the way that felt–

Warmth coiled low in his gut, tight and visceral. Not just from the way her thigh slipped over his, or the way her fingers curled against his chest again, but from the truth of it. From knowing that, asleep or awake, her body chose him.

She groaned softly, hand drifting up to cover her face like she could block out the day itself.

He felt her move—hesitating between the pull of rest and the awareness blooming slowly across her features.

Her eyes fluttered open. Blinked once. Twice. Then locked with his.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She just stared at him like she was still dreaming, like her brain couldn’t reconcile the comfort in her limbs with the sight of him this close. The weight of him still in her bed. The way his arm still held her gently at the waist.

And him? He smiled. Just a little.

“Mornin’ doc,” he said, voice low, rough with sleep, but soft in a way he didn’t let many people hear.

She blinked again. Then, quietly, still a little breathless–

“Morning, Barnes.”

Her voice was scratchy, dazed, like she wasn’t sure if speaking would make this real or shatter it. But it didn’t shatter.

She was still there. Still wrapped around him, tangled in blankets and something unspoken that had taken shape in the dark.

And neither of them moved. Because suddenly, there was nowhere else to be.

She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

The moment stretched, slow and warm, soft around the edges like morning light slipping between blinds. She was still pressed to his chest, her leg draped over his, her fingers unconsciously curling against the worn fabric of his shirt.

And then—just when she thought her heart might calm down–

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into the barest ghost of a smirk.

“You always wake up this pretty…” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep, “or is it just for me?”

Her breath caught in her throat.

A beat passed.

Her brows lifted, just a little, eyes narrowing like ‘really?‘ but her chest was warm and her lips betrayed her with a hint of a smile.

“Oh,” she said flatly, dry as hell. “That’s how we’re doing this.”

He grinned, and damn it, he didn’t even try to hide it now.

“You started it,” he shrugged—just the shoulder not pinned under her weight.

“Did I?” she asked, voice dipping lower.

“You said my name,” he shot back, a little too smug for someone still horizontal. “In your sleep.”

She flushed—visibly.

Gods. She had. She remembered now. The edge of the dream still hung on the rim of her awareness, and yeah… it made sense. She’d reached for him because she knew he was there. Not just in the room—but with her.

She looked away for half a second, just enough to recover. Then turned back, calmer.

“And you didn’t run,” she said.

His smile faded, just enough to let something else show through.

“I didn’t want to.”

There was no teasing in that. No deflection. Just the truth.

It landed softly between them. Honest. Undeniable. And it stayed there, like a red thread pulling tighter between their chests.

She shifted slightly beneath the covers, trying to stretch out her hip. Big mistake.

A sharp pinch flared through the joint, radiating down her thigh like lightning. Her face scrunched before she could stop it, breath catching between her teeth.

Bucky was instantly alert.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice suddenly serious. “What’s wrong?”

She groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, breathless. “Just my hip. It’s always worse in the morning after a bad night. I need my meds and a hot shower.”

His brow creased, eyes sweeping over her like he could see the pain curling beneath her skin.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, earnest and a little helpless.

That almost broke her more than the pain itself.

She gave him a crooked smile, something soft.

“No. Not really. It’s just how it goes sometimes.”

But she hesitated. Let out a long breath. And then, without over-thinking it, boldly:

“…Though sometimes, if I confuse my nerves—throw them off with a new sensation—it can ease up. Just a little.”

He blinked. And then, slowly smirked.

“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes glittering with something that wasn’t quite teasing. Almost. But not cruel.

Before she could ask, his metal hand slipped under the blankets—cool against the warmth of her skin—and found her forearm.

She shivered.

“Bucky–!”

“You said you needed a distraction,” he said, far too pleased with himself.

She frowned at him—tried to, anyway. “Really?”

He grinned wider. It was almost boyish. Almost.

“I’m just being helpful.”

“Oh yeah?” she muttered, and poked him in the stomach—expecting solid muscle and smug silence.

What she got instead was a surprised little jerk and a barely stifled laugh.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re ticklish?”

“No–” he said instantly, like a liar. The kind of no that meant yes but he didn’t want anyone to know.

She poked him again.

He twitched.

“Stop it,” he said, but he was already grinning, laughing under his breath as she did it again.

One more poke and he lunged—not to stop her, not really, but to retaliate.

The movement shifted them both—bodies rolling together, tangled again in the sheets. His hands caught her sides, hers caught his arms, and suddenly she was there again—against his chest, breathless, laughing, eyes locked.

And then it stopped. Not in fear. Just slowed.

Because he was looking at her. Really looking at her. And it wasn’t about the joke anymore.

“Damn…” he breathed, almost to himself. “What did I do to get so lucky?”

Her heart stuttered. Color rose to her cheeks again, warmth blooming under her skin as his eyes searched hers, open and full of something she didn’t dare name.

Not yet. But it was there.

And then—softly, leaning closer, his lips just shy of hers: “I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

Her heart was pounding. Not the way it did after a nightmare. Not the thrum of panic or fear. No, this was different. This was anticipation. This was him.

Bucky was so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips, eyes fixed on hers like she was the only solid thing left in the world. His hand, warm and flesh this time, rose slowly to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, fingertips barely grazing her cheek as he did.

“Is it okay if I do?” he asked softly, carefully.

She nodded. Barely. Just once.

And he didn’t rush. He closed the space like it mattered. Like every millimeter was a promise.

When his lips met hers, it was featherlight—a question, not a claim. The kind of kiss that waits for an answer, not assumes one. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing her skin, grounding them both in the here and now.

It was so gentle, it almost hurt. Because it meant something. It was reverent. Careful. Like he didn’t want to break her. Like he didn’t want to break this.

But then she kissed him back—tilted her head, let her hand rise to his chest, clutching fabric between her fingers. She leaned into him, deepening it, opening her mouth just a little, just enough– And something broke.

His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush to him. The kiss shifted—still soft, but deeper now. Needier. His breath hitched when her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, when her body pressed more firmly into his.

Her name left his lips like a sigh between kisses, low and rough and utterly wrecked.

And then it was messy—not in movement, but in feeling. His hands roamed—over her sides, her back, learning the shape of her like he wanted to remember it. She kissed him harder, and he answered in kind, like this was what his mouth was made for. Like she was what he’d been waiting for all this fucking time.

When she finally pulled back—just enough to breathe—her lips were tingling, her chest heaving, her eyes locked with his.

Neither of them spoke. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Sacred.

And she knew without needing to say it– This was only the beginning.

A muffled crash echoed faintly from somewhere down the hallway, probably the sound of a plate shattering followed by Bob’s unmistakably concerned voice calling out: “Yelena, you okay?!” “Sorry!” the Russian shouted back, unapologetic and zero percent sorry.

The spell cracked. The doc chuckled, unable to help it—still breathless, still pressed against him. Bucky groaned in frustration—like someone forced to wake from a really good dream before they’re ready.

His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his nose brushing just under her jaw, and he inhaled slowly. Deeply. Like he wanted to memorize her.

Scent. Warmth. Skin. Her.

She let him stay there for a second. Just a second more. And then she shifted again.

Bad idea.

This time there was an audible crack and the pain sparked hard, a sharper stab from deep in her hip. She couldn’t stifle the wince, or the breath she sucked through her teeth.

Bucky felt it instantly. He pulled back—reluctantly yet protectively, eyes sweeping over her, concern overtaking the softness in an instant.

She gave a sheepish little smile. “Yeah… I really need that shower now.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, firm but quiet. “Especially not for pain. Not to anyone. And definitely not to me.”

“Force of habit,” she murmured.

He gave her a look. Not sharp. Just… disappointed. Soft glare, Winter Soldier edition, turned down to affectionate scolding.

She deflected—because that’s what she did—with an eye roll. She reached for the blankets, threw them back, and carefully sat up on the edge of the bed.

Her breath hissed through her teeth again.

The playfulness faded as her body reminded her exactly how real it all was. The rolling around, the twisting, the pinching of old wounds—none of it forgotten by her nerves.

Bucky was out of bed in a blink, besides her, like he knew before she even said anything, his hand finding her elbow to help her.

“Don’t–” she started, “I can–”

But she couldn’t. Not really.

She tried to stand. Her leg gave way before she even got her weight on it.

He didn’t ask. He just scooped her up, arms under her legs and behind her back like she weighed nothing, holding her to his chest with absolute ease.

She let out a startled noise, half protest, half surrender.

“Bucky–”

“I got you, doc.”

She exhaled, curling her fingers lightly into his shirt. The ache was still there, but it felt just a little less heavy like this—held in arms that didn’t flinch from her pain. That didn’t pretend it wasn’t there.

He carried her carefully toward the bathroom, steps slow, cautious. Like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he’d do this every morning if she’d let him.

He set her down carefully on the edge of the closed toilet lid, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary—like he was still worried she might slip, even sitting. She leaned forward slightly, bracing her arms on her knees, wincing as the pain shifted again.

“Need anything?” he asked, voice quiet but so damn present. “You want me to stay?”

She hesitated. “I’m good,” she said—too quickly, too bright.

His eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t believe her. Not fully. So she deflected again.

“Honestly? I wish Val had put bathtubs in here instead of showers,” she muttered, offering a crooked smile. “But then again, I’d probably never get out of it on my own.”

That earned a quiet huff from him—almost a laugh, but not quite. He still looked worried. She looked up at him again, softening.

“I’m okay, Bucky,” she said gently. “I’m just not– I’m not ready to take a shower with an audience.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t gonna–”

“I know,” she cut in quickly, not accusing. Just… shy. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve got my scars too.”

Her smile faltered at the edge. She didn’t say the rest. Didn’t mention the parts of her body she’d made peace with over time, but not enough to let him see them yet. Not like that.

But he got it anyway. Not the specifics—but the weight behind her eyes. And he respected it. Even if his frown deepened a little.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “But you call if anything happens, yeah? Yell if you need me.”

“I will,” she promised, grabbing the counter with one hand as she pushed herself upright again.

He hovered at the door a second longer. And then, when she glanced up and arched a brow at him–

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” she said with a smirk, motioning to the bathroom around her. “And I’m not letting you watch the transformation.”

That earned a real grin from him. Soft. Adoring.

“Fine,” he said. “But it better be a good one.”

“It always is,” she teased.

He backed out of the bathroom slowly, his hand resting on the frame for a moment, like he didn’t want to leave—but knew he should.

“You sure you’re good?”

“I’m sure.”

A couple of heartbeats passed.

“Bucky,” she said more softly. “Thank you. For this morning. For– For everything.”

He gave her a nod, attention flickering between her mouth and her gaze, filled with a longing she’d never seen in the eyes of any man until now.

“Anytime,” he murmured, and slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

She heard his steps retreating, slow and measured—toward his own room. A few minutes later, the sound of running water through the pipes in the walls let her know he was in the shower too.

And for the first time in what felt like days, she exhaled fully. She was still aching. Still tired. But she was also warm.

She wasn’t alone.

The shower helped. Not as much as she’d hoped, but enough to dull the worst of it. Her body still protested every shift, but at least now it felt bearable. Manageable.

And in the quiet steam of the bathroom, she could still feel the ghost of his lips against hers.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Bucky padded quietly back through the hallway, hair still damp, his dark blue henley clinging a little to his skin. He slowed instinctively near her door—lingering without meaning to—but didn’t knock. He didn’t want to push. Not so soon after she’d just assured him she’d call if she needed it.

So he carried on.

The scent hit him first as he neared the kitchen: something vaguely sweet and… protein-forward?

Sure enough–

Alexei stood proudly at the stove, flipping waffles with the kind of theatrical flourish that could only come from a man raised on Soviet glory and decades of prison workouts. Beside him, a trough of batter that looked suspiciously like it could power a small village.

Walker sat at the island, elbows on the counter, head bowed dramatically over his mug like he was personally offended by the coffee.

Bob was talking nonstop, eyes bright, hands flailing. “…I swear, they put the tutu on the dog and the dog danced. Like, full-on ballerina spin. You think I’m kidding but I am not, Ava– Ava– I need you to see this, it changed me.”

Ava didn’t even blink. “That’s nice, Bob.”

At the far end, Yelena stood barefoot and unbothered, slowly sharpening a kitchen knife with a precision that could either be considered meditative or vaguely threatening depending on the angle.

Then Bucky walked in. Everything stopped. Like a weird sitcom freeze-frame.

He froze too, halfway to the coffee pot, eyes flicking to each of them. “…What?”

Yelena grinned, not looking up from her blade. “Just wondering if you were gonna come back to your own room at all.”

Alexei snorted. “We thought maybe you moved in. New roommate, da?”

Bucky scowled—defensive, but trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “You all stalking me now?”

Yelena arched a brow. “Door to your room was still open this morning, Soldat. I walked past it on the way to get my tea. No one was in it.”

Bob mocked a gasp, hands over-dramatically clutched to his chest like a clueless man watching a drama unfold. “A plot twist!” But the teasing glint in his eyes said what they all thought.

Walker didn’t even lift his head. “Finally,” he muttered into his coffee.

Ava rolled her eyes. “He was literally bursting through her room the second he heard her thrashing in her sleep, why is any of this surprising?”

Bucky just stood there. Holding the coffee pot. Frown set. Ears pink.

“…You’re all so fucking annoying,” he grumbled.

Yelena smirked and resumed sharpening. “You’re welcome.”

The doc never ate with them. Not really.

On most mornings, she moved like a shadow—slipping into the kitchen either before the rest of them were awake, or after they’d cleared out for training. She had a whole system by now: get in, grab what she needed, and disappear back into the infirmary before the sound of boots or banter filled the hall.

They didn’t mean to be intimidating.

But the Thunderbolts were tight. A weird, dysfunctional, loud-mouthed family forged by shared pain and Valentina’s questionable leadership. They weren’t just coworkers or teammates—they were connected. They bickered and joked and shoved each other around, like a bunch of kids sometimes, and somehow made it all feel like home.

She didn’t want to intrude on that. She wasn’t part of that. Not really.

So, most mornings, she slipped by.

But not today.

Today, she was slower. Still aching. And her timing was off—enough that she passed the open doorway of the kitchen just as the smell of protein waffles and too much coffee hit her in the face.

She didn’t mean to look inside. But she did.

And Alexei caught her.

“Hey, Doc!” His voice boomed across the room like a cannonball, bright and warm. “You want waffles?”

She froze. Mid-step. Like a deer in headlights, back stiff, hand twitching slightly at her side. She hadn’t expected to be seen, let alone invited.

Her mouth opened to politely decline, but–

“What kind of tea do you want this morning?” Yelena asked over her shoulder, already reaching for the electric kettle. “We have the mint you like. Or the fruity one, strawberry? There’s lemon too.”

The doc’s eyes shot to her, caught off guard as she realized the ex-Widow had noticed her preferences.

Then to Bob, who was already mid-chair-pull, gesturing toward the space beside him like it was already hers.

Walker didn’t even react—just gave her a subtle nod over his mug like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Ava offered her a warm and encouraging smile.

And then her eyes landed on him.

Bucky.

His expression was unreadable for half a second—then he tilted his head toward the open space, and without a word, set his coffee down and crossed the room to her.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet, low, just for her. “C’mon.”

He offered his arm—not grabbing, just offering—and when she hesitated, he dropped his voice a little more. “Let me help.”

Her footing wasn’t great. Not after standing too long in one place. The ache in her hip was starting to throb again.

So she nodded. Took his arm. Let him guide her into the room like it wasn’t a big deal. Like this was what she did every morning.

She could feel them watching. Not judging. Just… memorizing.

She lowered herself carefully into the chair Bob had pulled out for her. He grinned, victorious.

Yelena slid a steaming cup in front of her before she could say anything. “Still take it with honey?”

The doc blinked. How did she know that? “Yeah. Thank you.”

Alexei was already stacking two thick waffles on a plate with way too much gusto. “You don’t have to eat protein waffle,” he said seriously, “but I make very good protein waffle.”

The scent hit her nose. She smiled despite herself.

Bucky stayed near her side for a moment longer—his hand brushing hers as he set her utensils down. Just once. Just long enough.

And when he returned to his seat across from her, coffee back in hand, she realized something.

This time? She wasn’t outside the circle. She was in it.

Things shifted.

Not all at once.

There was no big announcement, no team meeting where someone said, hey, the doc belongs with us now. It just happened—slow and quiet, like water wearing down stone.

Bob was the first. Of course.

He started swinging by the infirmary mid-mornings, smoothie in hand, usually chattering about some ridiculous video he’d found or a new conspiracy theory involving lizard people and pizza toppings. She humored him—because it was easier than arguing. And because, deep down, it was… nice.

The company. The dumb jokes. The little glint in his eye when he made her smile.

Yelena came next.

Snacks—always snacks. Stashed in her jacket pockets or tucked into sealed jars labeled “totally not poisoned ;).” She didn’t make a fuss, just dropped them on the desk with a shrug and a sharp: “Eat something, or I’ll feed you myself.”

And somehow, the doc knew the blonde woman meant it.

Walker stopped tending to his own injuries.

She noticed the change in his posture first. Less stubborn. Less defensive. And when he came in with a busted knuckle and muttered something like, “Figured you’d do a better job,” she didn’t point it out. Just cleaned the cut and kept the smirk to herself when he handed her the alcohol swab before she reached for it.

Alexei started asking questions.

About protein, about joint care, about vitamins. “I am not getting younger,” he said, very seriously, while chewing something that looked like it was strong enough to wrestle back against the Red Guardian jaw. “You are like small scientist. I trust you.”

Ava never said much—but she helped. Every week like clockwork, she showed up to restock shelves. Silently, methodically, like it had always been her job.

And Bucky? Bucky kept showing up.

Sometimes just to lean on her doorframe and talk about nothing. Sometimes to ask how she was really doing. Sometimes to just be there—close, constant, solid.

She started taking her breakfasts with them.

Not every day. But often enough that no one batted an eye anymore when she limped into the kitchen and made a beeline for the electric kettle while Bob yelled “Doc! You gotta see this!” and Yelena wordlessly slid her a biscuit.

Bucky spent most nights in her bed now.

It wasn’t official. There were no toothbrushes or declarations. Just two people sharing space, holding each other when it got too loud, too heavy. And in the quiet hours before dawn, she sometimes caught herself watching him—studying the lines of his face, the calm in his breath—and wondering how the hell she got so lucky.

This morning, though, he was the one watching her. The light was soft. Not quite sunrise, not quite shadow. His flesh arm was tucked beneath the pillow, the metal one resting protectively across her waist, his fingers curled slightly against her hoodie.

She stirred a little, shifting her leg, wincing slightly. He caught it. “Hey,” he murmured. She blinked slowly, still half-asleep. “Morning.”

He didn’t smile. Not yet. Instead: “When do you treat your pain?”

That made her pause. She looked up at him, a little confused.

“I mean…” he continued softly, “you take care of all of us. You check our injuries, scold us for not hydrating, make sure we stretch before training…”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along her cheek. “But what about you? Do you go see a physio? Do you– Do you do your own stretches? Take anything before it gets bad?”

Her eyes drifted away. Guilt tugged at her ribs like a tight thread. “I’m not–” she started, then sighed. “I’m good at taking care of other people, Bucky. Not myself.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “I know.” Not accusing. Not disappointed. Just… honest.

Because he saw it. The way she brushed off her pain. How she always said ‘I’m fine’ with clenched teeth, always a little too fast. How she limped a little more on stormy days but said nothing. And he hated that he hadn’t asked sooner.

“I’ll help,” he said simply. “If you let me.”

At first, she did what she always did. She said no. Reflexively. Automatically. Without even thinking. “I’m fine, Bucks.”

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t argue. Just looked at her with that calm, soft gaze that made everything in her chest feel like glass. “You’d never let one of us say that.”

She opened her mouth to push back—but the words didn’t come.

He shifted, sitting up slowly, pulling the blanket back just enough to show he wasn’t going anywhere. “I want to help,” he said gently. “Let me.”

Her throat tightened. “Like you take care of us,” he added, “I need to take care of you. Would you let me?”

She held his gaze for a moment. He didn’t say the word ‘please’ but she felt it in his voice. A weight that crushed her heart. So she nodded. Just once. “Okay.”

She started with her hands and arms. They were safest. Easiest to explain.

She reached into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a small dark plastic bottle—massage oil with something calming in it. Lavender. She’d had it for months, maybe even longer. Never touched it.

But this time, she unscrewed the cap.

She guided him to sit across from her on the bed, knees brushing, and poured a few drops into his palm, warming it with his other hand.

He didn’t ask questions. Just watched her. Quiet. Attentive.

Then, slowly, he reached for her arm.

His fingers moved gently over her wrist, then upward, working into the tendons along her forearm. She let her eyes flutter shut. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding tension there—how good it felt to let someone else be careful with her.

She took a breath. “There’s some nerve damage,” she murmured. “Right here. Above the elbow. If I sleep wrong, it pins everything down and I lose feeling in my fingertips.”

His thumb paused for half a second. Then adjusted. Softer. More deliberate.

She guided him through each spot. The places that locked up. The ones that sparked pain without warning. He listened with his hands as she hummed the rhythm.

Her back was next.

She removed her hoodie and pulled her T-shirt up, turning just enough to show him where the nerves tangled just below her right shoulder blade. “Most days it’s a dull throb,” she said. “But when it flares, it feels like lightning. Like everything misfires.”

He didn’t answer. He just pressed his palm there. Warm and steady.

And then– She shifted again. Fingers trembling a little as she pulled her hair to one side. “I have– a scar,” she murmured, a little quieter. “From the accident. Just above the ear.”

She didn’t look at him as she said it. But she felt his breath as he leaned in, parting the strands with care, fingertips brushing her scalp like she was something precious.

She felt the soft kiss of his touch against the bump of kneaded tissue.

“I get tangles there,” she added softly. “Every morning. I guess the hair catches on the scar when I sleep or something…”

“I’ll help with those too,” he murmured. Voice low. Reverent.

She reached for the hem of her shirt again, hesitating only for a second before lifting it just enough to reveal the faint mark on her side. The burn. “It’s not bad,” she said quickly. “Could pass for a sunburn. But it’s– It’s there.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He just reached out—metal fingers cool, feather-light—and traced the edge of it with a kind of awe.

“You were lucky,” he said quietly. She nodded. “I know.”

Then finally, the hip.

He helped her lie down slowly, on her back, guiding one leg at a time into gentle stretches. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t polished. It was careful and slow and a little awkward—but never uncomfortable.

She gritted her teeth through some of the tightness. He noticed. “You okay?” “Yeah,” she said through her breath. “It helps.”

He stretched with her. Side by side, they moved together—mirroring as Gymnopédie No.1 accompanied their moves again, adjusting. His hand always hovering just close enough to steady her when needed. Not overstepping. Not assuming. He was just there.

And that, more than anything, made the ache feel manageable.

They lay on the bed again, side by side, the faint scent of oil still lingering on her skin. His hand rested over her hip, fingers splayed—not possessive, not heavy, just there, grounding her. She stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. The silence between them was thick with unsaid things.

And then her voice cut through it. “I never let people help.”

Bucky shifted slightly but didn’t speak. Just listened.

“After the accident… I couldn’t shower alone. Couldn’t get to the bathroom by myself. Couldn’t even roll over in bed without help some days.”

Her throat tightened, but she kept going. The words were there now, rising like floodwater, and she was tired of holding them back.

“I was twenty-three. Calling my parents at three in the morning because I couldn’t move without crying. Having to ask my dad to help me stand while trying not to sob in front of him. I didn’t want them to worry more than they already did…”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “It made me feel like a burden. Like something broken everyone had to carry.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened gently around her hip, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“My family’s physician cleared me eventually. Said I was healing well. Strong. Independent.”

A hollow laugh slipped out. “So I stopped asking for help. I pushed through. I figured if I could fake being okay long enough, people would stop asking.”

She turned her head to look at him, her voice quieter now—raw. “And my friends? They were all there. Right after… Shocked. Worried. All at once. And then…”

A pause.

“They left… Not in a cruel way. Life just… picked back up for them. And I was still stuck in it. Still aching. Still slow. Still learning how to exist in this new version of myself.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, something deep and aching behind his eyes.

“So I smiled,” she whispered. “I said I was fine. That I didn’t need anything. And they didn’t push. Not because they didn’t care, but because they didn’t have time—they had their own lives, their own things to deal with.”

She swallowed hard. “But you did.”

Her gaze met his.

“You were the first one who didn’t just let it slide. The first one who didn’t flinch when I said no. Who asked again. Who stayed.”

A long pause. A breath caught between ribs. “I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Bucky reached for her hand. Not to squeeze. Just to hold.

His voice, when it came, was low—gravel warm. “You’re not a burden.”

Her eyes stung. She blinked fast.

“You never were,” he continued, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You’ve been carrying all that weight for so long, I don’t think you remember what it feels like to share it.”

She tried to look away, but he was already there, gently guiding her chin back toward him.

“I want to be here,” he said softly. “Not just for the good days. Or the soft mornings. But the nights that ache. The ones where you feel like you’re made of glass. Let me stay, okay?”

She nodded. Once. Then again. And finally, through a breath: “Okay.”

Their fingers were still tangled. The room was dim, the silence between them soft now—not empty, but full. Of things unsaid. Of things understood.

He shifted, his metal hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face with more tenderness than should’ve been humanly possible for something so cold and rigid. His thumb grazed her cheek. She felt it all the way down her spine.

Her gaze lifted to his, and there was a question there.

She nodded. Barely.

And he leaned in.

His lips met hers in a kiss so slow it hurt. Like he was afraid she’d disappear if he moved too fast. Like she was something rare, something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Her hand found his chest—warm skin against fabric, his heartbeat steady and strong. Anchoring.

The kiss deepened. Still slow, still reverent. But this time, there was heat behind it. Want. It seeped through the cracks of restraint, curling under her skin like smoke.

Her breath caught as his hand—flesh this time—slipped to her jaw, tilting her face up. His mouth opened against hers, and she responded without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, needing something to hold on to.

The second kiss was messier. More urgent.

He groaned softly into her mouth when her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and it did something to her—flipped a switch, sent sparks down her spine.

She shifted, pressing closer, and his hands moved instinctively—one at her back, the other at her waist, anchoring her to him like he was afraid she’d drift away.

“Fuck–” he breathed against her mouth. “You feel so–”

He cut himself off with another kiss, deeper this time, and she matched it, gasping when his hand gripped just a little tighter, grounding her in the present.

Her name escaped him like a prayer, whispered against her lips.

And all she could do was answer it with another kiss, because she didn’t have the words. Not for this. Not for everything she was feeling.

So she let her body speak instead. And he listened.

Every touch, every sigh, every shared breath—it all said the same thing: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

The kiss slowed again. The urgency shifted, melting back into something deeper. Something steadier.

Bucky leaned back just enough to look at her—really look. His chest was rising and falling a little quicker now, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. Not with hunger.

With awe. Like he couldn’t quite believe she was letting him be this close. Like he was terrified he’d break the spell if he moved too fast.

His fingers brushed the hem of her shirt. A question.

She nodded, her throat too tight for words. And that was all it took.

He took his time. Every inch of fabric lifted, every moment drawn out like a vow. He didn’t just undress her. He unwrapped her, like she was something precious, something given, gifted, not taken.

His eyes never left hers. Even when the shirt slipped off, even when her skin was bare under his hands—he wasn’t just looking. He was seeing.

And what he saw made something in him soften and ache and ignite all at once.

His hand moved to her side—right where the burn scar lived, where the skin wasn’t quite the same—and he traced the edge with the tip of a finger. Not a word spoken. Just reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured finally, voice rough like gravel wrapped in silk.

She didn’t look away. Because part of her wanted to believe him.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against her collarbone, slow and warm. Then lower. And lower still. Each kiss deliberate. Every touch gentle. His hands never strayed too far, never pressed too hard.

He let her guide him.

A shiver ran through her when his metal hand—cool and careful—trailed down the outside of her thigh. She inhaled sharply, and he stilled instantly, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Too much?”

She shook her head. “No. Just–” She swallowed. “You’re being… too gentle.”

He smiled. “I thought you wanted careful.”

“I do,” she breathed, eyes on him. “I just didn’t expect you to mean it. Not like that.”

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her stomach. “You deserve it.”

He said it like it was a truth he’d been waiting to tell her.

And then he kept going—lips, hands, breath tracing every inch of skin like a man building a map. Worshipping not just her body, but what she’d survived.

Every scar. Every soft curve. Every place she’d hidden away from the world.

When he finally slid back up her body, she was breathless. Shaking.

He brushed his nose along hers. “Still okay?”

She nodded, voice trembling. “More than.”

And when he kissed her again, she swore she’d never been seen like this. Never even believed it would be possible.

He hovered above her now, one hand resting at the curve of her waist, the other braced beside her head, like he was holding himself back. His chest brushed hers with every breath, and when he looked at her—really looked—it was like his whole world narrowed to the space between her lips and the thrum of her heartbeat.

But instead of moving, instead of kissing her again, he stilled.

His gaze softened, flickered down to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and he exhaled like the moment was too much—in the best way.

“I still can’t believe this,” he murmured, voice hushed and hoarse, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it vanish. “That I found you.”

She blinked, her fingers brushing his cheek as if to ground him, to say You did. You’re here. And I am here too. With you.

“I wake up before you, some mornings,” he continued, eyes fluttering shut for a second, voice barely above a whisper. “And I just… stay still. Just for a second. Watching you. Making sure it’s real. That you’re real.”

His gaze held hers and her breath caught, because there was so much honesty in it, in him. No bravado. No shields. Just the man underneath it all, cracked open and full of wonder, like he was standing in front of something sacred.

She lifted her hand to brush through his hair, her thumb grazing the edge of his brow. “Maybe it’s the universe trying to say sorry,” she whispered, “for everything it put you through.”

He laughed quietly, but there was a tremble in it.

She kept going. “Maybe it’s trying to make up for all the times you thought it was never going to get better. Maybe it’s trying to give you something soft for once.”

His eyes closed for a second once more, like the words physically hit him.

“I think…” she breathed, “we found each other because we were what the other needed. At the right time. Not to fix each other–” her fingers trailed down to his shoulder, ghosting over the scar there “…but because we know what it feels like to survive something that almost broke us.”

His breath hitched. She felt it more than heard it.

“We’re both survivors,” she said gently. “Of our own nightmares. Different ones, sure. But we still carry the weight. In our bodies. In our minds. In the way we flinch when it’s too loud. Or brace when no one else notices the shift in the air.”

Her voice softened even further. “We still feel it. But… we see it in each other, too.”

And that’s when it wrecked him.

He dropped his forehead to hers, his metal hand fisting the sheets beside her like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His other hand moved to cup the back of her neck, trembling slightly. His breath fanned over her lips, uneven. Shallow.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he murmured, voice breaking.

“You survived,” she whispered back. “That’s all you had to do.”

And it undid him.

The next kiss was reverent again. Like prayer. Like gratitude. Like he was giving back everything he’d never known how to say.

His touch returned, slow and deliberate, but there was no hesitation now. Just devotion. Just awe. Just love, even if neither of them had said that word yet.

But it was there. In every sigh. Every shiver. Every look.

His hands roamed her body like he was tracing scripture across skin. Slow. Careful. Devout.

Each touch was permission asked, and permission received. Each kiss a question, and her answering sighs? The only confirmation he needed.

She felt him everywhere—not just where his skin met hers, but in the way he saw her. Not like she was broken. Not like she was a burden. But like she was everything… like she was home.

Bucky kissed down her throat, his warm breath ghosting over her collarbone, his mouth reverent. Like she was something sacred. His tongue flicked out, a soft, languid stroke against the hollow of her throat, and she arched toward him without even thinking.

His hands settled at her waist, grounding her. His lips returned to hers. It was slow, tender, but it built, each kiss longer, deeper, warmer. Like he was tasting the years he’d gone without this. Without her.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to look into her eyes, his thumb stroked her cheek, his voice low, wrecked.

“You sure?”

She nodded, heart in her throat. “Yeah. I want this. I want you.”

Something flickered in his gaze—relief, awe, maybe even disbelief. He pressed his forehead to hers for a beat, exhaling a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, like he needed to steady himself. And then he nodded too.

“All right,” he breathed. “Then I’m gonna take my time.”

And he did.

His hands mapped her body with care, exploring every inch like he was learning her by touch alone. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He listened– To her breathing, to the way her body reacted to every stroke, every kiss, every shift of his weight.

When he finally settled between her legs, he went slow—so slow—his eyes locked on hers, waiting for that last unspoken yes. She offered it with her fingers curling around the back of his neck, drawing him down to her.

The stretch made her breath hitch, but he was right there, kissing her jaw, her cheek, whispering, “I got you. You’re okay.”

And she was. For the first time in a long time, she really was.

The rhythm started steady. Gentle. His forehead pressed to hers. His hand gripping hers, fingers laced, holding tight like she was the thing anchoring him to this world.

And maybe she was.

They moved together like they’d done this a thousand times in dreams, like their bodies remembered before their minds ever caught up.

His name fell from her lips, soft and desperate, and it undid him all over again. He kissed her harder, breath catching, pace faltering just slightly as his hand slid to cradle her face.

His mouth found her shoulder, her collarbone, the edge of her jaw—like he couldn’t decide where to worship her first.

Every movement was thick with meaning. Every thrust, a confession. Every sigh, a promise.

When she reached for him, trembling under the weight of it all, he held her tighter, whispering her name like it was the only word he remembered.

“Look at me,” he said, voice raw, wrecked. “I want to see you.”

And when she did—when her eyes met his—she saw it there. All of it. Everything he’d never been able to say. Everything he’d never let himself feel.

This wasn’t just desire or pleasure. This was healing. This was coming home.

And when they both fell—slow, hard, together—it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. Of something real. Of something soft. Of something they both thought they’d never have.

The world felt softer now.

The light filtering through the polarized glass and curtains was pale and golden, brushing across the sheets like the morning was afraid to intrude too loudly. The air was warm, still humming with the aftermath of what had just passed between them, but neither of them moved—not really.

Just breaths. Just heartbeats. Just him—curled against her like he belonged there.

And maybe he could let himself believe that he did.

Bucky’s eyes were half-closed, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, a content little furrow in his brow like he was still trying to process that this wasn’t a dream. His metal arm was cradled around her waist, warm against her skin from the heat they’d both built, and his flesh hand was tangled with hers, thumb grazing her knuckles absentmindedly.

They were both still catching their breath in the quiet. Then, gently—softly—he whispered, stubble grazing the crook of her neck. “…you okay?”

She hummed, the sound more vibration than voice. “Mmhmm. Better than okay.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her smile brushing against his temple.

Silence again. But it was a good one. Full of weightless stillness.

She reached up with her free hand, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. He tilted into the touch like it was instinct, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit. She kissed the edge of his brow. Then his cheek. The corner of his mouth.

He turned toward her just in time for their lips to meet again.

This time, it was her reaching for him.

It was slow. Unhurried. Full of the kind of quiet that only came when everything unsaid had already been answered.

He let out the softest sigh into her mouth. It wasn’t lust this time—it was something sweeter. Something deeper. Like gratitude wrapped in skin.

When the kiss broke, she rested her forehead against his, a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re kinda good at this,” she murmured.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Well, I have an excellent partner.”

She rolled her eyes playfully and nudged his nose with hers.

There was a pause, and then they both chuckled. Joy. Quiet but real. That soft, ridiculous laughter that only came when you were naked in more ways than one, and the world finally felt light.

And he looked at her again—with that same reverent awe—and murmured, “Still can’t believe you’re here.”

She smiled, sliding her fingers into his hair again. “Believe it, Barnes.”

He closed his eyes, soaking it in. And when he opened them, all the edges were gone. Nothing left but softness.

She pulled the covers up a little, still tangled together, and he shifted only to tuck her tighter against his chest, his chin resting gently on top of her head.

For a while, neither of them said anything else. There was no need. There was no need for words. Not really.

They stayed wrapped in each other, warmth seeping between skin and sheets, breaths slow and steady, like the storm in both their lives had finally passed.

No need for anything else– Except maybe this.

The need to say it out loud. To put weight and shape to what had been silently growing between them since that first stormy afternoon in the infirmary. Since the first time his hand caught her body before his brain even registered the motion.

His voice was quiet when it came, like he’d been sitting with the thought for a while.

“A few weeks ago…” he began, eyes still on hers, thumb brushing gently along her knuckles. “…you asked me what this was.”

She remembered. Clear as day. That moment—raw and a little terrifying when her voice had cracked slightly as she cut through the darkness of her room with, ‘What’s this?’

He hadn’t known then. Or maybe he had, but couldn’t let himself name it. Afraid he was wanting it. Afraid he would jinx it.

Now, though—now, he breathed in deep.

“And I told you I didn’t know.”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Like everything about this moment mattered. Like it deserved his full attention.

A pause. Soft. Sure.

“But I do now.”

His hand came up to cradle her cheek, his eyes flicking between hers like he wanted her to feel every word.

“This is us,” he said. “This is me… falling for you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was everything.

She blinked, breath catching—not from surprise, but from the way it landed deep inside her chest. She felt it like a key clicking into place. Like she’d been waiting to hear it, even if she already knew.

So she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t blink away.

She leaned in, brushed her nose gently against his, and whispered, “Good.”

And then, with the smallest smile—quiet but steady—she said, “Because I’m here to catch you.”

The look that crossed his face was wrecked. Tender. Undone in so many ways now. Like maybe he hadn’t known how badly he needed to hear that until it was said.

His forehead touched hers again, and they stayed like that for a long moment—still, suspended in the safety of that promise. Of this. Of them.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊

More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

E brushed their fingers lightly along Logan’s arm, feeling the solid muscle shift beneath their touch even as he slept, the faint brush of their fingers drawing a soft, instinctive hum from him. Slowly, his eyes cracked open, still heavy with the haze of sleep.

The sharp alertness that often defined him flickered briefly before his gaze landed on them. Almost immediately, his features softened, the edge of wariness melting into something softer.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough and hoarse, but so low it felt like a quiet confession.

E’s lips curved in a small, tender smile. Something in his tone, softer than anything they’d ever expected from him, made their old, dusty heart stutter in their chest. For all the years they’d walked the earth, never had they been spoken to in such a way.

“Hey,” they responded in kind, voice almost shy as their eyes traced his features—the rugged lines of his face, the way his hair stuck up slightly, the barest hint of something unguarded in his expression.

Logan shifted slightly, his arm flexing beneath their touch, though he made no move to pull away. “Leavin’ already?” he asked, the whisper still rough but edged with something else—an unspoken reluctance, maybe, or the wish to hold onto this fleeting moment a little longer.

E leaned in, their lips brushing against his temple. “Wouldn’t want people to find out they’re right about us, would we?” Their voice was tinged with light humor, but the reference to Scott’s pointed remarks during the trial still lingered between them. The subtle accusation—that it was easy for lovers to fight in sync—now felt like he had seen right through them, and they both didn’t like that.

Logan’s face turned thoughtful, a shadow of concern settling over his features. “Is there anything we can do about it?” he asked, the question heavy with the understanding that staying under the radar was going to become increasingly difficult in the days yet to come. “Turn their feelings around, maybe?”

“There might be a solution,” E said, their tone serious. “But you’re not going to like it.”

He frowned, curiosity mingled with caution. “Go on, lay it out.”

“We act like something happened between us,” they explained, eyes flickering with a hint of reluctance. “Something bad. We make them believe we can’t stand each other anymore.” They paused, studying Logan’s reaction. “It has to be convincing, Logan. Real mean. We’ll need to sell it, even if it means hurting each other in the process.”

Logan exhaled slowly, the tension in his jaw tightening as the weight of the plan settled on him. “You’re right—I don’t like it. But I see how it could work.” His eyes met theirs, resigned but resolute. “If you’re game, I’m in.”

A small smile, bittersweet and fleeting, crossed E’s lips as they leaned in and kissed his cheek. “We may have to do it more than once.”

“Yeah,” Logan said with a heavy nod. “The more we do it, the more convincing it’ll look.”

They sat in the stillness that followed, letting the warmth between them linger just a moment longer before the masks would have to come on and the distance between them would become painfully real.

The silence in the room grew heavier, the weight of what they were about to do settling over them. In a rare moment of connexion, E reached for Logan’s fingers, the tips of their own brushing against his in a soft, tentative dance. Logan’s response was immediate; he closed his hand around theirs, the warmth a brief comfort against the cold edge of reality.

“It’s a difficult time to go through,” they murmured. Their voice, barely above a whisper, carried the tremor of uncertainty. They tried to sound reassuring, though the words were as much for themselves as for him. “We need to focus on the moments we’ll be alone. Let’s not let ourselves get lost in our own lies.”

Logan nodded, his thumb moving in slow circles, brushing gently over the back of their hand. His expression was raw, the look on his face saying everything words couldn’t—the pain of what lay ahead, the quiet acceptance of it, and the unyielding resolve to shield them, even if it meant taking the fall himself.

The hurt, etched into the hard lines of his face, was a reflection of everything E felt. They both knew this was the quickest way to shift the tide, to keep E safe from the suspicion tightening around them like a noose. And if it meant bearing the brunt of it, he would—because of the fierce, protective feeling blazing in his chest, but also because he trusted them.

E let out a heavy sigh, their lips pressing into a thin line before they smoothed back the strands of his hair with their free hand, fingers brushing through the dark mess. They were about to speak when Logan’s head turned slightly, his ears twitching as he picked up the faint sound of running water. It came from the direction of Kurt’s room, judging by the echo through the walls.

Logan’s gaze shifted back to them, softer now but edged with urgency. He brought their hand to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering, kiss to their knuckles. “You have to go,” he said, voice low and reluctant. “People are starting to wake up.”

E exhaled deeply again, the air leaving their mouth almost trembling, but they nodded. They leaned forward, pressing their forehead against his in a quiet, intimate gesture that said everything they couldn’t put into words.

“See you around, pretty boy,” they whispered, the familiar teasing lilt in their voice dulled by the reality of what was to come.

Logan gave a small nod in return, the reluctance in his eyes mirrored by the heaviness in his chest. The thought of what they were about to do—the lies they’d weave to protect their arrangement—made the air between them feel sharper, more fragile.

He watched as they slipped out of the room, the emptiness they left in their wake pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. It was a stinging sense of loss, one he knew would linger long after the door closed behind them.

Once he found himself alone, he rose from the bed, the space around him cool and empty in the absence of E. Their scent lingered faintly in the room, and his heart ached with want—no, the need—to see them, to have them against him, to touch them.

What was happening to him? Was he that far gone already? Wrapped around their little finger? His head felt foggy, exhaustion creeping in at the edges of his awareness, adding to the strange weight pressing against his chest. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his thoughts, willing the heaviness away before heading to the bathroom.

The steady patter of water as he showered grounded him, but it did little to clear the memories that crowded his mind. E’s teasing smile, their eyes dancing with mischief; the way they’d pushed and pulled at him the night before, challenging him yet surrendering with a trust so deep it shook him to his core.

The thought of it sent warmth coursing through him, a pulse that beat in time with the thrum of the water. They had told him they were a giver—always putting others first. For so long, they hadn’t allowed themselves to be selfish, maybe not ever. Only once in their long, lonely existence.

But with him, they had.

That truth sank into him, mingling with a sense of awe that twisted into longing. He knew a thing or two about keeping things—instincts, urges, emotions—in check for years, decades, centuries even. The weight of being chosen by someone who, like him, had kept their guard so high for so long was something he felt with every fiber of his soul, making him shiver with pride.

He’d known satisfaction before, shared heated moments with countless partners over the span of nearly two centuries—men and women, different faces and places—but this… this had struck deeper than he thought possible.

Rinsing the shampoo from his hair, Logan let out a breath that fogged the glass wall of his shower. His mind replayed the previous night, as if on loop: the way E had looked at him, unguarded and raw; how their movements had mirrored a kind of surrender that words couldn’t touch.

That feeling of being seen and wanted—not just as a weapon, not just as a mutant or a means to an end, but as himself. Whole. Flawed. It was dangerous, intoxicating. A craving took root in his chest, a quiet yet insistent need for more of that feeling, more of them.

Stepping out of the shower, he dried himself off, wrapping a towel around his waist before brushing his teeth. The routine motions were automatic, but his mind spun with those vivid images, heat already pooling low in his belly.

He styled his hair, the habitual tug of the comb pulling him back to the present, but not completely. Not when his senses were still keenly aware of their scent lingering on his skin despite the shower, faint but unmistakable, as if they had marked him as theirs.

One night. That’s all it had taken for them to make him theirs. He got dressed before making his bed with the practiced precision of someone who’d been a soldier for a long time, the last trace of E smoothed out beneath the taut sheets. Moving on, his hand reached for the small, worn notebook on the nightstand—a habit, a piece of routine that kept him anchored. But today, even that felt different. His eyes flicked over the scribbled notes—reminders and plans for his lectures—but they barely registered. His mind was still caught in the gravity of E’s laughter, the way it had curled around him, warm and dangerous.

Logan made his way to his desk and sat down, the notepad now forgotten in his grip. No matter how many mornings he’d seen after tangled nights, none of them carried this. None of them ever left him feeling whole the way E had, even if just for a fleeting moment—before the hollowness crept in as soon as they were gone.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror: rougher around the edges than usual, but still carrying that stubborn resilience he never seemed to lose. Tugging at his shirt collar, he adjusted the fit of his flannel, then ran a hand through his hair to push it back into place. A breath shuddered out of him as he wrestled the knot in his chest, forcing himself to focus.

With one final glance, he made sure everything was in order—boots laced tight, notepad folded neatly on the desk’s edge, though the ghost of last night still clung to the room. He inhaled deeply, the faint scent of E lingering in the air, uninvited in the way it stirred memories too raw, too exposing.

The space felt emptier than it should, as though a piece of it—and him—had left with them. Closing his eyes briefly, he centered himself, then rose and made his way down the hallway to the mansion’s first floor.

The hum of early morning voices grew louder as he neared the kitchen. He could already pick out Jean’s quiet laughter and Scott’s steady, self-assured tone. The familiar sounds grounded him, even as a faint tug of anticipation simmered at the edges of his thoughts.

When he entered, the conversation quieted momentarily as their eyes turned toward him. Jean and Scott shared a glance, surprised to see him this late; Logan was usually here long before either of them. He nodded their way—silent, but not unfriendly—before crossing to the counter. Grabbing the coffee pot, he filled his mug and brought it close, the steam curling in the air.

He was still lost in thought when E entered, their stride confident, eyes sharp with mischief. The air shifted the moment they stepped in, crackling like an unspoken challenge. Their smile was subtle, but unmistakably smug, as if they owned the space.

“Morning, everyone,” they greeted, their voice silk, effortless. Two of the three people they addressed didn’t seem entirely comfortable, their wariness obvious, but E wore their nonchalance like armor, as though they couldn’t care less. They moved through the room with practiced ease, every motion so deliberate, so fluid, that it made Logan’s pulse quicken in a way that used to irritate him—but now, it simply thrilled him.

They made this masquerade look effortless.

Their eyes met his, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them before they glanced away, the moment hidden beneath a mask of casual indifference.

They reached for the coffee pot, their fingers brushing Logan’s where his hand rested casually on the counter. The touch was fleeting, something no one else in the room would notice, but it left a warmth that lingered between them. The slight squeeze they gave him was enough to send a silent message: brace yourself. His jaw tensed, but he masked it with a sip, his gaze hardening as he prepared for whatever came next.

“Black coffee again, Logan?” E’s voice broke the silence, playful and biting. “You ever consider trying something with flavor?” They poured themselves a cup, their smirk deepening as they glanced over their shoulder at him.

Logan’s response was automatic, rough, as he played along, letting them lead the dance of their back and forth. “Coffee’s coffee. Doesn’t need all that extra crap.”

E’s eyebrows arched, their grin widening as if they’d caught him off-guard with a well-placed jab. “Ah, a man of simple tastes. Should’ve figured.”

He met their eyes, a silent challenge sparking between them. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The words came out with an edge, but there was a tension in his chest that had nothing to do with annoyance.

“Oh, nothing.” E shrugged, taking a sip of their coffee, their eyes dancing with amusement. “Just that I thought someone with your experience might be a bit more adventurous.”

Logan felt the tension coil tight in his chest, the line between reality and performance starting to blur. He forced his expression into one of irritation, letting a spark of anger flicker in his eyes. Leaning into the feeling to give the act weight, he set his mug down with a deliberate thud.

“Careful there, sweetheart. Last time someone thought they had me figured out, it didn’t end too pretty,” he said, letting the hint of a growl seep into his voice. Jean and Scott exchanged glances, brows raising as they picked up on the shift in atmosphere.

E’s smirk grew sharper, almost daring. “Wouldn’t dream of it, old man,” they retorted, a flick of mock respect in their tone that had the others in the room shifting uncomfortably. Jean's eyes darted between them, curiosity turning into concern as the tension thickened.

Logan clenched his jaw, leaning forward just enough to invade E’s space, his face a mask of barely-contained fury. “Old man? You better watch your mouth or I’ll remind you why you don’t cross me, kid.”

Scott’s gaze snapped to them, mouth opening to intervene, but E beat him to it. They laughed, a sharp, biting sound that bounced off the walls and made Logan’s skin prickle. “Oh, I’m terrified,” they said, their words dripping with sarcasm. “Please, Logan, save the dramatics. You’re not as intimidating as you think, kitty cat.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, and Logan felt his pulse thunder in his ears. He reminded himself that this was part of the plan, that E’s sharp jabs were calculated. But damn if it didn’t cut deeper than he’d expected. He caught the brief flicker of apology in their eyes, barely noticeable to anyone but him.

Jean’s voice cut through the standoff, soft but steady. “Is everything okay here?” she asked, trying to smooth the tension with a touch of authority.

Logan didn’t break eye contact with E as he replied, “Peachy, Jeannie. Just a friendly morning chat.”

“Yeah, friendly,” E added, their tone so falsely sweet it made Jean’s frown deepen.

Scott’s eyes narrowed, suspicion clear as day. “Well, if you two are done, maybe we can all get on with our morning without the theatrics.”

Logan bit back a retort, taking a step back and grabbing his coffee cup. The room was stifling now, and he could feel the way E’s presence tugged at him even as they stood apart. “Yeah. We’re done,” he muttered before turning his back and leaving, letting the act settle like a stone in his gut.

Behind him, he heard E’s soft chuckle, a practiced sound meant to sting, and it did. But they’d both agreed—this was the way it had to be. And so, the distance began.

Logan spent the hours following the kitchen fight lost in his thoughts, the conversation replaying in his mind like a broken record. He knew it wasn’t real—that much was clear—but E’s words had hit harder than he’d anticipated. Not because there was any truth to them, but because they came from them. A part of him hated how it lingered, stirring something raw inside. He wasn’t the type to let something like this gnaw at him. He was the Wolverine, damn it. But it still dug under his skin.

He tried to shake it off, but the feeling wouldn’t fade. He needed to see them. To remind himself it was all just an act.

By the time he reached the library, the weight in his chest had grown unbearable. E was hunched over a stack of papers at one of the long oak tables, their focus intent on something that looked law-related. Figures. Logan leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching them. He was always amazed by how easily they could shut everything else out. He let the silence hang for a beat before pushing himself off the door and making his way inside.

E glanced up when he approached, the brief flicker of relief in their eyes catching him off guard. “Logan,” they said softly, setting the pen down. The words were warm, but there was something unreadable beneath them.

“Got a minute?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost careful.

“For you? Always,” E replied, their smile faint but genuine.

Logan sat across from them, his rough hands resting on the polished surface of the table. He didn’t quite know how to start, what to say, but when he opened his mouth, the words just poured out of him, unguarded. “That stuff in the kitchen,” raw emotion coated the rough edges of his voice, “I know it’s all for show, but… damn, you didn’t hold back.”

E winced slightly, their gaze dropping to their notes. “I know. I’m sorry. I hated saying it.” They took a breath, their eyes meeting his again, darker now, their expression tight. “Unfortunately, we might need to take it up a notch. Be even more convincing.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, trying to keep his voice casual. “It’s fine. I ain’t gonna lose sleep over it.” He shot them a look, though—he wasn’t convinced by his own lie. Not entirely. “But if we need to go harder… what’s the plan?”

E’s eyes searched his face for a moment, their fingers brushing against his where they rested on the table. It was brief, but it caught him off guard, something warm and unspoken passing between them. “We make it meaner,” they said quietly, their voice low, tinged with a hint of regret. “You push me, I push back harder. We have to make them believe it’s personal.”

Logan nodded slowly, though the idea of making it worse, of biting deeper, didn’t sit well with him. “You sure you’re up for that?” he asked, his voice gruff despite himself.

“If it means we’ll have better days, then yeah, I am.” E’s hand lingered for a moment longer, their thumb tracing an absent pattern on his skin. The small touch, so simple but with the weight of everything unspoken, grounded him, a silent reassurance amid the chaos they were building. “Are you?”

The question hung in the air, and for a second, the noise of the world outside the library faded away. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest releasing with the breath. “Yeah. I’m in.”

A slight twitch at the corners of E’s lips. There was something almost tender in their gaze, a fleeting softness. But that moment was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. Their expression shifted in an instant—like a switch had been flipped, delicate features hardening suddenly—and their hand pulled away from his, curling into a fist.

Before Logan could react, they smacked him across the face with a loud slap, the sound echoing in the quiet library. “Who the hell do you think you are, Howlett?” E snapped, their voice cold and cutting, each word like the crack of a whip. “Talking to me like that? You think you can just come in here and throw your weight around?”

Logan blinked, the sting of the slap still fresh on his skin, but it wasn’t just the pain that lingered—it was the venom in their tone, keen and raw, that struck deeper. A flicker of heat stirred low in his gut, unbidden and maddening, the kind of sensation that set his instincts on edge. Damn it. He hated how his body responded to the bite of it, to the fire in their eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this twisted pull, the way pain and tension tangled together in a way that left him craving more.

His gaze flicked toward the doorway, catching Hank standing there, a stack of books balanced in his arms. The doctor’s expression was frozen in surprise, his wide eyes darting between them. Logan forced the heat back, burying it under a frown.

Without missing a beat, his face twisted into a scowl, his jaw tightening as he played along. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you outta here, witch,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, practically vibrating with barely-contained intensity.

E scoffed, their eyes blazing as they leaned into the act. “Oh, don’t you worry, you rabid dog. I’m leaving. I can’t stand to breathe the same air as you right now.”

They swept up their papers in one sharp motion, the sound of rustling edges filling the heavy silence. Their shoulder brushed his as they stormed past, the contact deliberate and forceful. Logan didn’t move, his hands curling into fists on the table, every muscle in his body taut as he fought the urge to call after them—or worse, follow.

Hank stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opening slightly like he wanted to interject, but whatever words he had died before they could form. He stared after E, then shifted his gaze to Logan, clearly hesitant.

Finally, Logan broke the silence with a grunt, shoving his chair back roughly. The scrape of wood against the floor was loud in the stillness. “What’re you starin’ at, Hank?” His tone was gruff, laced with irritation, but the effort to keep the edge in his voice felt heavier than before.

Hank raised a single eyebrow, his composure sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. “I was about to ask if everything is all right, but… I suppose I already have my answer.”

Logan didn’t reply. Instead, he stalked toward the door, his steps heavy and deliberate, a growl rumbling low in his chest. The act was working. Too well, maybe. And for reasons he didn’t care to admit, that fact sat heavier in his gut than he liked.

Later that night, when sneaking into each other’s rooms wasn’t an option, they both found themselves in the forest clearing. Neither had planned it, but some unspoken pull brought them to this spot, far from the prying eyes and ears of the mansion. It was theirs—a sanctuary untouched by the chaos of their daily lives.

The clearing was quiet, the kind of stillness only the forest could hold. The soft rustle of leaves danced with the cool night breeze, and a sliver of moonlight spilled onto the grass, casting long shadows across the ground. Logan stood a few paces away, rolling his shoulders as he circled E, his gaze locked onto theirs. There was no need for pretense out here.

“You sure you wanna do this tonight?” he asked, his voice low and gruff, carrying a hint of concern that he couldn’t quite mask.

E’s lips curved into a smirk, their stance relaxed, yet poised. “What’s wrong, pretty boy? Afraid I might embarrass you?”

Logan snorted, his mouth twitching into a brief grin. “Ain’t no chance of that, darlin’. But you ain’t exactly fresh off the bench after today.”

“And you are?” E shot back, lunging forward with a quick burst of energy. Logan sidestepped with ease, their movements more familiar to him now. They twisted on their heel, throwing a jab that he caught mid-air, his hand closing firmly around their wrist. A shiver ran down their spine, stoking their hunger in the most exquisite way.

“Point taken,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement as he pulled them closer, his smirk returning.

The sparring unfolded in a steady rhythm, their movements fluid and purposeful. It wasn’t just a fight—it was a conversation in motion, a silent exchange of trust and challenge. Each strike, dodge, and counter carried its own cadence, a private language spoken in the dead of the night.

By the time they called it, E was sprawled on the grass, breathless and flushed, sweat glistening on their skin in a way that made Logan’s gaze linger a moment too long. He dropped down beside them, leaning his back against a tree, his eyes roaming over them as a heat that coiled low in his gut tightened, stirred by the sight of them so alive, so unguarded under the moonlight.

“You gotta work on that right hook,” he teased, the grin on his face softening the edge of his words.

E huffed, propping themselves up on their elbows. “I landed it once.”

“Once don’t make a streak, sweetheart,” Logan countered, his voice quieter now as his fingers brushed against theirs in the cool grass.

For a while, they both simply stayed there, the silence between them comfortable, filled only with the soft chirp of crickets and the distant whisper of leaves. Eventually, E sat up, leaning into Logan’s steady frame. Their hand rested lightly on his stomach, fingertips itching to slip beneath his shirt, but as his warmth enveloped them in a way that felt safe, grounding, they didn’t want to break the peace.

“It’s harder than I thought,” they said softly, the words barely breaking the stillness.

Logan turned slightly, his brow furrowing. “What is?”

“This whole thing.” E gestured vaguely at the forest, at him, at everything. “The fights. The secrecy. Hurting you. Hiding—just to be us. It’s only been one day, and I already hate it.”

Logan’s chest tightened, their words circling in his mind, refusing to settle. ‘Just to be us’. The unintentional confession lingered in the air between them, heavy and unspoken. It wasn’t just the exhaustion from the sparring session that had them speaking so openly—it was trust. Trust in him.

He looked down at them, nestled against him, their breathing steady. Their guard, that armor usually so rigid that centuries had forged, had slipped, leaving behind a version of them few ever got to see. There was a softness there, a vulnerability they rarely allowed, and it filled him with something between awe and a quiet ache. That they thought of them as a ‘us’, even subconsciously, stirred something deep in his chest—a mix of pride, longing, and adoration. That they trusted him enough to bare this side of them made his heart flutter in a way he hadn’t expected.

His hand moved without thought, his fingers brushing through their dark hair with a slow, deliberate reverence. The wavy strands slipped like silk between his fingers, tethering him in the moment, a silent reassurance that this wasn’t just a fleeting dream.

“It’s rough, Angel,” he said softly, his voice gravelly in the quiet. The nickname slipped out naturally, a little softer than usual, carrying more weight. He hesitated, letting the words sink in before adding, “But we’ll push through.”

E’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though their eyes remained fixed on his free hand, resting next to theirs on his stomach. “Yeah, I know,” they murmured. Their fingers shifted, brushing his for a moment before lacing them together. The contact felt soft, simple, yet charged with an unspoken understanding.

They exhaled, their voice tinged with frustration. “It would be easier if we could plan the fights, but we can’t. If we do, it’ll feel… off, staged. They’ll figure us out.”

Logan nodded slowly, his thumb sweeping over their knuckles in soothing circles. “You’re right. It’s gotta feel real… for them and for us.”

That last part slipped out before he could stop it, and he tensed, unsure if they’d catch the hidden meaning. E turned their head, meeting his gaze, their eyes searching his face. “And you’re okay with that?”

His lips quirked into a smirk, his defenses sliding back into place just enough. “I’ll live. Ain’t my first rodeo, sweetheart.” He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from their face, his hand lingering against their cheek before finding hers again. “‘Sides, I’ve had worse things thrown at me than words.”

They leaned into his touch, their eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before reopening, their expression softening. “I hate that it has to be this way,” they admitted quietly.

Logan let out a low, thoughtful hum, lowering his head to nuzzle lightly against theirs. “Me too, Eki,” he murmured almost hesitantly, his voice softer now. “But we’ll get through it. I know we will.”

It was the first time he called them this way. The name rolled off his tongue with a warmth he hadn’t intended, but it was there all the same—gentle and intimate, carrying more weight than he realized.

They stiffened ever so slightly, not out of discomfort but surprise. A flicker of something unfamiliar sparked in their chest at the sound of it, a flutter, and a quiet warmth bloomed around it as they tilted their head to glance at him, lips parting as though to respond, but no words came. The urge to kiss him, to lick and nip at his lips gripped their gut, but they couldn’t, not without harming him.

Instead, they stayed like that, the night wrapping around them both, the stars scattered above like silent witnesses. E sighed, leaning back into him, their head resting against his chest, and he instinctively tightened his arm around them, pulling them closer.

“At least we’ve got this,” he murmured after a long stretch of silence, his voice low but heavy with meaning.

E smiled faintly, their hand squeezing his. “Yeah,” they whispered, warmth coating her tone. “This is nice.”

Logan bent his head, pressing a tender kiss to the top of hers, the gesture unhurried and sincere. “It is,” he agreed.

For now, this was enough. The clearing remained their sanctuary, a pocket of time untouched by the outside world, as they held onto each other, finding strength in their shared determination to see this through, no matter the cost. Whatever came next, they’d face it—together.

The fights had started happening more often—small sparks igniting without warning, flaring into roaring fires. Every little thing became an excuse to clash, to bruise each other for show. It was a performance they played, and the mansion was their stage. It didn’t matter what set them off—a look, a comment, a minor disagreement—each moment seemed to lead them to scrape against each other’s nerves. Yet, beneath the verbal clashes, another kind of pyre burned. This one was different, stoked not by anger but by their need to reassure each other once the curtain fell. It consumed them in private, a fire that was anything but an act.

Logan could feel it burning now, simmering, as he watched E coming out of Charles’ office. He’d been on his way to his first class of the day when his gaze landed on them, and an unexpected warmth blossomed in his chest. They looked composed, calculating as usual, every line of their body a testament to the control they wielded so effortlessly. It was that same composure that made something inside him twist—a familiar frustration, a gnawing at his gut that tainted the lukewarm affection he felt for them.

He hated it—not the ache in his gut or the sight of them, but the distance their polished exterior created. It was a weight he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Every time, it reminded him that what they had now wasn’t simple anymore, wasn’t easy. There was no space for softness between them, not in public, at least until further notice.

A sigh slipped between his lips, and he braced himself. This was the perfect opportunity, and he couldn’t let it pass. So he picked up the pace, his boots echoing in the hallway as he approached, each step deliberate. E’s eyes caught him, but they didn’t flinch, though there was a flicker of something unguarded flashing across their face—caution—just for a second before the mask fell back into place. Their poise didn’t falter, but Logan saw through it.

“Well, look who’s here,” he drawled, playing the part, his voice loud enough to draw attention, the edge in his tone slicing through the quiet of the hallway, freezing a passing student in their step. “The school’s puppet master.”

E turned to face him fully, their gaze sharp and unreadable as they assessed him. “Howlett,” they replied, stepping into their role, voice low and steady, but it carried a warning. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start something here.”

“Oh, come on, sweetheart, I ain’t starting anything,” Logan shot back, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “Just calling it like I see it.” He took another step, closing the gap just enough to feel the tension coil tighter between them. “You’re always scheming, aren’t you? Pulling strings, keeping everyone in line.” His voice dropped lower, each word sharper than the last. “Bet half the staff’s already eating out of your hand.”

They straightened their stance, jaw tightened, the only crack in their armor. “I’m a qualified lawyer and I’m doing my job,” they said smoothly, though the words came out clipped. “You might want to try that sometime.”

Logan let out a bitter chuckle, his tone laced with mockery. “Oh, I’m workin’ just fine, sweetheart. Don’t need your little lectures. ‘Qualified lawyer,’ huh? Tell me—what’d you do to earn that title? Cheat your way through the bar exam? Maybe pay someone off?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, venomous growl, still very much audible to the audience gathering not far from them. “Or was it somethin’ else? Maybe you just slept your way to the top.”

The words hung in the air like a gunshot, the hallway falling deathly silent. A collective gasp rippled through the few students and staff watching the exchange, their eyes darting between the two of them, waiting for the fallout.

But against all odds, E’s face shifted, their expression a razor-thin mask of mockery, as if the words Logan had thrown at them were beneath consideration. “Watch your mouth, Howlett,” they snapped, voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Another comment like that, and I’ll have you up for sexual harassment.”

For a moment, everything froze. The crowd held its collective breath, the charged stillness pressing in on all sides. Logan’s fists clenched against his thighs, his muscles taut as if ready to snap, to strike at something—anything—to vent the storm that seemed to be brewing inside him. His breath hissed through his teeth, the silence surrounding them hanging thick in the air, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

A few feet from them, the door to Charles’ office swung open, its creak slicing through the tension, a subtle command that immediately stilled the room. The professor’s calm voice followed, cool and unyielding. “That will be enough.” The steady words cut through the sharp air with authority.

Every head turned as the headmaster entered the hallway, his gaze sweeping between Logan and E, the tension palpable. Logan stood bristling, fists still clenched at his sides, while E remained unflinching, their posture a perfect balance of defiance and composure.

“Logan,” Charles began, his tone measured but leaving no room for argument. “This behavior is unacceptable. Whatever concerns you have, this is not the way to address them. Such language and accusations have no place here.”

Logan’s jaw ticked, his teeth grinding together as he shot a glare toward Charles. “You don’t get it, Chuck—”

“On the contrary,” the Professor cut in, his voice firm but even. His eyes, clear and resolute, locked onto Logan’s with quiet strength. “I do. I know exactly what’s happening. But I’m telling you now: it stops here.”

The words hung in the air, firm. He shifted his gaze briefly to E, who stood calm and unaffected, their expression unreadable but charged with unspoken triumph. Logan’s chest rose and fell sharply, frustration seemingly rolling off him in palpable waves. His jaw remained clenched, posture taut, keen eyes betraying nothing but the simmering tension in his frame—a masterful performance that left no cracks for doubt.

Still, Charles continued, his focus shifting back to Logan with unwavering steadiness. “E has earned their place here,” he said, each word measured, deliberate. “Through hard work, expertise, and dedication. Qualities I expect you to recognize and respect. Whatever grievances you harbor, they do not justify this behavior.”

Logan’s chest tightened, his fists flexing against his thighs as a growl rumbled low in his throat. His eyes flicked to E, blazing with fiery defiance that looked convincingly real to anyone watching. Meanwhile, E, ever the picture of composure, turned to Charles with the ease of someone who knew how to play their cards perfectly.

“It’s fine, Professor,” they said smoothly, as if brushing off the situation as a passing annoyance. Their voice carried just enough weight to draw the attention of the onlookers. “Logan’s entitled to his opinions, misplaced as they are. My work isn’t for him to recognize—it’s for the students. That’s what matters.”

A faint murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd at E’s collected response. Logan’s shoulders tensed further, his apparent fury simmering just beneath the surface, but his eyes held a flicker of something almost imperceptible—an edge of satisfaction in how well the act was landing.

Charles nodded at E, his expression approving. “I admire your commitment, E. Truly. However,” he continued, turning back to Logan, his tone sharpening once more. “You are an example here, Logan,” he said, his words leaving no room for argument. “Consequently, I expect better from you. For now, I’d like a word with you in my office.”

Charles turned his wheelchair toward the open door, gesturing for Logan to follow. Logan didn’t move immediately, his body remaining taut, every muscle coiled as if ready to snap. His gaze stayed fixed on E for what felt like an eternity, the tension between them almost electric. But with a reluctant growl, he finally shifted, his heavy footsteps echoing as he stepped into the Professor’s office.

The door clicked shut behind him, its sound reverberating through the hall, leaving hushed conversations in its wake. The lawyer remained still for a moment, head held high, their composure unshaken as the students’ gazes lingered. Curiosity mingled with admiration in their stares, though none noticed the faint smirk curling at the corners of E’s lips—a near-invisible aura of triumph. Without a word, they turned, their stride deliberate, whispers of victory trailing behind them like shadows of their success.

In Charles’ office, the door clicked softly shut, sealing off the muffled hum of conversations outside. Logan crossed the room with deliberate strides, his arms folding tightly over his chest as he stopped in front of the Professor. His stance was taut, his brows drawn, and his jaw clenched—all the hallmarks of frustration expertly crafted into an act that, to anyone else, would seem entirely genuine.

Charles, ever composed, sat calmly behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. His steady gaze met Logan’s, but the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed an edge of knowing that Logan instantly caught. The flicker of amusement sent a ripple of unease through Logan, but he held firm to the role he’d been playing all morning.

“My friend,” Charles began, his voice smooth and measured, “I think it’s time we discuss this little… performance of yours and E’s.”

Logan’s brows furrowed, his expression hardening with practiced defiance. “If you’re about to tell me to cut it out—”

“Quite the contrary,” Charles interjected, his lips curling into the faintest smile. “You and E are charming idiots, both of you. In fact, I’d say your commitment is remarkable. The arguments are convincing. Almost too convincing.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, though the flicker of his gaze betrayed his uncertainty. “So, you knew?” he asked, his voice low, the usual gravel edged with something lighter—caught between annoyance and relief.

Charles leaned back slightly, his expression softening with patience. “Logan, I am a telepath. Nothing escapes me in this mansion. Did you really think something as… vibrant as your exchanges with E, along with your little settlement, would go unnoticed? I suspected it from the very beginning, but the confirmation came quickly enough.”

Logan shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away, his discomfort evident as the mask slipped from his features. “If you think it’s a waste of time—”

“I think,” Charles cut in smoothly, “that it’s clever. Effective, even. E has been earning the team’s trust far faster than they would through conventional means. Their role as the so-called ‘victim’ in your dynamic has not only won them sympathy but also admiration. And your willingness to take on the role of the aggressor,” he added, his voice dipping with warmth, “speaks volumes about your character.”

Logan’s shoulders stiffened, the compliment settling awkwardly on him. He huffed, shifting his gaze to the side. “Ain’t about me, Chuck. It’s about makin’ sure they get a shot. At the whole thing.”

Charles inclined his head slightly, his smile softening further. “Even so, it takes courage to play the villain, especially when it places you under scrutiny. Your actions show a deeper understanding of what this team needs to thrive.”

Logan scoffed, the heat creeping up his neck. “Yeah, well, don’t go spreadin’ that around. Got a reputation to keep.”

Charles chuckled softly, his amusement tinged with genuine affection. “Your secret is safe with me, Logan. Just be sure to keep the balance. This arrangement, as effective as it is, can’t come at the expense of mutual respect—or your sanity.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, his usual gruffness returning as he grumbled, “We’ll manage. E’s tough—they can take it. We both can.”

Charles nodded, his gaze steady. “I trust that you will. But remember, my friend, even the best performances need the occasional intermission.”

Logan snorted, the corner of his mouth tugging up in reluctant agreement. “Noted. Thanks for not blowin’ it up. Now, if we’re done here…” He gestured vaguely toward the door, his tone laced with impatience but lacking its usual edge. “Got a class to run.”

Charles waved him off with a faint smile. “Of course, my friend. Now, if you would, make a bit of a show as you leave. It wouldn’t do for the others to think you got off easy. And try not to terrorize anyone else on your way out.”

Logan smirked faintly at that before turning away. The tension in his body had eased slightly, and he inhaled deeply, drawing the simmering anger back into his gut to slip into character. With deliberate force, he yanked the door open, letting it slam against the wall. “Got it, boss,” he called over his shoulder, his voice cutting sharply through the room.

He stormed into the hallway, his boots striking the floor in heavy, echoing thuds. His scowl was perfectly crafted—a tempest of irritation that sent students scattering like leaves in a gale. Pale faces turned away, and whispers followed him, swirling in his wake.

Before he could make it far, a door to his right creaked open. A hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength, and hauled him into the shadowy confines of a supply closet. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in near darkness.

“The hell—?” Logan grunted, his surprise barely surfacing before the familiar scent of spice and smoke wrapped around him. His glare softened in an instant, his lips twitching into something close to a smirk. “Eki?”

“Shh,” they whispered, amusement lacing their tone. They pressed closer, their presence steady and teasing. “You’re supposed to be in trouble, remember?”

Logan huffed, his eyes narrowing, though there wasn’t a trace of real irritation. “What’re you playin’ at?”

E leaned in, their hands trailing up his chest with slow, deliberate intent, pausing at his shoulders. The faint light slipping through the door’s edge slanted across their face, highlighting the wicked curve of their lips. “Heard you stomping out of Charles’ office like a wounded bear,” they murmured, their voice dripping with mock concern. “Thought I’d check on you.”

His brow twitched, the stubborn set of his jaw softening despite himself. “Checkin’ on me involves draggin’ me into a closet now?”

E’s smirk widened, their tone a mix of teasing and confidence. “Don’t act like you mind.”

Their movements were playful but edged with intent. They leaned closer, their breath warm against his neck as their lips hovered near his ear. The subtle press of their body against his sent a ripple of heat through him.

“Besides,” they whispered, their voice dipping lower, more intimate, “I wanted to tell you something.”

His hands moved to their hips without a second thought, his fingers settling naturally along the curve of their waist. “Yeah? What’s so damn important it can’t wait?”

E’s fingers drifted lazily over his arms, their touch light but electric. They tilted their head, their lips brushing his ear in a deliberate, measured move. “You were so hot when you yelled at me earlier,” they murmured, their voice a sultry purr. “All fire and fury… made me want to slap you again just to see what you’d do.”

Logan’s breath hitched, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his throat as his grip tightened on their hips, just enough to warn. “You’re playin’ with fire, Angel.”

E pulled back slightly to meet his gaze, their eyes glittering with mischief and challenge. They could feel his hunger feeding their own. “Am I?”

Their voice was soft but charged, every syllable a spark fanning the flames between them. The pull was undeniable, intoxicating, and he felt himself give in, just enough to let them reel him closer. Damn it—he didn’t want to fight it. Not this time.

“You’re lucky we’re in this closet,” Logan muttered, his voice dropping to a low, rough tone that sent a shiver through the confined space.

E tilted their head, their smirk softening into something warmer, almost tender. “Lucky?” they asked, their tone playful but carrying a trace of sincerity. “Or smart?”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, the tension in his hands loosening slightly as his grip softened on their hips. But his fingers stayed, a lingering reminder of the fire simmering beneath the surface. “Maybe both,” he admitted, his voice quieter now.

The air between them grew heavy, thick with a charged anticipation neither seemed willing to shatter. Time stretched, every heartbeat amplifying the pull between them, the unspoken heat crackling like a wildfire ready to ignite, a match struck on a flint.

Then, faint footsteps drifted in from the hallway—distant, but clear enough to cut through the tension.

They both froze.

Logan recovered first, his voice steady, though the faint edge in it betrayed his reluctance. “We should get outta here before someone catches us.” Yet he didn’t pull away, didn’t move to create the distance his words suggested.

E leaned in, their lips brushing lightly against the crook of his neck. The touch was fleeting, soft as a feather, yet it left a mark he couldn’t ignore. They lingered for a moment before pulling back, their voice a low murmur. “Guess so. But next time, Howlett…”

They let the words hang for a beat, their smile teasing but layered with something deeper. “You owe me a real fight.”

Logan smirked, one corner of his mouth quirking up in that familiar, roguish way that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or intrigued. He cracked the door open, peering into the hallway. Satisfied the coast was clear, he glanced back, kissing their cheek quickly and murmuring, his voice a quiet promise, “You’ll get one.”

He stepped out into the corridor like nothing had happened, his boots striking the floor with a steady, confident rhythm. The sound echoed faintly as he disappeared down the hall.

E lingered in the closet for a moment, their smile turning satisfied as they watched him go. Something flickered in their expression—anticipation, maybe hope—as they slipped out in the opposite direction, the promise of what was to come hanging thick in the air between them.

The common room resonated softly with the chatter of Ororo, Marie, and Kitty. Seated in a cozy cluster around a small table, they were quietly planning their next trip to the mall. Kitty leaned in, her eyes sparkling as she described a sweater she had spotted online, while Ororo listened with a small, indulgent smile that softened her regal demeanor. Marie occasionally chimed in, her voice warm and lilting, adding her own thoughts about colors and styles.

A few feet from them, E sat upright on the couch in the center of the room, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea resting steadily on their knee. They watched the television with quiet focus, as the news anchor’s voice delivered updates about local events. There was a trace of weariness in their posture, the kind of exhaustion that settled behind the eyes and hinted at a long day spent poring over legal documents.

The moment Logan entered, the room’s tranquil atmosphere shifted. He strolled in with his usual swagger, the faint scent of cigar smoke trailing him. His flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his sturdy forearms. His gaze swept the room briefly before he plopped down beside E without a word. His hand brushed their knee as he reached for the remote on the coffee table, a casual but deliberate motion that claimed space.

Click.

The news was replaced by the vibrant green of a baseball field, the roar of the crowd pouring from the speakers. A game was already in progress, the commentary animated and full of energy.

E let out an audible sigh, their lips pressing into a thin line. “Seriously?”

“Game’s on,” Logan replied casually, settling back into the couch, his feet on the coffee table, as if nothing were amiss. He didn’t even look at them, his eyes fixed on the screen, his poise relaxed but unyielding.

E’s hand shot out and snatched the remote from his grip, flicking the channel back to the news. “I was watching that.”

Logan straightened slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Yeah? Well, now I’m watchin’ this.” He grabbed the remote again, switching it back to the game, with a decisive press on the TV clicker.

The tension between them crackled like static electricity, the air thick with unspoken challenge.

E’s jaw tightened. “Are you five? Grow up, Howlett.” With measured precision, they took the remote again and returned the television to the news. Their movements were controlled, deliberate, as though refusing to let Logan’s antics rattle them.

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping as he leaned in. “You’ve got somethin’ to say, witch?” The word was low but sharp, cutting like a blade slipping between ribs.

Behind them, the conversation amongst the others faltered. Ororo exchanged a glance with Marie, and Kitty froze mid-laugh, her eyes darting between the two.

E didn’t rise to the bait, not at first. They simply set the clicker down on the arm of their side of the couch, their gaze fixed on Logan. “I’m trying to stay informed. Something you should try once in a while.”

Logan smirked, though there was no humor in it. “Informed, huh? That why I don’t see you in the Danger Room? Too busy stayin’ ‘informed’ to pull your weight?”

E’s expression hardened, their composure cracking slightly. “I’m not a soldier, Logan. I never signed up to be. Unlike you, I have an actual job that involves more than swinging claws or quoting history. Being a lawyer means spending hours—days, even—preparing cases, handling crises, and keeping this place from falling apart.”

“Sure,” Logan drawled, leaning back with an exaggerated shrug. “Real noble. But we’re all bustin’ our asses for this school, so what makes you so special that you can skip out on the hard work?”

E’s voice dropped, each word razor-sharp. “The work I do is just as important as your training sessions. Or do you think the contracts you sign, the legal battles I fight, and the protections I negotiate are meaningless?”

Logan chuckled darkly, the sound low and mocking. “Contracts don’t save lives when the next fight comes knockin’, sweetheart. Maybe you’re just lookin’ for excuses. It’s easier to sit on the sidelines than to get your hands dirty, huh?”

The jab landed. A flicker of hurt flashed in E’s eyes, quickly masked by steely resolve. They inhaled deeply, their voice steady but heavy with disappointment. “I thought we were on the same side, Logan.” The weight of their words hung in the air, each syllable a quiet accusation. “Guess I was wrong.”

The room’s silence was suffocating, the atmosphere unbearable.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching on his thighs, and for a moment, it seemed like he might back down. Instead, he stood abruptly, his gaze hard and unyielding. “You don’t know the first thing about loyalty.”

The words hit like a hammer, reverberating in the heavy silence that followed. Before anyone could react, Logan turned on his heel and strode out, his boots thudding against the wooden floor with each step.

E remained seated, their face unreadable save for the faint trembling of their hand as they gripped the arm of the couch. After a moment, they set their tea down with careful precision and stood, smoothing their clothes as if to steady themselves.

“Wow,” Kitty murmured, breaking the silence. “What the hell’s his problem?”

Ororo’s gaze lingered on E, sympathy softening her sharp features. “Are you okay?”

The lawyer managed a tight smile, though it didn’t reach their eyes. “I’m fine. Thanks.” Their voice was composed, but there was a brittleness to it, like glass under strain. With a measured motion, they reached for their teacup, lifting it carefully as if it provided some small anchor in the wake of the exchange. “I should…get back to work.”

Without another word, E left the room. Their posture remained straight and unwavering, but there was something fragile in their steps, as if they carried the weight of Logan’s words with them.

Behind them, Ororo, Marie, and Kitty exchanged quiet glances, their subdued chatter shifting to murmurs about Logan’s behavior. They kept their voices low, but their concern lingered in the air, tangible and unresolved, as though the room itself hadn’t quite recovered from the tension.

The Danger Room’s hum vibrated softly in the air as the team gathered, the younger members shifting with barely contained energy while the veterans stood with their usual aura of quiet confidence. Charles’s voice rang out, calm and commanding, as he outlined the day’s objective: clearing one floor of a simulated building of hostile threats and rescuing the hostage.

As usual, people paired off naturally. Scott and Jean exchanged a glance, already stepping into position together. Ororo teamed up with Kurt, offering a serene nod in his direction. Kitty, Marie, and Bobby gravitated toward each other, chatting quietly in low voices.

That left E and Logan, awkwardly standing in the cleared center of the room, where the group had split into smaller teams around them. The silence between them bristled with unspoken tension.

Scott frowned, his visor glinting under the cold light. “Are we seriously pairing them together?”

“They did well during the trial last week,” Charles reminded him, his tone firm yet patient. “Better than anyone expected. It only makes sense for them to try working together again. And perhaps channeling that aggression as a team will mend some of it. ”

Skeptical glances passed between the team members. Logan crossed his arms, his stance as rigid as stone. E stood beside him, their posture stiff and guarded, though their eyes darted toward the others, catching every raised brow and murmured whisper. At least they didn’t sense outright hostility from the rest of the group, which was a small relief amidst the tension.

Finally, Charles’s voice cut through the room with quiet authority. “Begin the simulation.” The words were directed at Hank in the command center, where Charles was now heading as the machinery of the room began to hum louder.

The walls around the X-Men and E shifted, morphing into the interior of a crumbling high-rise. The floor beneath their feet groaned ominously, and the sound of distant gunfire echoed from somewhere above.

Logan glanced at E as they moved cautiously down a simulated hallway. “We take the stairs. Blitz ‘em all the way to the hostage. End it quick.”

E raised an eyebrow. “Blitz? That’s your plan? You think we’re going up against a horde of mindless zombies, or did I miss the memo?”

Logan growled low in his throat. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t have time for your lawyer talk. You want to win, you hit hard and fast.” He punctuated his words by striking his left palm with his right fist.

E stopped mid-step, their gaze catching on the floor layout displayed on a nearby wall. They gestured toward it, a hint of strategy sparking in their tone. “Or, we could think for more than two seconds. See this?” They pointed to a narrow corridor on the map. “That’s a bottleneck—perfect for an ambush. We lure them in, control the fight, and pick them off one by one.”

“You mean drag it out,” Logan muttered.

“Ororo?” E called out over their shoulder. “What’s your take?”

The white haired woman, walking a few feet behind with Kurt, tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s a sound strategy. Fighting smart is just as important as fighting hard.”

Jean chimed in, her voice measured and calm. “Agreed. Brute force only gets you so far. For all we know, there could be fifty of them in there.”

Logan turned to Scott, silently hoping for backup, but his teammate merely folded his arms and gave him a look—a pointed one, like Logan had just suggested fighting blindfolded. Even Kurt’s tail twitched awkwardly, as though uncomfortable with Logan’s stubbornness.

“Fine,” Logan grumbled at last, his voice dripping with reluctance. “We’ll do it your way.”

“Good choice,” E quipped, already moving ahead.

Scott stepped forward, his visor glinting in the dim light as he addressed the team. “Here’s the plan. Storm and Nightcrawler, you’re on decoy duty—draw their attention toward the main corridor. Shadowcat, Rogue, and Iceman, you’re the scout team. Find the hostage and get them to safety. Jean, Wolverine, and E, you’re with me at the choke point. We’ll hold the line and clean up any stragglers.”

The group split seamlessly into their designated roles. Ororo and Kurt advanced toward the wide-open hall at the far end of the floor, preparing to lure the enemy, while Logan, E, and Jean moved into position at the narrow corridor for the ambush.

Ororo stepped into the open, her eyes faintly glowing as she summoned a swirling gale. A deafening crash echoed through the space as she hurled a metal filing cabinet into a crumbling wall, scattering debris and drawing immediate shouts from the mercenaries.

Kurt vanished with a soft bamf, reappearing behind two guards. Before they could react, he disarmed one with a sharp tail swipe and incapacitated the other with a swift punch. A third guard spun toward him, but a gust of wind sent the man’s weapon skidding out of reach.

“That’s our cue,” Ororo murmured, retreating into the shadows. Kurt followed, the sound of their retreat baiting the mercenaries into pursuit.

At the bottleneck, Logan crouched low, claws unsheathed, his muscles taut as he prepared for the enemy to funnel in. E stood to his left, chakrams glinting in the dim light as they adjusted their stance.

“Remember: controlled chaos,” E said lightly. “Try not to go feral too fast.”

“Funny,” Logan muttered, his eyes narrowing as the first wave of mercenaries rounded the corner.

Jean stood behind them, her focus locked as she created a shimmering telekinetic barrier to intercept the inevitable projectiles. The mercenaries opened fire, but their bullets froze mid-air, suspended like raindrops caught in time.

Logan surged forward, slashing through their ranks with brutal precision. E darted to his side, chakrams spinning in graceful arcs that deflected bullets and struck with unerring accuracy. A guard raised his weapon, only for one of E’s metal disks to slice through it before returning to their hand in a fluid motion.

“Not bad for a desk jockey,” Logan muttered, slicing through another mercenary with a savage sweep of his claws.

E smirked, ducking under a wild swing and planting a chakram squarely into an enemy’s knee. “Thanks, lumberjack. Didn’t know you even knew what a desk was.”

Logan snorted, sidestepping an incoming blow. “I know plenty. Like how not to overthink in a fight.”

E shot him a sharp look, flicking their chakram with a flourish that knocked a gun from another guard’s hand. “Overthink? Sorry, some of us like to use both brains and brawn. It’s called multitasking.”

“Focus!” Jean snapped, her barrier flickering briefly under the hail of bullets as she reinforced it with a concentrated burst of telekinetic energy.

“Scout team, status?” Scott’s voice crackled over the comms.

Kitty’s reply was calm but clipped. “Hostage located. Three guards in the room. Reinforcements heading this way. We can’t engage yet—too many nearby.”

“Understood,” Scott replied. “We’ll clear the path soon.”

“Yep, soon would be great,” Bobby’s voice chimed in, followed by the faint sound of ice cracking.

Scott turned his attention to Ororo and Kurt. “Decoy team, double back and draw reinforcements away from their position. Make it loud and chaotic.”

Ororo gave a nod and turned to Kurt with a playful smile. “Time for a distraction?”

He reached out, grabbing her hand with his blue-skinned one, his smile matching hers. “Let’s make it count.” They both vanished in another one of his characteristic bamfs.

The team at the bottleneck only heard the distant sounds of chaos—shouts, clangs, and the occasional explosion—as the decoy team created their diversion.

“Chaotic enough for you?” Kurt’s voice crackled over the comms.

“Nice work, keep going,” Scott instructed.

Not far from him, the fight intensified. More mercenaries poured in, Logan's large frame crowding them into chaotic clusters in the narrow corridor. One lobbed a grenade, but E reacted quickly, their chakrams spinning out and deflecting it into the wall. The explosion sent a shockwave rippling through the space, leaving E’s ears ringing but sparing the team from serious harm.

Logan growled, claws carving through the crowd with brutal precision. “They just keep comin’,” he muttered, elbowing a guard in the face before slashing another across the chest.

“Almost like they’re programmed to, huh?” E quipped, catching one of their chakrams mid-spin and flicking it toward an approaching guard.

Scott’s optic blast tore through the adjacent wall, collapsing part of the corridor and forcing the mercenaries into an even tighter cluster.

“Nice,” E muttered, resetting their chakrams on the hooks at the back of their shirt.

Logan, now drenched in sweat, glanced over his shoulder at Jean. “Think you can drop somethin’ on ‘em?”

Jean nodded, her telekinetic energy flaring as she wrenched a section of the crumbling ceiling down onto the remaining guards. Dust and debris filled the air, muffling the mercenaries’ groans as they scrambled to recover.

“All clear on our end,” Scott called into the comms. “Scout team, you’re up. Decoy team, escort them back.”

On cue, the younger team members escorted the hostage out, covered by Ororo and Kurt. Together, they retreated under the relentless flow of enemies, making their way to the staircase—the designated extraction point according to the simulation.

The high-rise dissolved back into the metallic walls of the Danger Room as the simulation halted.

“Nice work, team,” Charles’s voice echoed from the speakers above.

Logan rolled his shoulders, claws retracting with a metallic snakt. “Would’ve been faster my way.”

E wiped a bit of sweat from their brow, tossing him a dry look. “Faster, maybe. Messier, definitely.”

Logan smirked, something feral flickering in his eyes. “I’ll give you messy, sweetheart.”

Before E could retort, Logan lunged.

Gasps rippled through the team as his massive frame barreled toward the lawyer. But instead of bracing for impact, E moved.

They dodged to the side, fluid as water, sliding past his outstretched arms. Logan whirled around, but E was already behind him, darting away like a shadow slipping through cracks.

Their movements became a dance—graceful, calculated, almost mesmerizing. E sidestepped his strikes, ducked under his swipes, their bare feet gliding across the floor with uncanny ease. A faint smile tugged at their lips, their eyes alight with challenge.

Logan, by contrast, was all force and fury, each swing of his arms carrying enough power to send anyone else sprawling. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch them.

“Quit dancin’, witch,” he growled, his voice rough and strained.

“You quit swinging, old bear,” E shot back, twisting out of his grasp once more.

The onlookers watched in stunned silence. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like Logan was furious, his teeth bared and his movements unrelenting. But the subtle nuances of his posture—how his shoulders stayed loose, how his strikes never fully committed—told a different story.

And, of course, E saw everything.

Finally, Logan managed to grab them, his arms encircling their waist in a vice grip. He pressed them firmly against his chest, his breathing heavy, his pulse hammering against theirs.

From the outside, it looked like he wanted to crush them. But up close, the heat of his gaze burned with something far more intense than anger.

E’s breath hitched, and they fought to keep a smirk from curling their lips. Instead, their fingers brushed against his chest, reluctant to break the embrace, but they needed the show to keep going so they pushed him back with all their strength, slipping free of his hold.

“That’s enough!” Charles’s voice cut through the tension like a whip as he entered the room again.

Logan stepped back, his chest heaving, though the predatory gleam in his eyes didn’t fade. “Logan. E. My office. Now!”

The rest of the team stared as the two of them followed Charles’s voice toward the exit, leaving the charged silence of the Danger Room behind.

“Am I the only one who thinks that was…” Kitty began, searching for the right word.

“Terrifying?” Kurt offered.

“Hot,” Marie muttered under her breath, earning an amused eye roll from Ororo.

But no one dared say anything else.

Charles sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled as he regarded Logan and E with a calm but pointed gaze. They stood across from him, arms crossed in a near-mirror of each other, just as they had during their discussion about Logan’s contract weeks ago. However, the tension between them now was markedly less volatile than it had been back then.

“You did well today,” Charles began, his tone measured. “The training session proved that the team has accepted you, E. They trust your skills and instincts. However…”

Logan shifted his weight with a grunt, already sensing where this was headed.

“…you both need to work on mending the… tension that you’ve been projecting toward each other,” Charles continued.

E raised an eyebrow, their lips twitching with mild amusement.

Charles’s gaze flicked between them. “You’ve played this ruse of animosity so convincingly that it’s starting to unsettle the team. If they find out you’ve been misleading them, it could lead to feelings of betrayal, even resentment, and undermine all the progress you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

“Great,” Logan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what, we’re supposed to just stop fightin’ all at once?”

“Not quite,” Charles replied with a small smile. “I suggest spacing out these little arguments. Gradually lessen the intensity. Make it appear as though you’ve come to a mutual understanding over time.”

E exchanged a look with Logan, their shared exasperation reflected in his expression. “Honestly? That sounds like the most exhausting part of this entire charade.”

“No kidding,” Logan grunted. “It’s been weeks of butting heads during the day, and I hate it.”

“You hate it?” E shot back, their voice dripping with mock incredulity. “Try being on the receiving end of your constant growling.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no picnic either, sweetheart.”

Charles raised a hand, silencing them before the exchange could escalate further. “I trust the two of you can manage for the sake of the team.”

Both of them nodded, though they shared a small, sheepish smile.

“Good. That will be all for now.”

As they walked down the hall, the guarded tension dissolved entirely now that they were alone, replaced by an easy companionship they both found natural. The faint murmur of voices drifted from the dining room, and both of them slowed instinctively, ears pricking as snippets of conversation reached them.

“I think we’ve been too hard on E,” Marie was saying, her tone tinged with guilt. “They’ve got good instincts, and they’re a damn good strategist.”

“Agreed,” Ororo added. “Their fighting style is intriguing—fluid, adaptive. We could all learn something from that approach.”

Hank’s thoughtful voice joined in. “I did some research on kalaripayattu, their preferred martial art. It’s not just excellent for coordination but also sharpens the mind. A fascinating discipline.”

“You’re all missing the bigger picture,” Scott interjected, his voice edged with frustration. “Logan’s the real problem here. He’s been acting irrationally for weeks.”

Kurt spoke next, his tone hesitant but sympathetic. “He has not left the mansion in a long time. Perhaps he is… how do you say… getting cabin fever?”

“I personally think Logan is an ass, and that’s not gonna change overnight,” Scott added, drawing a few chuckles. “It’s just his basic instincts resurfacing.”

“Or maybe it’s some kind of twisted mating ritual?” Bobby quipped. “Am I the only one who noticed how they were watching each other during that fight? I couldn’t tell if they were going to kill each other or just have sex on the floor.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and Jean’s voice was the next to cut through. “I think he’s taking it out on E because they’re both such strong personalities. And, let’s face it, they couldn’t be more opposite if they tried.”

Logan and E exchanged a glance in the hallway, a slow, knowing look passing between them. A faint smile tugged at both their lips, underlining the shared triumph. Mission accomplished.

Neither of them said a word at first as they continued walking, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. As they reached the next corridor, Logan glanced around, checking to see if they were alone. Then, with a swift motion, he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to their cheek, his voice low as he murmured, “See you later, Angel.”

The warmth of his words and the kiss lingered as he turned and strode toward his room, leaving E to stand there for a moment, their fingers brushing the spot he’d kissed. They watched him disappear around the corner before turning on their heel and heading in the opposite direction, a small, lingering smile playing on their lips.

To be continued…

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tags “Devilish Desires” and “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for the next chapters 😁

He grunted, turning his attention back to his mug, refusing to acknowledge the sudden prickle of heat crawling up his neck. But E didn’t need him to say anything. They felt it—the way his focus shifted, however briefly—and they drank it in. It was like fuel to them, feeding something deep inside, something dark and hungry.

“You always this quiet in the mornings?” E finally broke the silence, their voice smooth, too smooth, like they were toying with him, testing boundaries he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Logan’s grip on his mug tightened. He didn’t like how she talked, like she knew something he didn’t, like this was a game and she already had the upper hand. “When I got nothin’ to say,” he muttered, keeping his eyes trained on the dark liquid in front of him.

E made a soft sound, almost a hum, taking another sip of their coffee. Their eyes never left him, as if they were studying him, waiting for something. “Strange. You strike me as someone with plenty on their mind.”

Logan’s gaze flicked up, his eyes meeting hers for a moment longer than he intended. She was watching him with an intensity that made the back of his neck tingle, amusement dancing in those bright, unflinching blue eyes. “You don’t know me,” he muttered.

“Don’t I?” E’s voice dipped lower, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of something deeper, something more dangerous. They set their cup down, the movement deliberate, controlled, before stepping closer. Too close. Logan’s muscles tensed instinctively, his body coiled, ready, but for some reason, he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“You don’t like people seeing through you, do you, Mr Howlett?” Their voice was soft now, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick air between them. “It makes you uncomfortable.”

His brows furrowed, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as an old, familiar defense mechanism kicked in. “I don’t care what you think you see,” he growled, his voice gravelly, rough.

But E’s smirk widened, a flicker of something wicked glinting in their eyes. “Oh, but I do see plenty and it’s fascinating, really.” They leaned in even more, their voice a low purr, words wrapping around him like a net. “The way you try so hard to keep that mask up. Makes me wonder… what happens when it finally slips?”

Logan swallowed, his pulse quickening despite his best efforts to stay calm. He didn’t like this feeling—being out of control, the way she so easily slipped under his skin and played with his instincts. But damn if he wasn’t drawn in, hooked by something primal, something he hated to admit.

E’s eyes flicked over him, slowly, deliberately, as though they were savoring the conflict bubbling beneath his surface. “Don’t worry,” they whispered, leaning in closer, their breath warm against his ear. “I won’t bite. Not yet, anyway.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, every muscle in his body taut, every instinct telling him to move, to get away. But he stayed rooted to the spot, caught in whatever spell she’d cast over him. His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but E caught it. Of course they did. Their smirk deepened, a silent acknowledgment of their victory.

And just like that, they pulled back, their composure perfectly intact, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation. They picked up their coffee cup, taking one long sip, their eyes never leaving his.

“See you around, Logan,” they said, voice lilting with amusement as they turned to leave the kitchen.

Logan stood there, fists clenched, heat still simmering beneath his skin. He watched her go, tension radiating through his body as he tried to shake off the lingering effects of her presence. But he knew, deep down, that this wasn’t over. He was in deeper than he wanted to be—and he wasn’t sure if he could get out.

The sun hung high in the sky, casting warm golden rays over the garden, and for a moment, it almost felt peaceful. Logan jogged down the stone path, his muscles loose from the run, sweat clinging to his skin. The garden wasn’t a place he came often—too many damn flowers. But here, in this quiet stretch of the grounds, he could think. Or rather, try not to think. Fewer people, fewer distractions.

His boots hit the stone in a steady rhythm, the soft whisper of the breeze the only other sound. The air was fresh, almost cool, and he welcomed the solitude. For days now, he’d been trying to shake this nagging tension that had settled between his shoulder blades. It gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch, a restlessness that no amount of running seemed to ease.

As he rounded a corner, his steps faltered. She was there.

Sitting on one of the wrought iron benches, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, a thick leather-bound book resting on her lap. The sun kissed her deep, radiant skin, glinting off the small obsidian bumps above her hairline, and for a moment, it seemed as if the light itself was drawn to her. Logan’s breath hitched—just for a second, but enough for her to notice. His senses sharpened, every instinct firing off in a way he couldn’t quite control, as if she was a predator waiting, calculating, and he’d just stepped into her line of sight.

She didn’t look up. But he knew she felt him. The air shifted around her, just the faintest change in posture. It was subtle, deliberate—the kind of thing he’d notice in the heat of a hunt. Her fingers turned the page slowly, like she wasn’t in a hurry. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she knew he was watching.

Logan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving. His boots thudded against the ground louder now, as if the noise could drown out the unsettling quiet that coiled between them. He wouldn’t get drawn in again. Not today.

But as he passed, they tilted their head just enough to catch him in their peripheral vision. It was barely a glance, but it hit like a shot of whiskey straight to his gut. A shiver crawled down his spine, one he tried and failed to ignore. Against his better judgment, he glanced back. A mistake.

Their eyes met his, sharp and knowing. They didn’t smile—they didn’t need to. A flicker of something—satisfaction? amusement?—crossed their face, gone as quickly as it appeared. But it was enough to make Logan’s pulse quicken, enough to unsettle him.

“You always in a hurry, Logan?” Their voice slid into the air between them, smooth and teasing, like they already knew the answer. Their eyes had returned to the book, fingers trailing over the page, as though this conversation was just a casual aside to whatever had their attention.

Logan’s jaw clenched. He kept moving, even as something in his guts told him to stop. To engage. “Just trying to get some air,” he muttered, not slowing his stride, not letting her pull him in.

“Air, huh?” Their voice held that same amused lilt, like they were playing a game only they knew the rules to. “Funny, considering how tense you look.”

Damn it.

Logan stopped. He couldn’t help it. His muscles tightened under his skin, irritation flaring hot in his chest. He should’ve kept going, should’ve ignored her like he’d been trying to do since they first crossed paths. But there was something about the way she spoke, the way she prodded at him—casually, confidently—that made it impossible to walk away.

He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What’s your point?”

Their eyes finally lifted from the book, locking onto his with an intensity that made his skin prickle. And there it was again—that hum in the air, electric, thick with something unsaid. Their gaze wasn’t just piercing; it was probing, searching for the crack in his defenses.

“My point…” they said softly, closing the book with a soft thud and setting it aside. They stood with deliberate ease, every movement slow, unhurried, as if they knew exactly how much space to take, how close to get without pushing too far. “…is that you seem restless. Distracted, even.”

Logan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest like it could shield him from whatever she was about to say next. “You think too much, sweetheart.” The nickname came out sharp, deliberate, as if he were using it to keep her at arm's length, a verbal wall meant to keep her at bay.

But they ignored it and took a step forward instead, their smile small but dangerous. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re the one thinking too much.”

Another step, and Logan could feel the heat of her presence, the air between them charged with something he hated to admit was getting under his skin. She stopped just shy of invading his personal space, but close enough that the tension between them was palpable, a tight wire stretched too thin.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Their voice dropped lower, softer, like a secret meant only for him. “That tension… the way the air shifts when we’re in the same space.”

Logan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He hated how right she was. Hated how much he noticed her, how much his body reacted without his permission, as if some primal part of him recognized the threat—and the allure—she posed.

“I don’t feel anything,” he growled, the words rougher than he intended, betraying the lie he was trying to sell. He knew it. Hell, she knew it too.

Their lips curved into a knowing smile, slow and deliberate. “You’re lying.”

They didn’t need to step closer. Didn’t need to touch him. Just the way they said it, with that quiet confidence, made Logan’s blood simmer. His fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to spring—but he couldn’t move. Not yet.

“Maybe one day,” they murmured, their voice dropping to a purr, “you’ll stop fighting it.” Their eyes never left his, watching, waiting for that crack in his armor, for the moment when he’d let something slip. And damn it, they were close. Too close.

Logan’s heart hammered in his chest, his pulse thudding in his ears. He wanted to walk away, to tear himself free of whatever hold she had on him, but his feet wouldn’t move. His fists clenched tighter, knuckles white.

“Don’t talk like you know me,” he muttered through gritted teeth, almost a growl.

Their smirk widened, just enough to send another shiver down his spine. “Oh, Logan,” they whispered, their tone dripping with something dark and sweet. “I know you better than you’d like to think.”

With that, they turned, their movements as smooth and deliberate as ever, leaving Logan standing there, chest tight, blood pounding, the weight of their presence lingering in the air like smoke after a fire.

He stood frozen, his breath coming in ragged pulls, his body still tense with that simmering heat they’d left behind. It took every ounce of willpower to shake off the feeling, to force himself to move again. But as he walked, the itch—the pull—they’d left behind only grew stronger, gnawing at him with every step.

And deep down, he knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

The sound of fists pounding against the heavy bag filled the gym, echoing off the walls, mingling with Logan’s low grunts as each strike landed. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking through his shirt, but he welcomed the burn in his muscles. It was another way to keep his head clear—pushing his body until he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the raw force of each hit.

He shifted his stance, throwing another punch, harder this time, letting out a sharp breath. Just as he pulled back for another strike, the gym doors opened, drawing his eye.

There she was again.

Logan’s fists slowed, his attention shifting against his will as she walked in, crossing the room with purpose until she stopped at the bench press. He kept throwing punches at the bag, though his rhythm faltered. She eased under the bar, wrapping her hands around it before lifting a weight that would make most people hesitate, her body moving with a sleek, powerful grace that tugged at something deep in his chest. The bar rose and fell smoothly, muscles straining under her skin but never faltering, her breathing steady and focused.

He wasn’t easily impressed, but there was something about the way she moved—so precise, so damn effortless—that made him pause.

For a moment, he just watched, his brow furrowing slightly. Most people in the mansion wouldn’t touch that kind of weight, but she handled it like it was nothing. A flicker of surprise ran through him. Admiration, even.

He quickly shook it off.

E finished their set, their chest rising and falling as they sat up and wiped the sweat from their brow with the back of their hand. Logan felt the pull before he even realized it, his eyes meeting hers across the gym. Her blue eyes were sharp, sparkling with an intensity that sent a jolt through him. It felt like he’d stepped into her space—invaded it—even though he’d been there first.

Logan’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to look away, turning back to the heavy bag. He swung again, his fist connecting with more force than necessary, trying to drown out the sudden spike of heat that had crept up his neck.

But it was too late. They’d already sensed it. That brief flicker of admiration—of unspoken curiosity—it rippled through them, feeding that bottomless hunger that simmered just beneath their surface.

Logan could feel it in the air, thick and electric, as if the room itself had shrunk around them. He could sense her gaze lingering on him, watching him, but he refused to meet it. His knuckles slammed into the bag again, harder, trying to force the tension out of his body. But all it did was stoke the fire that had been building for days now, ever since they first locked eyes.

Footsteps padded softly across the gym floor, and Logan cursed under his breath. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. She was getting closer—he could feel the heat of her presence, the way it shifted the air around him, making it harder to focus.

He kept his fists flying, trying to ignore the growing need that tightened in his chest, in his gut, making it damn near impossible to keep his head straight.

“Nice form.” Her voice was smooth, that teasing, silk-like tone threading through the space between them. Close enough now that it was impossible to ignore.

Logan didn’t respond, didn’t stop. His fists continued to pound the bag, but the rhythm had faltered, his focus slipping. He could feel her just behind him, standing too close. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of her sweat, her skin, mingling with his own.

“What is it about you that makes you go quiet every time I try to talk to you?,” they continued, circling slowly, casually, as if they weren’t even trying to get under his skin—but they were. Every move they made, every word, was deliberate. And it was working.

Logan finally stopped, his fists lowering as he exhaled sharply, his chest heaving. He still didn’t turn around, but he could feel her at his back, her gaze searing into him, making the hairs on his neck stand on end.

“Not in the mood,” he growled, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Oh, I think you are.” Their voice dropped deeper, the teasing edge more pronounced now, hinting at the heat pooling in his lower stomach. They stepped closer, just a fraction, but enough for Logan to feel her body heat at his back, enough to make his muscles coil with tension. “You’ve been in the mood for days now. Haven’t you?”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every ounce of reason urged him to move, to put some distance between them, but his feet stayed planted. His instincts—the feral part within him—wanted nothing more than to pull her closer. Damn it. Why the hell was it so hard to walk away from her?

“You’re real sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Logan bit out, finally turning to face her. His eyes were hard, but his chest felt tight with something else—something that felt like surrender, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

They were standing close, too close, their lips quirking into that infuriatingly confident smile. “I’m sure of what I see,” they replied, their gaze flicking briefly to his chest and shoulders, before locking back onto his eyes. “And I see a man who’s barely hanging on by a thread.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his hands flexing at his sides. “You got no idea what’s goin’ on in here,” he muttered, tapping his temple with a rough finger.

Their smile widened just a fraction, head tilting as they stepped in closer, their voice dropping to a soft, lingering murmur. “Maybe.” They paused, closing their eyes for a heartbeat before looking back at him, deep satisfaction dancing on their face, as if savoring the richest taste. “But I can feel this.” Their gaze roamed over him once more, a spark of hunger lighting up their features as their hand rose—slowly—hovering just above his lower belly, palm not quite touching but close enough to stoke the fire burning in him through his t-shirt. “That delicious tension building inside you.” The words rolled off their tongue, each one deliberate, dragging out the moment. “The want…” Their voice dropped even lower. “The need…” Tantalizing. “I know exactly what you crave, Logan.” Their eyes locked onto his, piercing and intense, the heat coiling tight in his abdomen until his breath turned shallow.

Logan swallowed hard, knuckles white, his throat suddenly dry. His pulse raced, blood pounding in his ears. He should’ve pushed her back, should’ve told her to get lost—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not when each of her words sent a shiver down his spine, not when the air between them was thick with tension, every inch of space charged with the unspoken need that he was trying—failing—to ignore.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he growled, but even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. Weak.

They leaned in just a little, their breath ghosting over his jaw. “Liar.”

And with that, E pulled away, their gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before turning back to the bench press. Logan stood there, rooted to the spot, watching them walk away, a noticeable bulge in his sweatpants. His fists were clenched at his side, his jaw tight, throat dry, heart hammering in his chest. Every muscle in his body was taut with the effort of holding himself together. The heat pooling low in his gut and that tension between his shoulder blades were getting worse by the second.

And he knew—damn it, he knew—they were right. He was losing control.

Logan’s boots barely made a sound as he moved through the library, the soft thud against the polished floors blending into the quiet. His intention had been simple—find Marie—but that goal dissolved the second he saw her. Seated under the warm glow of a desk lamp, she was surrounded by a stack of documents—papers, brown files—engrossed in whatever work she was doing.

The library, once expansive and peaceful, seemed to shrink in around him. Logan paused mid-step, his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck, tracing the line of her arm, down to the way her fingers moved with precision across the papers. Every gesture felt purposeful, calculated—yet there was an ease to it, a control that pulled him in.

He knew he should move. Keep walking. Find Marie and get the hell out of here.

But then E’s eyes met his. Calm, but laced with that flicker of hunger he knew too well. It twisted something deep inside him, tightening his gut, stirring up emotions he wasn’t ready to confront, stoking the fire he tried so hard to put down when he saw them. And the smirk—barely there, just a hint at the corner of their lips—felt like they’d caught him in the act, exposed something he hadn’t meant to reveal.

Logan’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he snapped his gaze away. He turned quickly, moving deeper into the rows of shelves, needing space. Needing air.

But even as he tried to put distance between them, he couldn’t shake the feeling—the awareness that her eyes were still on him. It was like she had a direct line to whatever was churning inside him, pulling on it, drawing it out even when he was trying his damn hardest to push it down.

Behind him, E leaned back in their chair, fingers drumming lightly on the wood. That brief exchange had sent a ripple of satisfaction through them, a confirmation of something they’d suspected. Despite the tough act Logan was putting on, his resolve was breaking, little by little.

And that? That only made the game more interesting.

They returned to their papers, but they weren’t really focused. Not fully. They were waiting, ready for the next time his eyes would drift back their way, because they knew it was only a matter of time.

The kitchen was quiet, the soft hum of the fridge filling the space as Logan stepped inside, his eyes scanning the cabinets. It was late, the mansion long since settled into its usual nighttime lull, but for him, sleep still felt a long way off. He reached for an apple on the counter, rolling it between his fingers, the cool skin grounding him for a moment.

That’s when he caught it—familiar and unmistakable.

Spice wrapped in smoke.

His senses sharpened as he turned slightly, watching E glide into the room, moving around him with a deliberate ease. They flowed effortlessly, brushing against him just enough to send a jolt through his veins, lingering close as they reached for a cup from the shelf, not even looking his way. Each movement was unhurried, a silent dance that seemed to say the world outside could wait as long as they wanted it to.

Logan’s heart raced, the tension thickening in the air. He tried to focus on the apple, but his gaze kept drifting back to her. Finally, she poured steaming water over the tea leaves, the fragrant scent of jasmine lazily curling through the air, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Their hair, still damp from a recent shower, fell in loose waves over their shoulders, glistening under the soft kitchen light, revealing the smooth, rounded tips of their obsidian horns that rose just above their hairline, looking a tiny bit longer than he remembered.

"Late-night snack?" Their voice, soft yet intimate, broke the stillness, the sound of it sending a faint shiver down his spine, already igniting the flames in him. She hadn’t even turned to look at him, but Logan knew she was aware of every move he made.

He grunted, biting into the apple with a sharp crunch. "Somethin' like that."

E stirred their tea, the metal spoon chiming softly against the mug, their attention fixed on the swirling liquid as if it held all the answers. Then they turned to face him, and their eyes met his. For a moment, Logan couldn’t look away. There was something unsettlingly perceptive in the way she watched him, as if she could see right through him, past the gruff exterior and down to the parts of himself he kept locked away. His chest tightened in response, and for just a moment, he hated it—hated how easily she could get under his skin without even trying.

"You seem restless." They took a slow sip of their tea, never breaking eye contact, their voice smooth, drawing him in like a riptide.

Logan shrugged, leaning against the counter, trying to shake off the weight of her gaze. "Got a lot on my mind."

They raised an eyebrow, a faint smile teasing the corners of their lips. "I bet you do."

The air between them thickened, heavy with tension that seemed to wrap itself around Logan, holding him in place. He could feel it—the pull she had on him, like an invisible force drawing him closer even though she hadn’t moved a muscle. It gnawed at him, that frustrating desire to pull away while feeling stuck, as if she held onto something deep inside him, a red thread connecting them, so tight she could pull at it whenever she wanted.

E set their cup down and stepped closer. It was subtle, just a shift in their stance, but Logan felt it—the warmth of her body, the way her presence seemed to fill the room. The soft, floral scent of jasmine with a hint of honey drifted between them, mingling with the heat of their closeness, and Logan’s grip on the apple tightened.

"You ever think about finding a way to… relax?" Their voice dropped, soft and teasing, the question hanging in the air like a tempting offer.

Logan narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching. He didn’t trust easily, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. But the way she said it, the way those words curled around him, made him wonder if she meant every word that escaped her lips—innuendos included.

"I relax just fine," he muttered, taking another bite of the apple, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. Even he didn’t believe it.

E smiled, stepping even closer now. They leaned against the counter beside him, their fingers brushing the surface near his hand, not touching but close enough that Logan could feel the warmth radiating from her. His pulse quickened, a heat pooling low in his belly as his body betrayed him, reacting to her proximity.

"You keep playin' with fire," Logan warned, his voice rougher than usual, like he was fighting to keep himself together. But the usual edge was missing, softened by the heat building between them, the struggle to maintain his composure growing harder by the second.

Their eyes darkened, something deeper flickering beneath the surface as they held his gaze. "Maybe," they murmured, the words dripping with challenge. "Or maybe I’m just waiting to see if you’ll give in."

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. Logan could feel it—the tension tightening around them, pulling him in closer, like invisible threads wrapping around his resolve, threatening to snap it in two. He knew he should walk away, retreat to the safety of distance, but once again, he stood rooted to the spot, his body betraying him at every turn. The rational part of him screamed to break the moment, to turn away and shut her out like he always tried. But another part of him, the part that felt the heat of her body and the way her gaze made his heart pound, wasn’t so sure anymore.

E stepped back just enough to let the moment unravel, lifting their cup for a slow sip, their eyes holding his, unyielding. "I’m headed to bed," they whispered, casual words wrapped in something heavier, something that lingered in the space between them like an unspoken invitation. "You should too…" Their voice trailed off, hanging in the air for a couple of heartbeats before they finished, softer, almost suggestive. "Might do you some good."

Logan’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white around the apple. His eyes tracked her every movement as she turned and walked away, her hips swaying in that same deliberate, confident way they always did. But this time, there was a slowness to it, a knowing in the way she left him standing there, like she was daring him to follow.

And for a split second, his body nearly obeyed. His muscles tensed, his feet itching to move, to follow her down the hallway and give in to the pull that had gnawed at him for weeks now. But then he caught himself, stunned by how close he’d come to losing control, to how easily she had him dancing in the palm of her hand, right on the edge of giving in.

Instead, his eyes followed her, glued to the way she moved, the heat in his chest simmering as desire coiled in his gut.

As they disappeared into the hallway, Logan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His resolve was breaking, little by little, and each time it slipped, he found himself caring less and less about stopping it.

To be continued…

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don't forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don't forget to follow the tags "Devilish Desires" and "xpressit writings" to stay tuned for the next chapters 😁